Meera:

You and I are finally one.

I never thought it would be this easy, letting a man touch me again.

I never thought my heart could heal, much less bear fruit for someone else.

Yet, here we are. Tangled in the soft sheets, morning light, our own love, and each other's arms. A wonderful concoction of knots and ties.

At the thought of knots, I extricate one hand and reach up to the bedpost, loosing your cast's sling. Your tanned face twitches in your sleep, and your brawny arms hug me closer. "Meera," you breathe. I kiss your forehead, mind whirling.

Really, it had been a bit of hurried genius to restrain your broken arm. If I hadn't, you probably would have hurt yourself further. And since there was no stopping either of us... Glancing at your face again, I feel belated, misplaced guilt. I know what it is like to be tied down in this way. I send up a panicking prayer that I haven't crossed some line.

You inhale deeply, signaling wakefulness, but your eyes remain closed. "Stop that," you murmur.

"Hmm?" I ask, tracing your jaw with my fingertips.

"I didn't mind," you continue, pressing a sleepy kiss into my palm. "I was pretty eager. Smart to keep the injuries out of play." Now, your eyes open to that beautiful brown that makes my heart stutter plaintively. "How you feelin'?" your voice is rough with sleep and concern.

Testingly, I turn in your arms to my back and stretch up and down. The white bandages on my forearms rasp on the pillow, and my toes point into the junction of the sheets and mattress. In the throes of our passion last night, I cannot recall even the slightest hint of pain, only the earthshaking feeling of plummeting headlong into love and floating in a hazy sea of desire, struck occasionally by lightening stabs of pleasure. For a moment, I marvel at the concept of painlessness. It has been my experience that such acts are always painful, to the point of excruciating.

I've never had a gentle lover. You, Barney, are electricity, sweet heat.

My shoulders are stiff from Church's games, the hip slice is stretching out, and the bruises pang with pressure, but otherwise, I feel alright.

It is glorious.

"Not awful," I reply, my shock evident.

You chuckle. "Yeah, I have that effect. But I meant here." You imitate my earlier motion, kissing my forehead tenderly. "And here." You press your lips to my sternum. I have learned through my readings of the heart's four chambers: all of mine seem to bounce out of sync at the damp lay of your mouth.

My mind is beautifully clear, fuzzy with happiness. My spirit feels rejuvenated, polished clean. I feel swept out and filled with dawn. "Also not awful," I reply, running my fingers through your hair.

You give me the sweetest, most honest, deepest loving smile I've ever laid eyes on. "I love you, Meera."

I smile and roll halfway onto your chest, avoiding the cast, my head over your lungs and heart. "I love you, too," I tell the organ through a few inches of bone and muscle. Whoosh, thump, thump, thump, whoosh. A melody of contentment that I could listen to forever. Sleep creeps up on us both again, slow as fog rolls in off the bay. Your fingers dance down my spine, avoiding cuts that no longer have consequence or meaning.

That reminds me...

"Hey Barney?"

"Hmm?" you're almost dozing again.

"I need to borrow the truck today."

You yawn, but don't question me. "'Mkay. Anything ya need help with?"

I trace a line of your tattoo. "No. But maybe unwrapping something later."

One brow flicks up over closed eyes. "Alright."

And we both fall into peaceful doze, in a world of our own.

With the utmost care, I drive the familiar route into downtown and park in the alley.

"Tool!" I exclaim, walking into the shop. "Tool, are you here?"

There is a sound of a motor working, and the elevator to his living space lowers with him in it. I hide a smirk at his fluffy black bathrobe and cup of coffee.

"You are up late," I say concernedly. "Do you feel well?"

Tool opens his mouth to speak, but a female voice echoes down the elevator shaft. "Who's there, baby?"

"A customer," rasps Tool back.

I am reduced to some stellar blushing, awkwardly looking at the ceiling. "Do you want me to come back later?"

Tool ambles closer, scratching his neck. His eyes are not at all sleepy as they peg me searchingly. "Did you...? And Barney...?"

I can't help the delighted grin that spreads over my face in reply.

