16 times. He'd called her 16 times the first case she was back, the first time he'd been further than a few blocks away from her for weeks. He'd spent nearly two weeks on her couch, only leaving to go food shopping and to work before she'd deemed herself healed and kicked him out of her royal abode.
She'd take only another week to come back to work and it drove him crazy that she was there, involved in a case when he wasn't with her. He was too far away, he couldn't get to her if she hurt herself fixing her chair, or if she slipped and opened her wound or if, and god above who he'd just recently found forbid it, someone had bothered her.
So he called. 16 times. Exactly two of those times were work related.
He'd called on the jet as he flew to meet with the rest of the team, he called every time they had a moment, and he'd taken fake bathroom breaks to call and hear her voice, hear her breathe. On the way home he'd kept her on the line with threats of spanking and finally just let her talk, his eyes closing in relief as he heard her sweet, sarcastic voice tell him about her favorite graphic novels.
He fixed her chair, he kissed her head because he had to touch her, he'd become so accustomed to touching her. An arm around her waist when she'd first started moving around, a kiss to her forehead after a nightmare, even his fingers helping her with her braids when she was still weak, not that he would ever admit that. And now he was addicted to it, touch was proof she was warm and real and alive.
He needed all of his senses to believe that now. Had to see her every few hours, had to hear her voice, breathe in the scent of her perfume, which was never the same, but always her, had to touch her, feel her skin.
And it wouldn't be long, he knew, that he could live with just those four, he'd need to complete the set to believe it, to function, he'd need to kiss her, taste her, know in everyway that she was alive.
That she was okay.
That she was his.