Author's Note: Nearing the end. Only one or two more chapters.
Barney:
Chipping the plane out of the ice takes about three hours. Breaking my arm only takes three seconds.
There's weather, more fucking weather. Is Russia ever nonviolent? I climb to the top of the plane to work on freeing the tail rudder, hauling the crowbar up with me. I'm almost done with the task, thinking about your warm skin and a warm bed, when a strong and sudden gust of wind nearly lifts me right off my feet. For a heartstopping split-second, I teeter in the breeze, knowing if I move my feet that I'll plummet fifteen feet to the tundra. Stay still oh shit stay still - !
A follow-up gust makes the decision for me.
With a roar of surprise, I tip off the edge of the plane ass-over-teacup. Instinct and training take over, and I try to correct by completing the spin to land on my feet, but I have completely lost track of up and down in the air clogged with blinding snow. It feels like I have whole minutes of debate during the tumble, frantically trying to orient myself. I fall for a startlingly long time and land with a sudden jolt on the frozen ground, my left arm pinned under me. My entire body goes momentarily numb, and my brain nearly with it.
"Ross!" hollers Sullivan, jogging to my side. "Ross, you alright, mate?" He crouches next to me, jostling me urgently.
I'm too stunned to answer for the moment, but damn, I wish he wouldn't touch me. The human body was not designed to impact like that, much less in a half-rotated way. First came the numbness of all the nerves priming, then comes the sting, then the fire. "Fuck," I manage to grind out around a groan. The dump of adrenaline helps drive the darkness from the edges of my vision, a belated gift from the actual tumble. With Sullivan and every inch of my body protesting, I push my free hand against the ground and lean up.
A bolt of pain like lightning leads me to a shocking discovery. "I just broke my arm," I grunt out with my sucked lungful, feeling the bones grind together in a nauseating sensation. Yep, it's hanging floppily in my sleeve, and there's a softball-sized chunk of ice under me that broke my fall in just the right place. I've got luck, for sure. It's all bad.
"Well, shit," declares Sullivan without venom. "Way to go, Ross."
I finish sitting up, cradling the throbbing limb against my chest. The pain makes me want to vomit, but I hold on. "There's a medkit in the door," I gasp.
Sullivan walks rather than jogs to the plane to retrieve the kit, because the pieces of bone aren't going anywhere. Returning, he kneels beside me in the icy wind. "I'ma need to cut the sleeve."
"Do it," I grit out.
Trauma shears make an appearance, and the brush of them against my arm makes the injury scream. Clenching my jaw, I manage to keep my pain from escaping. "Ulna and radius?" I pant as Sullivan peels back the layers of heavy coats and longjohns.
"It is," he replies grimly. "I can see 'em both."
Looking down, I feel my tough-guy persona drain away along with the blood in my face. Two jagged bones are peeking out from the torn skin of my arm, leaking blood that is trying to freeze against the cold air.
"I'm not qualified to set the fracture," says Sullivan. "I can only splint and restrain it 'til we get Stateside."
"You - " Feels like Thor's hammer pounding my arm like an anvil." - sure?"
"This is way above my pay grade, mate. If I fuck it up, you could lose the use of the hand."
"Do it," I reply. Two words at a time. Just two words at a time, that's all I need to use.
The Aussie is as careful as he can be, but four raw ends of bone moving around above and below my skin make for some interesting noises coming from my mouth, along with many blue streaks. "There's no Ace bandages in here to pin it," Sullivan says, from the other end of my vision's tunnel. I feel the trauma shears graze my skin through a haze of pain. After several agonizing minutes, a few tugs of cloth strips, and the addition of a handy piece of ice for me to bite down on, Sullivan sits back on his heels and scrubs his pale face. "Done," he says shakily.
The splint (which was supposed to be a leg splint) came from the medkit, and it's fastened around my wrist and elbow unobtrusively. The strips of cloth that were once my ruined sleeve restrict the arm against my chest, wrapping securely around my torso in two directions. Some of the stuffing that fell out of the heavy thermal coat now pads the jutting pieces of bone, with more sleeve wrapped around it gingerly. I've gone as white as the snowstorm swirling around us, gnawing on the piece of ice like it's the last thing I'll ever eat. Taking a few seconds to collect myself, I wonder if you, Meera, sustained any broken bones during your time with Church. God, I hope not. This is painful as fucking hell.