Tool chortles, and gives me a bear hug that I wasn't expecting. He must hear my pain, because he releases me quickly. "I'm happy as hell for ya, kiddo." He notices the bandages peeking from under my sleeves. "What happened to - ?"

The elevator had been summoned, and now it returns with the owner of the female voice. She is clad with shockingly (by my standards for Tool) demure clothes, consisting of bell-bottomed jeans and a camisole with a peace sign on it. Her hair is streaked with occasional bouts of color and a few dreadlocks. "Hi, I'm Stella," she says warmly, extending a hand.

"Meera," I say, shaking it. I feel the urge to glance at Tool. "I'm not - erm..."

"I know you're not," she replies kindly, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "You're not his type." Straightening, she pecks Tool on the cheek. "'Bye, baby. I have class in an hour."

Tool's expression is more than I've ever seen him show relative to a woman. "Can't you play hooky?" he asks with what I assume are his 'get naked' eyes, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Quiz today," she says breezily, wriggling out of his arms with a smile.

"What's your major?" I ask, curious.

Stella pauses at the door to shoulder a backpack. "Psychology." And then she's unbolting the door and is gone. A moment later, a motorcycle roars to life, setting off a few car alarms.

I look back to Tool, and he's gazing after her with wistful passion. It gladdens me to see him so enamored, and a woman up to the task of him. Psychology would probably come in handy, in this relationship.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "So, you and Barney - ?"

"Yup," I reply.

He sips his coffee. "Finally. I thought I'd have to make a move on you to get him to respond."

I tilt my head. "That would have been a great idea, up until he shot you."

Tool chuckles. "Too true. What can I do for you at this - " he glances at a clock. "Too damn bright and sunny hour?"

"Remember what I said last time I was here?"

I watch the smile spread on his face. "I do. You think you're ready?"

"I know it," I say strongly. "I'm whole for the first time in years, Tool. I want to celebrate."

He downs the rest of his coffee as he walks to a workbench. "I've got your design here. How much time you got?"

"Plenty."

"Then please," he sweeps a pigeonwing bow at the motorcycle-chair. "Step into my office."

After a short hiatus to get dressed, Tool bades me lift my shirt.

"Um..." I start, my hands twisting in the hem. "Do not freak out, the person who did this is dead." Steeling myself with an inhale, I claw the back of my shirt up to my neck and over, leaving it stretched across my chest and arms.

Tool's anger is palpable. "Dead, dead? Good and buried dead?"

Swallowing, I reply, "I snapped his neck myself." The words feel good to say aloud, like an affirmation.

"The only way to make yourself safe," growls Tool, lightly brushing my back full of shallow cuts. "Is to kill the bastards that threaten you. Preferably yourself, so it's done right."

Thinking back to the wet snap of Church's neck, and the feeling of relief that washed over me, I say, "I could not agree more."

"If you want to tell me about it," says Tool softly, starting to trace my back with an inkpen. "Then I'll listen."

I lean forward to stretch my canvas out for him. I ponder his words, but find the invitation unnecessary. "There is no need," I say. "But thank you."

Tool chuckles, shaking his dirty blonde hair. "Tough little thing."

Within thirty minutes, he's penned the design. With the aid of a digital camera, I approve the final design. I'm tense, but excited. I feel like this tattoo is the culmination of months of recovery, and years of becoming.

"The... cuts," the artist stumbles on the word. "Are fairly uniform. I'll incorporate their eventual scarring into the design."

"How fitting," I reply. How fitting that my scars become something beautiful, like worms to butterflies. Like coal to diamonds.

"I don't need to remind you," says Too, poised with a needle gun over my shoulders. "That this is permanent."

I smile into the chrome headlamp, where my chin rests on my arms. "I certainly hope so."

And with that, the gun buzzes to life, imbedding with hot scratches in my back.

I grunt faintly, breathing with great care, but it's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Not nearly as bad as the things I have been through.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I sniffle.

"You okay?" asks Tool concernedly. "Too much?"

"Not enough," I say, with a slight wobble in my voice.

The artist nods, giving me a knowing and reassuring smile in the mirror, and continues.

