"She's trying to say that she's tough enough to take you on, Barney."

"She doesn't even feel...that way. Towards me."

"Have you asked her?"

"No, but - "

"Then you're just spinning your wheels. Useless."

"I can't fucking do it," I say sharply. My stomach clenches in agreement.

"Why?" asks Christmas simply. The man is seriously pushing my buttons.

"Because I'm not...right for her," I reply, throwing down my cigar butt vengefully. "Even if it's mutual, I'm not right for her." There's an eruption of laughter in the shop, and you're in it. Damn, a body shouldn't feel this way when there's no bullets in it.

Christmas sighs and leans against the brick wall. "I can't tell you how to work through that," he admits. "But I can tell you I felt the same with Lacy. Like I wasn't light enough, or something. Her world was all civilian and happy, and ours, Barney...well, it gets pretty dark."

I nod. "Exactly. And Meera don't deserve to be drowned in that." I would be drowning you if I tied you to me. Wouldn't I? I think over how easily you accepted rescue from a foreign gun-totting man on the basis of, as we say in my business, 'the eye-contact contract'. I think about how readily you warmed to a living space swimming with weapons, and even took it upon yourself to learn all you could about them. I think about how well you mesh with me, and are obviously meshing with my friends: a bunch of glorified guns for hire with matching tattoos and a bigger budget.

Okay, maybe your immersion in the life I live was less than traumatic. But that could just be a survival mechanism, to avoid further trauma in your life.

"See, that's the rub," Christmas says ruefully. "The real question is, does she love you enough to risk it?"

I scoff hard. "She don't love me."

"Has she told you that?"

"No, but - "

"Then you don't know shit."

I give him a baleful Look. "I know how she acts around me."

"And how's that?"

I bang the back of my fist against the brick, trying to comfort myself with the pain. "It's like she cares what I feel. About her, the job, the world...She gets scared when I'm mad," I say as an example, thinking back to this morning.

Christmas barks a laugh at that. "Barney, everyone gets scared when you're mad. It's a perk in our job, like big tits or a good handshake. She cares, because you care. You're the one whose been dealing with the shitstorm Nepal left to her. You saying it's wrong for her to be tuned in to you?"

He's right, but I don't like it. "Not the same." I'm tuned in to you because I...well, I just am.

"Yeah, it is," challenges Christmas. "What's your alternative? If you were the soulless motherfucker in real life that you play on TV, then you would've kicked her to the curb as soon as the plane landed. But you didn't."

His joking makes me feel a fraction less like a sandstorm has taken up residence in my ribs. "The point remains. I'm dark, and she's not. I'm hard, and she's not."

"Isn't that kind of the purpose of opposites attract?" Christmas asks. "Call me old-fashioned, but I still think there's some good to be wrung out of that adage."

I 'hmph' dubiously. "I don't see that, at all."

"Well, would you want to be in love with you?"

He's got me, again. "But I don't think she could handle...us. If there even became an 'us'."

"So you admit you love 'er?"

"Lee - " I say warningly.

"You don't have to say it to me, Barn. Just admit it to yourself. Lemme tell you, you'll feel a shitton better."

I stare up at the moon, which has crested the buildings. A potent cocktail mixes in me: frustration, bitterness, and anger at being dragged from - how did you put it to Gunnar? - under my 'red rock'. What good would it do to say the words? I have to wonder, because keeping it locked up obviously is doing me no good. What relief would it be, to let it out, like a withheld confession under torture? To finally, finally end the pain that's been steadily building and driving me crazy since I first laid eyes on you?

I think about that time we first met and I realize, with a flop of my heart, that this all started the second I saw you. You were so beautiful, even then. I could see what shone in your eyes, like embers on ash beds. With those embers barely hanging on to life, I'd taken you home with me and cared for you. Your embers grew a coal, humming with potential, and I simply gave it sustenance. Your internal fires ate up everything I put in front of you: food, knowledge, comfort, what affection a hired killer could muster. You gave so much in return: light that chased away my gloom and lifted my heart. I kept your coal alive even when your tears threatened to douse it, because having seen the light, losing it would be agony.

Then, you broke that one night. You broke wide open, and I realized the coal I'd been nurturing was a phoenix egg.

Now, your plumage is filling out, your eyes finding their fire again, and your bed of ashes can hardly contain you anymore.

