Part III
She wakes to the smell of bacon. It wafts in from the kitchen, tickling her nose and making her mouth water on instinct.
While she's not a fan of pork—she's got a soft spot for bacon, and Barney knows it. Eyes still closed, she stretches out across the large bed, finding the spot next to her empty. But today, that's a good thing. Because she knows exactly where he is and what he's doing.
Her clothes aren't down here, so instead she rises and picks up one of the thick, fluffy purple towels from the floor where they fell the night before, and wraps it securely around her body. Her hair is a tangled mess, and she knows it's going to be painful to comb, but it's okay.
She's got a smile on her face and a bounce in her step. Before she leaves the bedroom, she tips back into the bathroom, finds the mouthwash, takes a rise, and heads to the kitchen.
Barney's there shirtless, his chest wrapped, clad in sweatpants, his feet bare on the wooden floor. He's focused intently on the stove in front of him, one hand on a handle working a skillet full of eggs, the other holding a spatula and flipping bacon to make sure it's fried hard, like she likes it.
And it's a good thing he's cooking too, because if he wasn't they'd starve. No one could ever claim any kind of culinary proficiency on her part. Oh sure, there were a few things she could do—a quick stir fry here, spaghetti there- the basics, but Barney…he was lord of the range.
It was a hidden talent, and one he didn't advertise. After all, in looking at him, tall, dark, slightly surly—who'd ever peg it? She had certainly been surprised the first time he'd cooked for her. It wasn't planned.
In fact, it was early in their relationship—only a few months in, and she'd called herself preparing them a special dinner in her home. She'd researched and prepared—bought all new cooking supplies—a grater, a blender, a whisk, a food processor.
And yet, by the time he arrived, she was near tears in the kitchen, batter splattered all over—on the sink, on the stove, on the cabinets, in her hair…
He'd laughed! It was deep and rough—like it was rarely used, but his eyes twinkled mischievously. She'd only felt worse and turned away from him—hurt that all her efforts had gone down the tubes. Once he got over the humor of the situation he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him, her chest against his back. He'd whispered in her ear that he appreciated the effort, and kissed her on her neck, the softness of his lips by her ear spreading warmth throughout her body.
Then, he'd proceeded to tell her to clean herself up, that he'd take care of dinner.
It took her almost an hour to shower and wash the batter from her hair, and instead of drying it, she simply braided it into two long pigtails to let it air dry. When she came back downstairs, Barney was finished cooking, the table was set with two bowls of the pesto primavera pasta that she'd tried, and failed to make.
Now, he was at it again—this time with French toast, bacon and eggs. He looked up at her, smiled slightly and kept working as she walked past him to one of the cabinets and pulled out plates.
Mornings like this require few words. They now know each other so well that much of their interaction is by touches, and looks, half-smiles and comfortable silence. It's a peace they cherish, because they never know when he's going to be called away. It's a peace forged from years of learning how to communicate, how to work together, and how to love.