Part X
It's what she calls a lazy Sunday, and they're both at home, back in bed, enjoying bouts of lovemaking, quiet laughter, and simply just being with one another.
Her stomach is growling, having burned off the breakfast he cooked with their activities. The bed is a mess, the sheets and comforters are on the floor. And now they're in that quiet place between sleep and wake.
His breathing is deep and even, his chest still wrapped in bandages, rising and falling. She's laying on him. He breathes in, and she moves, and he grimaces a bit when she accidentally touches a sore spot.
"Sorry," she offers, shifting position slightly so that her leg slips between one of his. He chuckles at her.
"Trying to go for round four?" He asks, turning is head to kiss to her forehead.
"I'll let you rest." She plants a kiss right back on his lips.
"mmm…" It's a content murmur, a sentiment she completely agrees with. It's been so long since they've had a day like this. A day with no interruptions, nowhere to be, no distractions or urgent calls. It's a rare moment of peace for them and she savors each and every second.
He's got an arm around her, his fingers playing with the curls at the base of her neck. There's something he wants to say, and he wonders how she'll take it.
He's been thinking long and hard about this, knowing he can't continue this lifestyle forever. He doesn't know when the last mission will be, but the days are numbered. And each time he finds himself having to go away, it gets harder and harder for him to leave her bed.
He's got to make a move. And maybe now is the time to tell her what he wants. And what that is, is her. Permanently.
He's got the ring in his pocket, bought the stone back with him from a mission to Russia, and he gave it to Tool to design.
The band is platinum, designed to wrap around the finger. The diamond sits in the middle, pear-shaped, her favorite. It's three carats. It's not an engagement ring—they're too far past that—instead, it's more like a promise. A guarantee.
A long time ago, she once told him how she felt about marriage—about not necessarily wanting a husband, but a partner, a mate. Relationships were a fifty-fifty effort. And he'd waited seven years because, in all honestly, he'd never felt he was living up to his side of the deal.
But something says now is right. And Barney believes in trusting his instinct. So he reaches over, onto the nightstand, and grabs the little white box that's sitting there.
Her eyes are closed, and he can tell she's falling asleep, so he opens the box with one hand, and slips out the ring. Reaching down toward her hand, he slips the ring on. She doesn't notice it. Probably won't until she wakes, but he can see it clearly, shining on her finger. It looks good. Like it belongs there. Like it should have been there all along. He should have been there all along. But at least he's here now.
Maybe it's time they talked about consolidating their assets. And he knows she wants a baby. Maybe he can make that happen for her too. He's old, but he's not dead yet.
Isobel Rannick-Ross. He likes the way it sounds. Like it belongs. Like they belong.
The End