I can see you, now. Gleaming red-orange hot. You are stunning, lovely, heart-breakingly and spine-snappingly beautiful. A fledgling phoenix, sleek in places and fuzzy in others, flapping sparks off her wings and straining for the sky.

Somehow, you've managed to raise me from my own ashes, too. Redeemed my soul along with your own.

I do love you. God, I do love you.

"She don't deserve me," I whisper. "She can't want me. I'm messed up, Lee."

He tilts his head and grins at me. "Not as messed up as you think, Barney. Besides...that's up to her. If you give her the choice."

That's all I've ever wanted to give you: a choice. I want you to choose what makes you happy.

But I won't let you choose blindly. In order to resolve this, I have to show you all of me.

Knowing that I have to lay down all my cards scares me more than any mission I've been on. It's one thing for you to exist, free of burden, around me. But giving you the burden of this choice, outright, is asking too much.

"I have to play it out a little longer," I say. "I have to find out if, maybe, she feels the same."

Christmas claps me on the shoulder, and walks towards the shop. "This concludes our therapy session, mate. My work is done. I'll send you the bill."

"Cheap-ass," I snort, following him. "Do you ever give free advice?"

"Yeah, I do. 'Oh, baby, just like that,' or, 'Work it harder, faster'..."

I laugh and leave my heaviness in the street. "You sick bastard."

When I get back into the shop, you're up on a barstool at Tool's shoulder, watching him inject ink into Ceasar's skin. "Does it hurt?" you ask the black man, frowning in concentration like you do when you're spotting me at the bench press.

"Nah, little lady," Ceasar replies easily. It takes a lot more to hurt Hale Ceasar. I know as much, but I've yet to find the mythical 'A Lot More'.

You glance over the outline of the tattoo, while Tool prepares another needle and gun for shading. "It looks like it does."

Ceasar bites down on a chuckle to keep the needle steady, clearly enjoying your attention. "Ever heard of acupuncture?" Ceasar's one of the more scholarly of our group, and is constantly reading off Oprah's book list and shit. Leave it to him to tickle your brain.

You light up. "Yes. Chinese medicine, right?"

"Right. They believe that by puncturing the skin, you let out all the bad stuff under it. That's what it's like for me. All the bad stuff escapes like - psssssh!" He sweeps his hand, and Tool moves the humming gun off his skin. "Watch it, C."

"My bad. You get what I'm saying, Meera?"

Your eyes darken just enough to convince. "Yeah. I do."

Tool is sensitive to people, which you'd never guess by looking at him or by his habits with women. Maybe it's because he's around so many tough guys with baggage to carry. He sees your demeanor change and intervenes. "Here, Meera." He hands you a sterile gauze. "Wipe when I back off, 'kay?"

You nod. "Okay."

He doesn't let just anybody help out, even in so small a way. He must like you, or at least appreciate that you're interested in his art form. Most women he brings around just don't get the passion he has for ink, or don't care to.

I wander over to where Gunnar, Toll Road and Yin Yang are debating if a Russian elk could be shot from Alaska. "It could be done," insists Gunnar. "Easy."

"There isn't a scope on the planet that could handle that distance," interjects Toll Road.

"Or a bullet balistically capable of getting that far," agrees Yin Yang.

"You might get a round on Russian soil," I hypothesize. "But it'd bounce off the elk." I slap the back of my neck and spin around, imitating the proverbial elk. "Hey, what the hell was that?!"

Gunnar laughs. "I wanna try, one day. Any jobs in that direction, Barney?"

"Yeah, man, it's about that time, ain't it?" echoes Ceasar from the chair.

It's rare we go this long without employment. "The third world is keeping it's act together without us, guys. No bids on our services."

Yin Yang sips his beer and sighs. "It is getting sad when I beat my own board-breaking records."

"You broke fifteen boards, no spacers?" splutters Toll Road.

"Sixteen," replies the Asian mournfully. "Home Depot hates me." He warms suddenly. "You know what they think I am doing with all those boards! They see an Asian hauling through their lumber department, and think, 'Dammit! It's Jackie Chan, again!'"

You laugh with the rest of us on that one. Little do you know, once we start this ball rolling, it goes South from there.

Gunnar pipes up, "Try to go to a fish market as a Swede. They keep trying to recruit me! 'Here', they say. 'Pick up a knife and get to work!'"

"You know, I hate kids," wheedles Toll Road. "There was one in the army surplus store the other day that kept taking fucking pictures of my ear with a smart phone!"

