The door barely clicked shut before Barney was on him again, backing Butch toward the bedroom while yanking at his shirt. They left a trail of discarded clothes — Barney's socks by the coffee table, Butch's jeans draped over the TV stand.
The bedroom fan stirred the humid air as Barney pushed Butch onto the mattress, straddling his thighs. Moonlight through the blinds painted tiger stripes across Barney's torso as he leaned down to lick a stripe up Butch's sternum.
"Tell me what you want," Barney murmured against his collarbone.
Butch carded a hand through Barney's short hair, tugging gently. "I want you to ride me."
Barney's breath hitched. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, his movements deliberately slow as he prepared himself. Butch watched through hooded eyes, the muscles in his abdomen twitching when Barney's fingers disappeared between his own cheeks.
When Barney finally sank down onto Butch's cock, they both groaned. Barney braced his hands on Butch's chest, rolling his hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm that had Butch's fingers digging bruises into his thighs.
The fan's whir mingled with the slick sounds of their bodies moving together. Sweat beaded along Barney's hairline as he picked up pace, his thighs flexing with each downward thrust. Butch gripped his hips, helping him move, their gazes locked in the dim light.
Barney's breath came in punched-out little ah-ah-ah sounds, his cock dripping onto Butch's stomach. When Butch thumbed his leaking slit, Barney's rhythm stuttered. "Fuck, don't — I wanna —"
Butch understood. He wrapped his hand around Barney's shaft, stroking in time with their movements. Barney's back arched beautifully, his mouth falling open as he shot his load hands-free, hot stripes painting Butch's chest and stomach.
The clench of Barney's body dragged Butch over moments later, his hips jerking upward as he spilled his sperm deep inside Barney's bowels with a guttural groan.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the humid dark, Barney's head pillowed on Butch's shoulder. Outside, a car alarm wailed briefly before cutting off.
Barney's fingers traced idle circles on Butch's sternum. "You snore, by the way."
Butch flicked his ear. "And you steal blankets."
Barney's chuckle vibrated through him. The streetlight outside cast long shadows across the ceiling — shapes that might have been trees, or the future, or nothing at all.
The shower's spray turned lukewarm just as Barney stepped under it, cursing as Butch chuckled from the doorway. "Told you to hurry," Butch said, tossing him the last clean towel.
Barney caught it one-handed, water sluicing down his freckled shoulders. "You used all the hot water jacking off last night, admit it." He scrubbed the towel over his military-cut hair, making the auburn strands stand up in damp spikes.
Butch leaned against the sink, watching droplets trace the scar along Barney's ribs — the one he still hadn't explained. "Bullshit. You're the one who took twenty-minute showers at the gym."
"Obsessed with me," Barney sing-songed, stepping out onto the bathmat. He hip-checked Butch aside to grab his toothbrush, their reflections overlapping in the fogged mirror.
Butch snatched the towel from Barney's waist just to hear him yelp. The retaliatory shove sent Butch's bare ass hitting the chilly porcelain sink. "Fucker," Butch growled, yanking Barney close by the hips. Their damp chests stuck together, Barney's laughter warm against his neck.
Breakfast was silent except for the espresso machine's hiss and the crackle of bacon in Butch's cast-iron skillet. Barney perched on the counter again, stealing sips of Butch's coffee between scrolling through his phone. His toes brushed Butch's thigh — casual as breathing now.
"Work call," Barney muttered when his phone buzzed. He swung down, pressing a grease-slicked kiss to Butch's temple before answering. "Yeah, Cap — Monday, got it."
Butch watched Barney's shoulders tense as the voice on the line crackled. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have noticed the way Barney's thumb tapped morse code against his thigh. Now it screamed louder than the captain's Staten Island accent leaking from the receiver.
When Barney hung up, Butch slid a plate across the counter. "Deployment?"
Barney stabbed a pancake with unnecessary force. "Training exercise. Two weeks at Lejeune." He avoided Butch's gaze, swirling syrup in slow circles. "Leaves Monday."
The fork felt heavy in Butch's hand. He'd known this was coming — Barney's seabag still sat half-packed by the closet, his dress blues hanging pristine in garment bags. Still, the words landed like a sucker punch.
Barney finally looked up, syrup clinging to his lower lip. "You gonna say anything?"
Butch wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I'll miss you."
