He wakes to a dull headache, and when he tries to stretch, his body burns in protest. His arm is numb, his chest hot and inflamed, raw to the touch.
But when he looks down and sees her with his one good eye—all of those aches get just a bit duller.
The uninjured corner of his mouth tips up just slightly, and he suppresses a grunt as he adjusts his body in order to pull her against him. Under the blankets, warm skin meets warm skin and though she doesn't wake—in her sleep she adjusts herself a bit more, and makes the one uninjured part of him rise in greeting.
She's still on his right arm, but his left one is free, and he uses it to brush the curls off and away from her face, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of her neck, the outline of her collarbone, the roundness of her shoulders.
Barney feels that familiar rush of emotion that always comes with her—and he resists the desire to squeeze her tightly. She's soft in his arms, her brown skin warm to his touch. He's protective, he knows. More like selfish and possessive.
He tries not to squeeze her, and keeps her cradled in his arms, lowering his face to her hair to inhale the scent of Shea and cocoa, and lavender.
He's never been good with words associated with emotions, but he hopes that he's shown her how much he cares. There have been times he's hesitated before coming in, worried that it would be emptiness and cold and darkness on the other side of the door when he turns the key. To this day, a part of him still prays there won't be another man in her bed. But he wouldn't be able to blame her if she did.
After a while, the rush below his waist subsides, and slowly, carefully, he untangles himself from her.
He needs to get up—needs to move. It's always worse when his body has time to settle. It becomes stiff, the pain grows and festers.
She shudders at the loss of his body heat, and he brings the blankets up around her and tucks her back in. When he's home, she's a heavy sleeper, and he knows she'll stay like this for a few more hours yet. It's early, not yet 7 a.m. He twists and turns, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck as he pads his way across the room with a stealth and grace acquired by years of practice. He's virtually soundless. The door closes behind him without so much as a creak or click.
There's another bathroom on the main floor, and it's here where he steps and turns on the light to get a morning-after view of himself.
Sixty-six. And today he feels every bit of it. Barney looks at himself in the mirror with the practiced eye of an impartial judge, running his fingers through his hair. Still thick—he's thankful for that – but streaked with gray. Dark, haunted eyes stare back at him, one swollen shut, purple and black. His eyes are droopy, doleful, with deep bags underneath, and lips turned down in a frown.
When had he gotten old?
Angry red welts splotch across the left side of his face, and his chest has begun following suit in a combination of colors. His lip is swollen, but considering he's been shot, punched, kicked and chained—it could be worse.
Opening the cabinet on the wall, he reaches in and pulls out a black eye patch. Through experience he knows it'll help with the bruising… give or take a few days, of course.
He reaches in again, and pulls out a roll of athletic tape and slowly, methodically begins to wrap it around his chest, as a brace.
His legs are stiff, but as he walks around the house, the limp begins to subside. The muscle in his thigh is probably bruised, but it's nothing he can't handle. Slowly he climbs the stairs and walks down the long hall. It's instinct, what he's doing.
Checking for imagined dangers, unseen threats. Another habit he can't seem to break himself of.
His routine surveillance is momentarily interrupted when he reaches the room at the end of the hall. His hand pauses on the knob. It's one he can't bear to enter. The one that holds too much pain. A reminder of a time when he had two choices, and failed.
She didn't blame him, but he did. If only he'd been here…if only he'd stayed that one time.
But regrets are a thing of the past. What's done is done and he can't change it.
Barney Ross finds himself in moments like this, contemplating his life and his mortality. He's fully aware that well into his sixth decade, his clock is counting down. But there's something inside of him that won't let him quit. No matter how high the cost.
He wonders what she sees in him, a man more broken and scarred and carrying more baggage than a transatlantic Pan Am flight. He's asked her this before. After all, he's not stupid. Age wasn't just a number—it was a psychological condition and he just knew she would be better suited for a younger man.
What could a woman, smart, successful and beautiful, want with him?
He had believed he had nothing to offer her, nothing to give.
But that was years ago. And for once in his life, Barney was pleased he'd been so very, very wrong.
Author's Note: This story is complete, and there will be frequent updates.