"The ice is probably helping keep the swelling down," comments Sullivan, uncapping a syringe. "Show me some ass, big guy. Morphine time."
Grimacing, I manage to dig my good hand down through the layers of my clothing, presenting my reluctant nurse with a few target inches of skin. The prick of the needle doesn't register, as the cold takes the feeling as quickly as the skin is bared.
Spitting the ice onto the ground, I coax my numbed tongue into speaking. "Did you get the ailerons?" If the flaps on the wings don't work, pitch and yaw won't either.
"Totally ice-free," Sullivan replies, helping me to my feet. "But not for long, if we stay here."
"Then let's go."
"Wait a minute," he says. Bending down in the overhang of the wing, he gathers several large chunks of ice and wraps them in his first layer's jacket. "We can use these on your arm."
"Good idea." I'm inspired to give him a tight but genuine smile. If I can get him to quit Trench, Sullivan's ingenuity will make him useful to the team. And it'll burn Trench's ass.
As the Aussie climbs the steps of the plane behind me and wrestles the door shut with a loud creak, he asks, "How are you gonna fly the plane, mate?"
"With your help," I manage, my voice bouncing around even as the wind howls outside in competition. The mist of our breath is visible inside the shelter of the metal fuselage. "Have you ever piloted?"
"Some sims in the RAAF. You know, before they kicked me out."
"Just how long did you last?"
"To the 'getting in to the sim' part. Then I crashed it."
Great. All bad luck. "Retest time, kid."
"Right, then," he says, following me to the cockpit. "How does a PBY handle differently?"
"Same difference between a van and a Prius," I reply.
When he looks at me quizzically, I amend, "Like a MILF and a stern Asian mistress."
"Ah," he laughs. "Gotcha."
"I bet you do," I chuckle, toggling on some switches. The morphine is kicking in, thank God. "I'm going to take the copilot seat. Usually I sit on the left side, but you can't reach around me. So you're my left arm, now."
"Sweet. Promotion," says Sullivan with amusement, sliding into his chair. "Here, have some ice."
"Thanks." I slide the chunk under my arm because laying it on top would be agony, and arrange it so that the drips will not hit any electronics. "Turn the switch between your knees clockwise. That'll make the copilot controls function."
"Now what?"
"Don't touch anything until I say."
Moving slowly on the merit of the instruments, I taxi us onto the makeshift runway cut into the flat ice. Santa starts to gain speed, then lift, then gets into a heated argument with physics and the prevailing northelies.
"Thottle that silver hand up there to a count of three," I instruct.
Sullivan grabs the T-shaped handle and does as told. The wind shakes us in our seats, endangering, menacing. Santa starts to lift his heavy ass off the ice, I pull back on the controls, and through feeling and experience I fight us into a straight trajectory with one hand. In a few seconds we've cleared the mountains of the narrow valley, and are hurtling towards India's border.
"Keen as mustard," grins Sullivan.
"Damn right," I reply, paling as my arm's stabbing throb starts to break through my concentration. I want to shift lower in my seat to let the arm rest on my stomach, but the shuddering and groaning plane has other plans for me. "Wind's a bitch over the peaks," I mutter, gripping the controls more tightly. "Try to match my moves."
"Yep," replies Sullivan shortly, focus evident as he tries to block out the threatening weather.
With stoney faces, we stare out into the blur of flakes rushing past the cockpit window. It's going to be a long flight.
"So, Sullivan," I start, my conversational tone empowered with only half my attention. "You got a lady waitin' for you Down Under?"
Sullivan snickers, also only half-attentive. "Yeah, I do. Right now, I'm living in the US with her, so she's not Down Under." I catch him smirk out of the corner of my eye. "Unless it's my birthday or I ask really nicely."
I laugh, though it is cut off by a sharp burst of wind that I am forced to correct for.