Barney's laugh burst out startled and rough. "That's it? No tearful goodbyes? No —"
Butch yanked him forward by his belt loops, their plates clattering. The kiss tasted of maple and the coffee Barney had stolen. When they broke apart, Butch pressed their foreheads together. "You come back," he growled. It wasn't a request.
Barney's fingers curled tight in Butch's shirt. Outside, a garbage truck beeped its way down the alley. The bacon popped in the pan, forgotten.
"I will," Barney whispered. A promise. A prayer.
Butch believed him.
The skillet's bacon grease popped again, louder this time — a punctuation mark to their silence. Barney exhaled through his nose, his fingers loosening their grip on Butch's shirt. He swiped a thumb over the syrup at the corner of his mouth, then licked it clean with deliberate slowness. "Better eat before this gets cold," he murmured, nudging Butch toward the stove.
Butch turned the burner off with a flick of his wrist. The kitchen clock ticked audibly over the hum of the refrigerator. Fifteen minutes until they'd usually head to the gym. Routine disrupted.
Barney's fork scraped against his plate as he speared a piece of bacon. "You could visit," he said around the bite. "Weekends. Lejeune's only —"
"I know where it is." Butch's knuckles whitened around his coffee mug. He'd driven that stretch of I-40 enough times hauling materials for jobs. The thought of making that trip for a different reason sent something unfamiliar twisting through his ribs.
Barney's knee bumped his under the counter. "You got passport photos yet?"
Butch blinked. "What?"
"For the base access forms." Barney swirled his orange juice, the ice cubes clinking. "Gotta get you vetted so they don't tackle your ass at the gate." His grin was all teeth, but his eyes were doing that thing again — the one that made Butch's chest feel tight.
The fork clattered as Butch set it down. "You're serious."
Barney's eyebrow arched. "You think I'd joke about paperwork?" He leaned in, close enough that Butch could count the sun-bleached lashes framing his sea-glass eyes. "Unless you don't want —"
Butch kissed him quiet, tasting citrus and the ghost of maple. Barney made a pleased noise against his lips, fingers finding purchase in the hair at the nape of Butch's neck.
The front door buzzer shattered the moment.
Barney groaned, forehead thunking against Butch's shoulder. "Ignore it."
The buzzer sounded again — insistent. Butch sighed, detaching himself to stalk toward the intercom. "Yeah?"
"Delivery for —" The voice crackled. "— Bernard Whitaker?"
Barney was already halfway to the door, bare feet slapping against hardwood. "Oh shit, my new boots." He punched the unlock button with more force than necessary, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overeager kid.
Butch watched from the doorway as Barney signed for the package, his shoulders flexing beneath the thin cotton of his stolen t-shirt. The delivery driver's gaze lingered appreciatively on Barney's sleep-rumpled hair and the hickey peeking above his collar before catching Butch's glare and hastily retreating.
Barney kicked the door shut with his heel, tearing into the box with the enthusiasm of a Christmas morning. The boots inside were sturdy, military-grade — the kind with extra ankle support Butch had heard him complaining about needing during ruck marches.
"Break 'em in today?" Butch nodded toward the gym bag still packed by the couch.
Barney's grin was sharp as he pulled one boot on, flexing his foot. "Thought you'd never ask." He paused, fingers stilling on the laces. "After, though ... we could hit that hardware store. You still need that reciprocating saw?"
Butch blinked. "You hate Home Depot."
"Yeah, well." Barney stood, the new boots creaking as he took an experimental step toward Butch. "Figured I'd help stock your toolbox before I go." His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "Give you something to remember me by."
The words hung between them — equal parts promise and plea. Butch closed the distance in two strides, catching Barney's jaw in his hand. The stubble burned against his palm. "As if I could forget," he growled before sealing the lie between their lips.
Outside, a car horn blared. The clock ticked. The bacon cooled. Neither moved.
The hardware store fluorescents buzzed like angry hornets overhead as Butch watched Barney weigh two different reciprocating saw blades in each hand. His brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth the way it did during deadlifts.
"That one," Butch said, tapping the left blade.
Barney squinted. "This one's got more teeth."
"Exactly. You want smooth cuts on drywall, not ..." Butch trailed off as Barney's fingers brushed his wrist when handing him the blade. The contact lingered a second too long, electric even here between the PVC piping and power tools.
A clerk rounded the corner pushing a lumber cart, breaking the moment. Barney cleared his throat and tossed both blades into their basket with exaggerated nonchalance. "So what else you need, Foreman?"