"Man, you wanna know why I got the Look from a cop yesterday?" asks Ceasar indignantly. "I had a damn Ipod on. He thought I'd stolen it!"

"Oh my goodness," you half-chortle, half sympathize. "You should all try lugging this ugly guy around," you say, pointing to me. "I get these stares in Walmart, like, 'Do you know he's following you around, lady? I can call the police for you...'"

They laugh all the harder because you made a joke at my expense. Although enthralled by their reactions, you still glance at me, to make sure it didn't hurt me too much. You soft thing. Don't you know your punches are feathers, your harsh words like the pinch of new boots, your jokes like noonday sun? It's because you share them all with me.

I let Tool pick up the banner and run with it, then Christmas, and I let my turn slide. I'm content to watch you rediscover laughter and people.

"There," says Tool. "Done."

Ceasar gets up from the chair and admires himself in the mirror. "Yeah, that looks nice!" he says, flexing his muscles and watching the play of the new ink on his chest.

"'Nother slam dunk," I congratulate Tool.

"Looks good, Ceasar," says Toll Road. Gunnar and Yin Yang agree. While Tool cleans and puts away his instruments, the rest of us start to get on our bikes.

"All in a day's work," replies the artist modestly. He cleans his fingers off with a piece of gauze and asks casually, "So, Meera. What you thinkin' 'bout getting?"

You look up startled from gathering the pieces of gauze from the floor where you dropped them. "Me?" you ask, with a little squeak.

"Yeah, honey-bunch. You. What design can I give my assistant?"

Your eyes are wide. "Oh, Tool, I can't. I have no idea what to choose."

I am getting the bike prepped for takeoff, but I know you can handle yourself. If Tool pushes too hard, I'll step in.

"Maybe," you continue thoughtfully. "Something like..." you motion him closer and he lends his ear to your whispers.

Now, I know that's jealousy rearing up inside me. You aren't exactly flirting, but you're getting friendlier than I might like. But my opinion doesn't count for jack, when it comes to you and other people. It bites, really, because it's my own fault that I don't have an irrefutable claim on you. I stomp the bike to life harder than necessary.

Tool is grinning and nodding. "You think so?"

You nod. "Not yet, though. Later."

"Later," he agrees. "When the time's right."

You beam at him, and he smiles back, a little stunned by the expression. Yeah, you have that effect on people, I'm beginning to notice.

I throttle as you walk closer, and you skip a little faster as the rest of the gang answers the call. I nod at Tool while you get on your helmet, and lead the pack out of the shop, onto the street, and towards the highway.

If we hit the highway, it takes several exits for all of us to head home, so we build it into our outings whenever we can. It's a perfect excuse to ride together. There are no cars around this time of night, and the moon's face illuminates our way almost as well as our headlights. God, it feels good to ride with the guys again, to own the road and our brotherhood.

Ceasar whoops a goodbye as he hits his exit, and you unwrap one arm from my chest to wave. Next comes Yin Yang and Toll Road, taking the same exit, then Gunnar and Christmas two later. You wave them all goodbye, and gasp-laugh when Christmas bucks a wheelie meant for you.

We're left alone under the near-sentient gaze of the night. You wrap your arms around me tighter, and I can feel your contentment and wonder at the open highway, spread before us like the stairway to heaven, winking in the lights that bathe it.

We rumble into the hangar, tired but frosty from the company of like-minded individuals. The rest of the evening goes as usual, except for one thing.

"Barney?" You're laying down in your bed with your back to me.

I'm about to turn off the last lantern, itchy-eyed with sleep. "Yeah?"

You roll over, looking slightly guilty. "About what I said earlier: you being ugly and lugging you around...?"

"Pfft, Meera," I say dismissively. "That was a joke. Don't worry about it."

You flicker a smile at me, but go on. "I didn't mean you were ugly. I think you're handsome. And I love going places with you." You fiddle with a loose thread in the sheet. "I'm always safe with you."

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the handsome comment. "What can I say?" I reply with automatic levity. "You're portable."

You smirk at me. "Was that a short joke?"

"Yep," I say, grinning at you even while my insides flip and slide like live fish. You think I'm handsome?

You finish giggling at my humor. "Goodnight, Barney."

"'Night, Meera."

I turn off the lantern and get comfy, but it's a couple of hours before my mind lets me get to sleep. Part of the reason is that, even though you don't move, I can practically hear your brain's gears turning. What are you thinking about? Is it the same thing as me?

More importantly, how will I ever know?