"What about you, Ross?" asks Sullivan. "This Meera girl sounds crash hot, from what I gather."
Again, I correct the plane with his help. The wind howls, cheated. I remember Sullivan has not met you, and only has heard about you through the events during and preceeding this job, mostly through the guys on the team. I'm sure they represented you accurately. "Yeah," I say, smiling despite my snapped bones and defiance of death. "Meera and I aren't typical."
"Pray, tell."
"She's half-Nepali. I met her..." I trail off, as much due to the sudden jump of the nose as my censorship of your history.
"Go on, then," urges the Aussie, sweat breaking out on his brow as he wrestles the plane with me. "If I die today, I want to do it with a good story in my mind."
"Meera was in a pretty shitty place. I... fell for her the first time I saw her." Though I've never said the words aloud before, or even strung them together in my head, they ring true to my core. Thinking back, I remember that dim little hut, and all your blood, and your punished and naked body, and most of all your eyes. Spitting fire, raging at me from the floor, from your tied-eagle position you somehow managed to fuck the world even as it fucked you.
When I'd looked past that, I'd known you and I were meant, deep down. Even then, fate had started to twist the strands of our lives together.
"Love at first sight. I'm choking on the cliche," kids Sullivan. "Can't say I did much more than trip over my tongue when I met my girl, though. So, you took her home with you?"
"Yeah," I reply, smiling despite myself. I know the memory should be painful, but somehow remembering how your thin and grimy body curled against mine so perfectly only warms me.
"Fuck the green card!" cheers Sullivan strainedly as the machine around us shakes.
I chuckle, equally strained, and my broken arm flinches against my will, trying to help me muscle the plane around. "I nursed her back to health over a few months. It was a sort of no-man's-land relationship, at first."
"I've had those," grunts Sullivan, yanking his controls. "Don't know where you're going, what you're really doing..."
"Exactly. But my gut knew, and when she got back on her feet, she started to sense it, too. We became friends extremely quickly. More quickly than anyone else I've met."
"Yeah, funny how that works, eh?"
I nod, and this time the bucking plane doesn't make me white-knuckle anxiously. "So she already knew what I did for a living. As she healed up, she started to show interest. For a woman who's never touched a gun before or thrown a punch in her life to perk up when a shell casing hits the ground - that's pretty special."
"Seems like - and this is just me shooting my mouth off - she saw what you were and wanted a piece of it for herself."
"You're not wrong," I agree. "And it brought us closer and closer together until - "
The plane shrieks with complaint as it rips through an incubating hail storm, the thunkthunkthunkthunk! of impacting ice sounding like flak. After a long, breathless minute we bust through the other side of the massive, stacked cumulus cloud, and it swirls around the engine intakes like angry, grasping fingers.
"Until?" prompts Sullivan, running a sleeve over his brow.
"Until I couldn't hide how I felt anymore," I reply, sitting back slightly as I glimpse the first bit of blue sky I've seen in a long time. "I took a chance on all the little signs she'd been showing, and it paid off."
"So all that went down before you left for this clusterfuck?" he queries. I nod, and he whistles lowly. "Seems you had to leave at a very inconvenient time."
"You're telling me." I mind's eyes skitters back to the crazy kiss we shared in the kitchen, just hours before I stepped foot on the plane. And before that, sharing a bed. And before that, the long motorcycle ride. And before all of that, a monumental buildup of emotion and drive, and more repression than is healthy. God, stepping back from it all puts it in perspective. I was first blind, then ignorant, then reluctant, then suddenly slipping all over myself like the fall that broke my arm, careening out of control.
"I love her," I say. Three powerful words, spoken in the silence of a tin can thousands of feet above the earth.
Sullivan massages the controls without prompting and nods, eyes soft and unseeing. "Do you ever feel like mercs earn their happiness?" he asks quietly. "Like we put ourselves through all the shit so that, when happiness finally comes knocking, we deserve it?"
Reaching below my seat, I retrieve Christmas' flask of booze. "I hope I deserve Meera."
"Amen, mate."