Butch's chest tightened at the nickname — one he'd earned swinging hammers since he was seventeen, now somehow tender in Barney's mouth. He grabbed a box of deck screws just to have something to do with his hands. "Got everything."
Barney snorted, plucking the screws from his grip. "Bullshit. Your drill bits look like they survived Normandy." He turned down the fastener aisle, his new boots leaving faint scuff marks on the linoleum.
Butch followed, cataloging the way Barney's shoulders filled out the heather-gray Henley he'd "borrowed" this morning — the one Butch knew would smell like cedar and salt when he inevitably stole it back. At the drill bit display, Barney paused, suddenly serious.
"You ever think about ..." He ran a thumb over a titanium bit. "Doing something else? Not construction, I mean."
Butch leaned against the shelf. "Like what?"
Barney shrugged, but his eyes were sharp. "You're good with your hands. Could get certified easy. Welding pays —"
"I like what I do." Butch's voice came out rougher than intended. He watched a muscle jump in Barney's jaw before adding, "Why?"
The overhead lights caught the gold flecks in Barney's eyes as he met Butch's gaze. "Just thinking about ... after. When I'm out." His throat worked. "If you'd want ..."
A forklift beeped in the distance. Butch reached past Barney for a set of carbide-tipped bits, their bodies close enough that his bicep brushed Barney's chest. "We'll talk about it," he murmured. "Over steak."
Barney's exhale ruffled Butch's collar. "Medium rare," he agreed, just as a teenage stock boy rounded the corner with a ladder, forcing them apart.
At checkout, Barney slapped down his credit card before Butch could react. "Don't start," he warned, pocketing the receipt like contraband. The cashier's gaze flickered between them as she handed over the bags — Butch's calloused hands, Barney's faded USMC tattoo peeking from his sleeve.
Outside, the August heat hit like a sauna. Barney hoisted their bags one-handed and squinted at the sun. "Race you to the car?"
Butch snorted but lengthened his stride, their shoulders bumping as they crossed the parking lot. The new boots made Barney's gait slightly uneven, his right foot dragging just enough that Butch could match him step for step.
The truck's cab smelled of sun-warmed vinyl when they climbed in. Butch cranked the AC as Barney tossed their haul behind the seats with a clatter. The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever smartass remark Barney made next — until Butch reached across the console and caught his wrist.
"Hey."
Barney stilled, his pulse jumping under Butch's fingers. The AC vent ruffled his hair as Butch leaned in, close enough to count the faint freckles across his nose. "Whatever happens," Butch said lowly, "we'll figure it out."
For once, Barney had no comeback. Just nodded, his throat bobbing as he turned his hand palm-up to thread their fingers together. The engine idled. The traffic light changed. Somewhere past the windshield glare, their future shimmered like asphalt mirage — just out of reach, but undeniably there.
The truck’s engine rumbled beneath them as Butch pulled into his usual parking spot outside the gym. Barney drummed his fingers against the dashboard, his new boots propped on the glove compartment. "You sure you wanna break these in today?" he asked, flexing his ankles experimentally. "Might slow my mile time."
Butch killed the ignition and smirked. "Scared of a little challenge, Whitaker?"
Barney’s answering grin was sharp. "Oh, you’re on, Foreman." He shoved open the door with his shoulder, the boots hitting the pavement with a solid thunk.
Inside, the gym smelled of rubber mats and stale sweat. Barney headed straight for the squat racks, tossing a glance over his shoulder that was pure challenge. Butch followed, rolling his sleeves past his elbows — their unspoken signal for when things were about to get competitive.
Barney loaded the bar with more weight than necessary, his biceps straining as he lifted it onto his shoulders. The new boots anchored him solidly as he sank into a deep squat, the leather creaking with the motion. Butch watched the way his thighs flexed, the way his jaw tightened with concentration.
"Eyes up here," Barney panted on his third rep, nodding toward his face. Butch didn’t bother hiding his stare.
"I like what I see," he shot back, stepping closer to spot him. His hands hovered just beneath the bar, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Barney’s skin.
Barney’s breath hitched on his next descent. "You're distracting me on purpose," he accused, but there was no bite to it.
Butch grinned. "Is it working?"
Barney’s answer was to rack the bar abruptly and shove a water bottle into Butch’s chest. "Your turn."
They traded off like that — weights, treadmills, the heavy bag in the corner that Barney attacked with military precision. The new boots held up better than expected, though by the end of their session, Barney’s steps had slowed just enough for Butch to notice.