Watching Toll Road get his ink so many weeks ago had not prepared me for the release that it was. All my angsts, worries, and ugliest stains escaped from those thousands of needlepricks. I cried quietly, my bandages absorbing, and basked in the feeling of the last vestiges of the hate and hurt reaped upon me wafting off my soul and into the air, never to return.

"You're a phoenix too, you know, little lady?" said Tool's gruff voice, puffing warm breath over my bare back. "All sooty and studded with embers."

He's forever a poet. But his words tug my heart. I feel a shift in the way I see myself: like a glacier moving, like the moon's phases.

Rising phoenix. From ashes to flames.

Barney:

I don't know where you go for six hours, and it almost kills me to not ask you before you leave. But I sense this is something you need to do yourself, so I bite my tongue.

I don't bite my tongue for anyone else on the planet. But then, you've always brought out the better parts of me.

So I wait, with some apprehension, for you to come back.

How incredibly good it is to hear your tires on the tarmac. I bolt to the door and meet you there.

"Hey," I say. My expression is doing most of the talking.

You beam at me, and I melt. "Hey," you reply.

I lean down for a kiss, caressing your lips and eventually your tongue. My hand comes to your back, and I feel you tense up.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

You cock your head sheepishly, still breathless from the kisses. "A little sore," you admit. But there is some gleam in your eyes that catches me. "I have something for you," you start. "But, forgive me, it's mostly for me."

My curiosity is piqued. "Okay." I have no earthly clue what you mean.

You pull me down for another kiss that becomes feverish. "Undress me," you whisper against my lips.

I'm already there, grasping the hem of your shirt and ghosting my hands up you sides, tickling your ribs lightly. I go to my knees so I can be eye-level with your breasts as they are revealed, lovely and firm and needing my touch.

But you step back a pace, eyeing me with love, hope, and a little anxiety. "Are you ready?"

I put my hands on my legs. "Okay."

You turn around.

I can't stop the sharp gasp.

Your back is splayed with inky feathers. A couple are ruffled artfully, like they have been subjected to rough flight. The rest have a quality of smooth strength, from pinions to secondaries. The coloring is mostly tones of gray and black on your coffee-with-cream back, but along the edges of each feather, there is a ribbon of iridescent color that makes me look harder. Distantly, I recognize the work of Tool.

But the scars from Nepal and the cuts from Church are what stun me most. The ruffled feathers follow the older, more messy scars, which serve as the midrib of each plume. The cuts from Church make for uniform pinions, the largest feathers draping down to your mid-back like silken cloth over your skin, like they are a literal part of you.

Wings.

I find myself behind you again, with no memory of having moved. You jump and gasp a bit as my hands grasp your hips, and my lips press to the center of the wings' origin, between your shoulder blades.

"Are you upset?" you ask softly, worried although you know better.

"No," I reply between light kisses of each vertebra. "I'm happy."

You turn in my grasp, and I am inspired to kiss around your navel. "Barney."

This is a woman who has been through so much pain and subjected to so much of the world's worst, she should have been ground to dust and scattered by the breeze. Indeed, a layer of herself was rasped away by the hurt, but it formed a bed of ashes. Fallen angel.

She hid there for a while, healed, grew feathers. With a breath, a light wind, her embers grew to life again. She burst forth from her soft gray prison and rose like a firework, a reverse meteor, a missile, a phoenix.

Rising phoenix.

Chill bumps run up my arms, crawl my scalp.

"I love you, Barney," you whisper, cradling my head to your belly.

"Meera," I reach up and cup your face. "I love you so much."

An eternity of the stuff stretches before us like an open highway.

And that's all, people!

What an incredible journey, both for myself and Meera and Barney. I am stunned by all the love this story has gotten. I never expected such.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorite/followed once, multiple times, or anonymously. Thank you for letting this story into your hearts.

We can all rise from our ashes. What hold does the cold sooty bed have on us? The sky calls for us to streak across it, light it ablaze.

We are all phoenixes. If you look for that spark inside yourself, you will find it.

Godspeed to all.

Love, Kepouros