I feel invisible strings pulling me closer and closer to you, to home. They drag me along the borders of many countries, over two rocky shores, miles of ocean, and several states. I have ten hours to contemplate, to worry, to wonder, to dream.
Will we be able to pick up where we left off? No, I doubt it. It makes me feel angry, like Church stole something precious from me. Deep in my soul, the Schizo roils in pitch blackness and snarls for his blood toll, but Church is already dead. Best place for him.
What will come, will come. Just like our first plane ride together, with your blood and bones and battered spirit showing, I'll deal with it one step at a time.
We drop out of the clouds like sedate thunder, riding much kinder breezes as we approach the hangar. Even though my mind is occupied with giving Sullivan instructions he barely needs and negotiating the descent, I smile at the distance that is rapidly closing between you and me.
"Um, Ross? Is the fuel guage suppossed to spin like that?" asks Sullivan.
I tap the dial, frowning as it reads true. At the tap of my fingers, the sketchy wiring reconnects and an alarm starts to sound urgently. "Oh, hell. We've been on fumes for the last ten miles. Hold on."
"Some plane, Barney!" he barks.
Like I waved a damn magic wand, the engine to my right starts to choke. I watch in resigned concern as it sputters and dies, the propeller stilling. What more could go wrong, really, in one trip?
"Oh, this should be fun!" shouts Sullivan, grappling the controls to compensate. We both strain to keep the plane balanced with two engines functioning on one side and a single on the other.
"Engage the landing gear," I snap the order. "Now! That blue button." I feel the change in drag as the wheels deploy. "We've got to even out the lift, or we'll list too far right," I grind out, thinking rapidly. "Cut engine one. First green switch."
"Got it."
Peering around the pale Aussie, I note the engine in question lose its viability. The controllers relax slightly in our hands, but now, we're dropping much faster than we should be.
"Okay, I need you to throttle the dead engines with those buttons. Milk their fuel so we don't fall outta the sky," I instruct tightly, my bad arm trying in vain to escape the bonds holding it still.
"We've gotta wait," he replies, just as tightly. "Do it at the right time, or we're screwed."
The sensation of partial weightlessness is horrifying. The ground approaches at a speed that makes my heart pound, and the sounds of the plane complaining about the aerodynamics fills my ears with creaks, metallic grinding, alarms, and the buzz of two overworked engines.
"Wait for it."
"I know."
"Wait for it."
"I am."
The tarmac looms, and Sullivan stabs the two buttons with one hand. The dead engines sputter, scream, and chug out ten seconds of full power. I focus on controlling what power they lend our descent while Sullivan chokes the engines and stabs the buttons, again.
"Yes!" I shout as we touchdown. The wheels bounce sharply, more than normal, but the heavy plane settles on its haunches and responds to my urgings to slow.
"Yeah!" cheers Sullivan, pumping a fist. "We made it!"
Santa is now shrugging off what's left of his fuel, and I'm so grateful he's not in pieces painted with our gore that I don't even complain when he chokes out in the middle of the tarmac.
With a soul-deep sigh of relief from both of us, we sit back in our chairs as the noisy plane completely poops out. Utter stillness.
"I didn't know a PBY could do that," gasps Sullivan.
Whipping off my seat harness with a sudden need to be off this deathtrap, I reply, "Me, neither."
Turning a sweaty and exhausted face to me, he says, "Shall we?"
We leave our gear on the plane, along with the heaviest winter wear, and let the clang of the dropping stairs and the bright sun welcome us to American soil.
"I think I'm off flying for a while," he declares.
"Are you kidding?" I ask, elbowing him with my good arm. "I'm offering you a job, after that."
"Fair dinkum, Ross?"
"Yep. I want you on the team. It'll have to be put to a vote, of course, but I think the guys already like you."
The Aussie looks pleased. "I think I need to talk to ol' Trench about ending my contract early. He kinda owes me one after pawning me off to Kresh."
"Keep me updated."