"You’re favoring your left," Butch observed in the locker room, nodding toward Barney’s right foot.
Barney scowled as he peeled off his sock, revealing a blister along his heel. "Told you they needed breaking in."
Butch crouched down, ignoring the way his knees protested, and took Barney’s foot in his hand. The skin was red and angry, the leather having rubbed raw despite Barney’s stubbornness. "Should’ve listened to me," Butch muttered, digging a bandage from his gym bag.
Barney’s fingers carded through Butch’s hair — not pushing, just resting there as Butch smoothed the bandage over the blister. "Since when do I listen?" he teased, but his voice was softer now, the edge worn down by exhaustion and something warmer.
Butch looked up, their gazes catching. The locker room was empty save for the distant hum of the air conditioner, the scent of their sweat mingling with the sharp tang of antiseptic. Barney’s thumb brushed the shell of Butch’s ear, a touch so light it could’ve been accidental.
Then the door banged open, and a group of rowdy college kids spilled in, their laughter echoing off the tiles. Barney’s hand fell away, but the ghost of his touch lingered as Butch stood.
"Steak?" Barney asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Butch nodded. "Medium rare."
They walked out side by side, shoulders brushing, the promise of the evening stretching ahead of them — just like the road home.
The steakhouse was dimly lit, the kind of place where the booths were deep enough for private conversations and the wine list looked like it belonged to someone’s rich uncle. Barney slid into the corner seat first, his back to the wall out of habit, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the tablecloth. Butch watched the way the candlelight caught the sweat still drying at his temples, the way his new boots stretched beneath the table as he settled in.
"You checking me out or deciding what to eat?" Barney smirked, snapping his menu shut.
"Both," Butch admitted, reaching across the table to thumb a drop of water from Barney’s collar. Their fingers brushed, lingering just long enough for the waiter to clear his throat pointedly as he approached.
The food arrived faster than expected — Barney’s ribeye bleeding onto the plate exactly as ordered, Butch’s porterhouse charred at the edges. They ate in comfortable silence, the clink of cutlery filling the space between stolen glances. Halfway through, Barney speared a mushroom from Butch’s plate without asking, popping it into his mouth with a satisfied hum.
"You’re worse than a seagull," Butch grumbled, even as he nudged his asparagus toward Barney’s side.
Barney grinned, juice glistening on his lower lip. "You love it."
Butch didn’t deny it.
Outside, the summer night had turned humid, the air thick with the scent of pavement and distant rain. Barney stretched as they walked to the truck, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of sunburned skin above his waistband. Butch’s fingers itched to touch it, to press his palm against the heat of him. Instead, he tossed the keys in his hand and nodded toward the passenger door.
Barney caught the keys midair with a surprised laugh. "Trusting me with your baby?"
"Don’t wreck her," Butch warned, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
The drive home was slower than usual, Barney testing the truck’s acceleration with cautious reverence, his hands firm at ten and two. At a red light, Butch reached over and adjusted the rearview mirror — just an excuse to lean into Barney’s space, to breathe in the mix of leather and his cedar shampoo.
Barney’s grip tightened on the wheel. "You’re distracting me."
"Good," Butch murmured against his ear, relishing the way Barney’s throat bobbed.
They barely made it through the front door before Barney had him pinned against the wall, his mouth hot and insistent. Butch could taste the wine on his tongue, the salt from his sweat — a heady combination that had him groaning into the kiss. But then Barney's hands slowed, his touch gentling as he pulled back just enough to meet Butch's gaze.
"Not tonight," Barney murmured, his thumb brushing the stubble along Butch's jaw. "Not rough. Just ... this."
Butch exhaled, nodding before pressing their foreheads together. He let Barney lead him to the bedroom, their steps unhurried, fingers tangled. The moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting silver stripes across the sheets as they undressed each other — slow, deliberate, no urgency in their movements.
Barney kissed his collarbone, then his sternum, each press of his lips softer than the last. Butch carded his fingers through Barney's short auburn hair, sighing as those warm hands mapped his body with reverence instead of hunger. There were no bruises left behind, no sharp bites — just the slow drag of fingertips tracing scars, the whisper of breath against skin.
When Barney finally pushed inside, it was with a tenderness that made Butch's chest ache. He moved with deliberate care, rocking into him with none of their usual force, just deep, unhurried thrusts that drew out quiet, broken sounds from both of them. Butch arched into it, wrapping his legs around Barney's waist to pull him closer, their bodies fitting together seamlessly.
