Welcome Home
By AquaSoulSis aka LadyFangs
The faint sound of running water is what let's her know he's home. Slowly, as if a fog, it snakes its way into her consciousness, rousing her from her sleep. She rolls over and peers at the clock—its glowing red fluorescent light stinging her eyes in the near-darkness of the room.
The numbers are hazy at first, and she closes her eyes, and opens again to refocus.
3:13 AM.
It's still dark outside and the only sound in the house is that of running water. It's not loud. Rather faint, enclosed within the pipes of the walls. But the house is more than 100 years old, and the pipes almost half of that. It's a muted version of a rushing waterfall.
With a quiet yawn she stretches out in the bed, the sheets moving and twisting to her will, and with a sigh she rises, letting them fall as they may as she walks out of the room, down the hall and slowly down the stairs.
It's cold tonight. And of course there's always a window open. He's lectured her more than once about that, always worried about phantom robbers and kidnappers or worse.
She knows he's right. But it's a habit now- her always leaving a window open. She likes the smell of the salt air, the straining sound of trumpets carried to them blocks away, and late-night revelers clinging to the last few moments of lucidity before the spirits lay claim to them in their beds.
As she reaches the stairs the air blows her way, caressing her nipples, making the sensitive flesh around them grow hard. The wooden floor is cold on her feet, sending tingles through her legs and she can't help but wrap her arms around her nude body to break the chill. It's just a moment, but there have always been moments like these.
Her feet reach the bottom of the landing and she turns right down the side hall that takes her to the door of the guest bedroom.
There's a bathroom inside and she opens the door and walks in—seeing the illuminated outline and sound of rushing water coming from another door on the left side of the wall.
It's almost ritual now, this thing they do. She can't remember how or when it started, but she understands the why.
He doesn't like for her to see the blood.
Sometimes, it's his. Oftentimes, it's not. Every time when she sees it, she looks at him, and she sees the guilt and regret in his eyes.
He's told her before that he doesn't regret his actions. What he regrets, he says, are his choices. Because now, he says, he doesn't have any. And no matter how hard she tries to say otherwise, she can't seem to convince him that he does.
Barney's been in the business longer than she's been alive, and while, once upon a time, she might have dreamed of a happily ever after, now she's just grateful for every day she gets to see him alive.
She's now standing in front of the closed door, the handle is warm from the steam heating the other side, it's tricking out from the bottom, warming her cold toes. With a deep breath, she pushes it open and walks inside.
The shower itself is a stand-alone unit, all slated tiles, stainless steel and glass. It's so large that it takes up half of the far wall. It's its own room within a room, designed by its current occupant.
She knows he hears her. After decades of violence, of death—he's always on guard. His back is to her, as the water rains down from the ceiling, snaking its way down the back of his head, his neck, around his shoulders, and down his spine, between his legs…
He's resting his head against the wall. One hand planted firmly on the tiled surface, eyes closed. She opens the door and steps inside with him, coming to rest behind him, letting the hot water pelt her cold skin.
He doesn't move, but his chest expands with each, measured breath. And when she wraps her arms gently around his waist, and lays her head against his back—she feels the sharp intake of breath, and a tremble. And its then she knows, he's hurt.
Her chest tightens, flooded with heat, and her eyes sting with tears she tries to blink away.
With measured strength, he takes his free hand and wraps it around hers still gently at his waist. But he doesn't pull them away.
It's his silent surrender. Her sign that he needs her—that this time, he's hurt bad. So she slowly moves around him, until he's facing her, and its then she can see the full extent of his injuries. One eye, swollen shut. A cut, still bleeding, across his check. A busted lip. And angry red splotches across his chest that she knows from experience will begin to change colors—darker and darker still.
With one good eye, he looks down at her as she begins to take the towel lying on the seat and lather it. She doesn't look at him in the eye, but he watches her silently as she begins to gently wash him, her hands on his arms, his chest, his back, his legs.
"Izzy…"
His voice is like a quiet rumble, soft and deep and she stops her movements to look up at him.
"You're the prettiest thing I've seen all month." A corner of his lip tips up in a smile, and it warms her. She can't help but smile a little in return as she stands on her tip toes to kiss him gently, careful not to touch the injured side.
"You look like shit." She says, wrapping her arms around his waist again and laying her head on his chest to hear the strong thrum of his heart.
He chuckles, and then winces.
The soap has washed off the mud, the blood, and the water runs clear. When she's sure he can make it, she turns off the water and steps out the shower. It's only a few paces to the door, but she can tell by the way he walks, limping slightly and slouched over, that every one of those steps is a fight of will.
Wordlessly, she hands him a towel from the adjoining linen closet, and takes one too. She has to help him, but in these rare moments, he doesn't resist it.
They're both still damp, but it's okay. The bed is only feet away and she knows it's a good idea, because, in Barney's current state, he's not making it up the stairs.
She guides him gently to the bed and pulls back the covers and he sits with a pained grunt, breathing heavily before finally lifting his legs up too and lying down.
Now she can get to work patching his wounds.
Isobel's not a nurse. She has no medical degree. She didn't even major in biology and when she was in school; she couldn't bear to dissect the frogs. But she's learned how to do stiches, how to reset dislocated limbs, how to apply the heat-packs and ice packs and check for broken bones.
She does this on Barney's prostrate form. He keeps it all in his med pack, which is sitting on the floor where it fell with the rest of his clothes.
First, she checks his swollen eye and to her relief, she's pleased to see that other than the impact, and the swelling, its fine. He verifies that by following her finger back and forth. No concussion.
Then, it's to the gash in his check. She inspects the wound, grateful that it has finally stopped bleeding, and with the exacting hands of a surgeon, proceeds to push the skin together to determine how deep is the cut—whether to use tape or needle. Ultimately, it's needle.
No anesthesia. But this has been so many times before that he's used to that particular kind of pain, and doesn't complain. In fact, judging by the evenness of the rise and fall of his chest, and light snore—he's asleep already.
But her work continues.
She gently dabs at his lip with ointment. And she's greeted by a hiss and a glare from his one good eye. Her lips touch his again she smooths it over with a kiss.
Her fingers run down his chest, across the brightly colored tattoos that weave across his skin—red, green blue, yellow, and black, orange, purple—it's a work of art on a work of art, and she knows the artist. A friend. She considers him too.
Satisfied, she yawns and rises to walk around to the over side of the bed to slide in behind him.
She takes one final look at the digital clock sitting on the nightstand next to her.
5:46 AM.
The glowing red numbers begin to blur and sleep once again sets in. She moves until she feels his body heat at her back, her curves fitting like a puzzle in his larger frame.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Please remember, reviews, for better or worse, are the only way we fanfic authors get paid.