The sun beats down on us pleasantly, driving the last of the Russian cold from our bodies. Sure, we stopped actually being cold several hours ago, but somehow the saturation of the chill country has to be transfused by American sun to counteract the effect. It's a half-mile walk to the hangar, but we both have springs in our step, though for different reasons.
"What's that smell?" asks Sullivan.
"I dunno," I say, sniffing. It takes a riffling through my shady childhood to place the combination of cocoa and sugar, but finally, my brain spits out, "Brownies?"
We both pick up the pace. I don't know what to make of this. Who's baking in my house?
As we enter the shadow of the hangar, boots thumping, the front door opens. My heart soars, then deflates.
Booker stops dead. "Barney," he greets, as warm as the man ever gets, pocketing his cell phone.
"Booker," I reply, grasping his hand upon approach.
"I thought I heard a plane, but I wasn't sure," he continues, stroking his beard. "Who is this?"
"Trench's man. Shawn Sullivan, this is Booker. You may know him as the - "
"Lone Wolf," finishes Sullivan, extending a hand with a little awe. "Good on ya, mate."
"Likewise," says Booker cooly, but I can tell he already likes the guy.
"Where's Meera?" I ask, the pang in my heart now warring with the pang in my arm.
"You're injured," notes Booker, glancing down at my arm. "Compound fracture? What the hell, Barney?"
"Fell off the plane," interjects Sullivan.
"Is Meera alright?" I repeat, trying to get my point across.
"She's fine," Booker replies, placating me with a gesture. "Killed Church herself, you know." He watches the shock, then the amazement cross my features with a faint smile, like he knows something I don't. "Snapped his neck with her legs."
"Boss girl," comments Sullivan.
"How bad is she hurt?" I ask, trying to chill out. Recon, then mission.
"Knifed up pretty bad, all shallow. She'd been souped up with shrooms that made her sensitive, but they've worn off. January had to stitch her hip."
"January?" I interrupt. Ah, now I see the little VW parked in the corner, along with Trench's BMW and Booker's SUV.
"She was here when we got back. She is your friend, right?" he asks, not doubt suspicious of Airy's claims.
"And Meera's," I assure. "But how is she, really?"
Booker steps aside. "See for yourself."
I let my boots carry me trance-like into the foyer, past the hall of showers, and into the living room. The first thing I lay eyes on is Trench's lanky ass sprawled on my couch, flipping channels. Second, I see January's back, bent over my oven.
And then I see you. Brown-skinned, bandaged arms, dark wavy hair, taped nose. The embodiment of my home, on two legs. I had not expected you to be upright, much less baking, but I'll take it hands-down and gratefully.
"Meera." My voice isn't loud, nor is it soft. It just reaches across the space like an arrow of love.
You turn around, the potholders in your hands dropping along with your jaw. "Barney?" you ask, like you don't believe it.
I grin widely.
"BARNEY!" you shriek delightedly, bolting across the room.
"What the hell?" asks Trench, his hand falling to his holster as he sits up ramrod straight. "Oh, it's just you..."
"Oh, hey, Barney," says Airy, waving at me, stunned to find me there with no announcement. She shakes her head as you round the couch hastily.
You make it to the door where I stand, and I have just enough time to angle my broken arm away before you crash into me. Your arms, rough with bandages, wrap around me as tightly as you can, your momentum, weight, curves, and warmth sinking into me.
I grope for the back of your head, strike gold, and slant my lips over yours.
Your respond with a whimper of restrained, joyous tears, your nose bandage grazing my face. I barely hear our audience of four's remarks as I embrace your narrow shoulders, lift you to the doorframe so you're at my level, hold you there with my hips. You automatically wrap your legs around my waist, eager for a better angle for our kiss.
Bliss. Homecoming. Desire. Love. Pain.
"Ow, ow," I mutter, my heavily morphined fracture pinned between us.
You draw back, your pretty brown eyes beaming and hazy, no doubt a match to mine. With a gasp, you realize what I meant and drop to your feet. "You're hurt!"
"Just a broken arm. You, on the other hand - "
"Barney, love - "
"Shh," I murmur, putting my fingers to your lips. Then I cover those lips again with my own, the world falling away. "I told you I'd come home," I whisper.