Barney's forehead dropped to Butch's shoulder as he shuddered, his hips stuttering. "God — you feel —" He didn't finish, just moaned softly, his fingers tightening where they gripped Butch's hip — not hard enough to bruise, just enough to anchor himself.
Butch cupped the back of Barney's neck, holding him close as pleasure coiled tighter, building slow and sweet. When he came, it wasn't with a shout but a sigh, his body trembling as Barney followed moments after, spilling inside him with a choked-off groan.
They stayed like that, still connected, breathing each other in. Barney pressed a kiss to the hollow of Butch's throat before carefully pulling out and collapsing beside him. Neither spoke as Barney dragged the sheet over them, his arm settling heavily across Butch's chest.
Butch turned his head, studying Barney's profile in the dim light — the slope of his nose, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lashes fluttered as he fought sleep.
Barney's fingers found his in the tangle of sheets, squeezing once.
No words.
None needed.
Outside, the distant hum of traffic faded into silence, leaving only the sound of their breathing — slow, even, perfectly in sync.
Butch woke to the weight of Barney's thigh slung over his hips, the warmth of his breath against his shoulder. Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting gold stripes across the rumpled sheets. He didn't move, didn't dare breathe too deep, savoring the rare peace of Barney asleep — his face slack, the usual tension smoothed from his brow.
Barney stirred first, his fingers flexing against Butch's stomach where they'd come to rest sometime in the night. A slow blink, then another, before recognition lit his eyes — hazel gone almost green in the sunlight. "Morning," he rasped, voice thick with sleep. His thumb brushed absently over Butch's hipbone, a silent question in the touch.
Butch answered by rolling onto his side, facing him fully. No words passed between them as Barney's hand slid up to cradle his jaw, the kiss that followed softer than any they'd shared before. No urgency, no teeth — just the warm press of lips, the shared breath as they lingered.
Barney's palm drifted down Butch's flank, mapping the terrain of his body with a reverence that made his ribs ache. Calloused fingers traced the ridge of his spine, the dip of his lower back, as if committing every curve to memory. Butch mirrored the touch, gliding his hands over the familiar landscape of scars and muscle, pausing to thumb at the pulse point in Barney's wrist when it fluttered under his touch.
Their legs tangled beneath the sheets, skin sliding against skin with a sweetness that bordered on sacred. Barney's mouth found the hollow of Butch's throat, not to mark but to worship — his lips barely grazing as he worked downward. Butch arched into the touch, his fingers carding through Barney's cropped auburn hair, guiding without pressure.
When Barney took him into his mouth, it wasn't the usual hungry suction but something slower, more deliberate. Each lick, each careful pass of his tongue drew sounds from Butch he didn't recognize in himself — soft, broken things that vanished into the sunlit air between them. He fisted the sheets instead of Barney's hair, not trusting himself to hold back if he anchored those strands between his fingers.
Barney pulled away before Butch could tip over the edge, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh as he moved upward. Their bodies aligned, chest to chest, Barney's erection hot against Butch's stomach. He reached between them, wrapping his hand around them both, his grip loose, unhurried.
Butch groaned, burying his face in Barney's shoulder as they rocked together — no frantic rutting, just the slow, steady friction of skin on skin. Barney's breath hitched against his ear, his hips moving in time with Butch's, their rhythms syncing without words.
When Butch came, it was with Barney's name whispered against his collarbone, his release painting their stomachs in warm stripes. Barney followed moments after, his groan muffled in the curve of Butch's neck, his fingers tightening briefly before relaxing into a gentle hold.
They stayed entwined long after, trading lazy kisses, Barney's thumb tracing nonsense patterns on Butch's hip. The morning stretched around them, golden and infinite, the usual demands of the world held at bay — for now.
Eventually, Barney shifted, pressing his lips to the scar on Butch's shoulder — a relic from a long-ago jobsite accident. "Stay," Butch murmured before he could pull away, the word slipping out unbidden.
Barney stilled, then huffed a quiet laugh against his skin. "I wasn't going anywhere," he said, settling back into the cradle of Butch's arms. The fan turned overhead, stirring the scent of their sweat and sex mingled with morning air. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, a dog barked — life moving on without them.
Butch tightened his hold, just slightly, and let his eyes drift shut again.
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