"I never doubted," you reply fiercely, your hands in my hair.
"God, I missed you," I exhale, pulling you close again. Bringing air back in along with the scent of your hair, I finally, finally let my soul come to rest.
"Well," says Trench primly, swinging to his feet. "I know when I'm not wanted."
"Hey, Mauser," says Sullivan, stepping around me and you to announce his presence with a sardonic swagger. "Been donkey's years, eh?"
Trench's expression is priceless. "How in the hell did you - " he starts, then shakes his head. "Barney, Barney, Barney."
"You owe me, asshole," I say sweetly, pinning you to my side with my good arm. "I expect my account to be seven digits heavier by oh-eight-hundred."
"Oh, snap!" crows January. Trench glares at her. I'm loving this, and I feel you snicker next to me.
"They have been at each other's throats since they met," you supply with quiet mirth.
"I hope she kicks his ass," I reply. The atmosphere between the three who've been caring for you in my absence is a cacophony: hilariously acidic but united over a common cause. I squeeze your shoulder lovingly, and you tip your head against my ribs in response. You bring people together without even trying.
Booker puts his hands on his hips, cracks his neck. "Well, I'm glad you made it back, Barney. Meera."
"Thank you for the save, Booker," you say, touching his arm gently.
"Anytime, little missy." He touches the brim of his hat to the room in general. "Miss January, nice to meet you."
"Likewise," replies Airy, striding to him with a foil-wrapped square. "Brownies for the road."
"Thanks," says the Lone Wolf, gracing her with a genuine smile. "Hu-nee will love these. She's two months pregnant."
"So that's what the texting in the car was about!" exclaims Trench. "I thought you said you hadn't - "
"Your question prompted me to ask," replies Booker. "Turns out, Hu-Nee'd just found out this morning."
Everyone congratulates. The comraderie is thick among the soldiers and friends when a baby is enroute, despite the clash of personalities. Booker pauses to give a meaningful eye to me, and I nod in solidarity. Then he's gone, rolling his SUV away. Whatever Trench puts in my bank account will go right into Booker's. I owe him more than I can repay.
"Sullivan, you can hitch a ride with me," says Trench, walking briskly to the door. I step aside, pulling you with me.
"Trench," you say, causing him to stop but not turn. "Thank you."
The tall man's shoulders square, and he continues to walk.
"He doesn't do emotion, other than assholery," I console.
You give a half-smile, eyes watching him disappear into his BMW. I think he let you see a part of him he never shows, knowing that you'd keep his secret.
Sullivan sighs. "Some ding bats. Thanks for the airfare, Ross."
"Just Barney," I reply, shaking his hand. You bless him with a trademark smile, and he shakes your hand, too, albeit gently.
"I imagine I'll be seeing more of you, Miss Meera," he says, winking at me. "Arvo, all." The he jogs after Trench.
"Yeah, I'd better peace out, too," says January, moving to the door.
"Oh, no you don't," you exclaim, rushing her.
She laughs and returns your hug. "Thanks for letting me use your kitchen, Barney."
I didn't know I had until I walked in, but hey, I'm getting brownies out of it. "Sure. Thanks for tending Meera."
"Yes, thank you," you say, taking her hands.
"We'll have to do this again, under better circumstances. See you, guys." And our last guest vanishes into her car, then out of the hangar.
I grin down at you.
You smirk up at me.
As one, we reach for each other. Zero to sixty in two seconds, hostess to hot in even less. I pull you flush with my body and insist upon claiming your lips. You're practically eating me alive.
My mind is whirling, trying to make sense of all the distracting little holdbacks. Didn't you just get rescued from a CIA torturer less than a day ago? Wasn't I just in Russia? Weren't you a recovering rape victim when I left you last? What happened to change you into this woman who is bold, unapologetic?
Damn, you're leaving no room for argument! Your passion catches the dry tinder in me, and a fire blazes to life. I reciprocate with one hungry hand roaming your body. That is, until you accidenly nudge my bum arm.
"Fuck!" I grunt.
"Oh, I am sorry!" you say, running your hands down my chest and lightly fluttering over the makeshift splint. You give a huff. "You know where we have to go."
I growl with reluctance, trying to lean in to kiss you again, but you put a hand on my chest with a quirk of your mouth. "No. No, Barney."
"But I want to kiss you all over," I whisper, the burn in my body showing in my eyes.
You giggle, and cup my face. "If you get seen by Gary..." You pause to insinuate yourself to me, breasts pressing alluringly to my diaphram. "Then I might be able to arrange that."
My eyes go wide, and I look down at you. Your eyes radiate love and desire, smolder with complete trust and simmer with assurance that was so hardwon. You mean business.
I grab your hand. "Then let's go to the doctor."
"Can I drive?"
"When did you learn to do that?"
You simply laugh and swing our joined fingers all the way to the truck.
"Shit fire and save matches, Ross," sighs Gary, rubbing his temples. "What the hell is this?" He gestures at the array of cloth strips and repurposed splint.
"I was kind of in a rush," I reply winningly from my seat on the exam table.
"Mother of God," he mutters, motioning Nurse Wanda into play.
"Hiya, Meera!" says the curly-haired woman, bearing a tray of instruments into the room. "Long time, no see."
"Hello," you reply warmly.
The nurse perfunctorily eyes your bandaged arms and nose. "Well, at least someone is keeping you cared for."
"Do not worry about me," you assure, placating her with a gesture. "I will heal quickly." You squeeze my good hand, and our gazes are like magnets sparking electricity.
Gary has been watching the exchange, especially you and me, and shakes his head. "Ross, you dog."
"What?" I ask defensively.
You giggle and make way for Wanda. Wincing along with me as the limb is cut free, you observe carefully as Gary and Wanda work in quick, efficient tandem. Five minutes and several more milligrams of painkillers later, the bones are set. My face is set like stone and pale, but your stroking fingertips on the back of my neck keep me grounded.
Wanda wraps the cast tape thickly while Gary shoots the breeze. "How are you doing, Miss Meera?" he queries, scrutinizing.
Your response is easy, with no hint of retained negativity. "I am doing well, thank you."
"May I?" he asks, motioning at your arms. "While you're here, anyway."
You shrug. "I see no reason not."
My jaw clenches in worry. Gary's liable to think your wounds are my doing. Isn't the boyfriend always the abuser? At the very least, he'll want to know where they came from. I have no answer for him that will avoid a 911 call. But what am I going to do: refuse you medical care? Hardly.
With a pair of sharp silver scissors, the good free clinic doctor slits the stiff bandages off both arms. When they fall away to show that their stiffness was due to the soaking of blood, I feel every muscle in my body clench with rage. "That motherfucker," escapes my mouth before I can stop it. I'm seeing the wounds for the first time, and it makes me want to pound the living shit out of something, preferably Church's corpse.
God, the knife strokes are like artful snakes, seeping and festered and everywhere on your arms. There's a ringing in my ears.
"Easy, Mr. Ross!" chides Wanda, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated.
You tug away from Gary's clinical exam and step directly in front of me, your hands landing on my knees. "Barney, I am alright," you say softly, imploring me wih your eyes. "I said it once: I will heal quickly."
I momentarily forget about the doc and nurse in the room, my red-hazed vision zeroing in on you. "How?" I ask with hard desperation. "How in the world can you be fine?"
You turn the full power of your gaze on me, drilling into my soul. It's your very first Look. "You should know," you reply. "Better than anyone, how what I've been through makes me strong enough to challenge this," you nod down at your ripped up forearms.
The red haze fades from my vision. With the roll of tape hanging off my half-casted arm, I bring your injuries close to my face. Calmly, I take in every nick, slice, and bruise from your busted up wrist to your needle-marked elbow. Then, I press a gentle kiss to the underside of your wrist, catching your smile and letting it soothe me.
You kiss me lovingly, and I feel the last of my tension drain away.
"I don't know how you came about these cat scratches," emphasizes Gary with restrained anger. "But I assume that cat is no longer a problem?"
"Damn right," I declare, relieved that he's giving me the benefit of the doubt. "And no cat is every coming near Meera again."
Gary cleans and rewraps your arm while you stand next to me, your hip touching my thigh comfortingly. Wanda finishes wrapping my arm and gives me a sling for it. "It'll take about eight weeks to heal up, if you baby it," she warns.
"Do you still have that scar cream?" Gary asks you, deposting the old, red-stained wrappings in a trashcan.
"Yes, somewhere."
"Apply it every night, same as before. I think we can avoid the worst of the scarring." He turns to the rack of flyers on the wall, thumbs around, and pulls out a sheet with a black-and-white illustrations of a human arm moving different ways. "Now, I know he's a difficult patient," he stagewhispers, nodding at me surreptitiously. "But I think you can whip him into shape."
Your eyes are amused as you take the proffered flyer, scanning it.
"He needs to do those exercises every day after week four," he continues. "Can you make sure?"
Smirking at me in a way that makes the coals in my gut roar to a flame, you say, "Yes, I will."
Hopping down off the table, I shake Gary's hand. "See ya, Gary. Hopefully, never again."
He chuckles. "Tell me about it. They let any ol' riffraff in, nowadays."
You and I turn to walk out the alley entrance, hands automatically seeking each other, but Gary calls out, "Oh, wait. One more thing." He hands you another flyer with a wink. "See ya'll later," he says in a conspiratory tone.
You take a look at the title of the flyer, then press it to your chest with a blush and a goofy grin.
"What is it?"
You blush even harder.
"Come on, let me see."
Turning the paper for my inspection, I read aloud, "'Pregnancy and You.'" I am reminded of my dreams of you, naked and beautiful. I remeber asking the dream-you the very same question, and the dejavu rocks me. Cocking a brow at you, I ask, "Well? Whatcha think?"
Folding the paper and pocketing it with a secret smile, you sashay ahead of me to the truck without a word.
I pump my fist once, deliriously happy, and slide into the passenger seat.
Kisses turn into flamethrowers that bathe us both in fire. We take our time, touching, exploring, passion on a slow burn that threatens to melt sanity and skin alike. When I come to my senses, you're locked up under me and pushing against my chest. "Barney, wait," you plead, tone uncomfortable.
Immediately, I roll off you and ask, "What? What'd I do?"
"Nothing you did," you say cryptically, hands still seeking the ridges of muscle on my belly. "I just... need it different than on my back. Do you see?"
"I see," I reply, our breath mingling, medical evidence clashing with glistening skin. That was how you'd been abused. I can completely understand. "How, then?" I ask with dark, delicious intent.
You bite your lip until I rescue it, and we dissolve again into the feel of heat and want and arousal. When you break the kiss I open my eyes, and I have just enough time to see a devilish look cross your face.
Suddenly, I'm on my back, with you straddling me authoritiatively. Splaying your hands on my chest with an expression of pure lust, you purr and rock against my hardness. I growl, my hands flying to your hips.
To my shock, you grab my wrists and pin them above my head, your breasts coming close to my face. I take advantage for a moment, suckling a nipple into my mouth, until you arch away to eye me sternly. "Keep your bad arm still," you murmur. "We do this my way."
The amount of heat that pours into my gut at your command is obscene, unholy. Couple that with the fact you're wrapping the belt of the arm sling around the bedpost and my cast, I'm literally fit to be tied.
"You naughty little thing," I gasp as you explore my tattooed chest with your hot, slick tongue.
You chuckle in such a way that my nipple vibrates with it, and I move restlessly under you. "Your naughty thing," you correct, pegging me with eyes overflowing with love and adoration.
I can't help myself: I bring you back up with my free hand for a searing kiss. "Marry me," I whisper to your lips.
"Yes," is your instant response, like you've been waiting for me to say it for nearly four months. Your dark hair curtains our faces. It's grown out since I cut it.
"I want you for the rest of my life," I tell you, thumbing your cheek, marvelling at my luck.
"You have me," you promise. "I want you forever."
"You had me from the first glance, baby. I love you."
"I love you, too."