The nursing home smelled like antiseptic and overcooked green beans — a scent Butch recognized from the two years his own grandmother had spent in a place like this before passing. He adjusted the grocery bag in his grip, full of the lemon tarts Barney swore his mom still remembered loving. Barney walked beside him, shoulders stiff beneath his neatly pressed button-down, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh.
Room 214’s door stood ajar. Inside, a tiny woman with flyaway white hair sat slumped in a wheelchair, staring blankly at a game show blaring on the TV. Barney hesitated on the threshold, his throat working silently before he forced a smile and stepped in. "Hey, Ma. Brought you something."
She turned slowly, her milky eyes flickering over Barney without recognition. Then her gaze landed on Butch, and her wrinkled face lit up. "Frank! You finally came back!" She reached for him with gnarled hands, her wedding band glinting under the fluorescent lights.
Barney’s jaw tightened. "That’s not Dad, Ma. It’s me, Bernard. Your son."
She ignored him, patting the chair beside her insistently. Butch shot Barney an apologetic look before sitting gingerly on the edge of the seat. Her fingers were surprisingly strong as they clutched his forearm. "You handsome devil," she crooned, her voice suddenly girlish. "Take me dancing tonight?"
Barney exhaled sharply through his nose, unpacking the tarts with unnecessary force. Butch caught his wrist, squeezing gently before taking the pastry box. "These are from Bernard," he said carefully, placing it in her lap. "Your favorite."
She blinked at the tarts, then up at Barney. For a heartbeat, something lucid flashed in her eyes. "You ... you have your father’s hands." Her voice cracked. Barney froze. Then she turned back to Butch, her confusion returning like a tide. "Frank, why is this strange boy in our house?"
Barney’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ll go get coffee." He was out the door before Butch could respond.
The old woman tugged Butch closer, her whisper conspiratorial. "That boy follows me everywhere. I think he’s lonely." She pressed a crumpled photo into his hand — a younger Barney in dress blues, standing stiffly beside a grinning woman who must’ve been her before the dementia took hold. "Be nice to him, Frank. He needs someone."
Butch’s throat closed. He tucked the photo into his pocket just as Barney returned with two styrofoam cups, his expression carefully neutral. They spent the next hour listening to her ramble about people long gone, Barney nodding along whenever she mistook him for his uncle or a neighbor. When she finally dozed off mid-sentence, her head lolling against Butch’s shoulder, Barney stood abruptly. "Let’s go."
The hallway was too bright, too quiet. Barney stalked ahead, his fists clenched. Butch waited until they reached the parking lot before grabbing his elbow. "Hey —"
Barney whirled, slamming Butch against the brick wall with a choked noise. His forehead dropped to Butch’s shoulder, his entire body shaking. "Fuck," he rasped. "Fuck."
Butch wrapped his arms around him, holding tight as Barney’s breathing hitched. A nurse smoking by the dumpster tactfully looked away. After a long moment, Barney pulled back, scrubbing his face roughly. "Sorry. I just —"
"You don’t have to explain." Butch fished the photo from his pocket, pressing it into Barney’s hand. "She gave me this."
Barney stared at it, his thumb tracing his younger self’s face. "This was right after boot camp. She was so proud ..." His voice broke. He cleared his throat, shoving the photo into his wallet with sudden determination. "Let’s get out of here."
The truck’s cab felt too small, the silence too heavy. Barney gripped the steering wheel like he wanted to rip it off. Butch studied his profile — the way his stubble caught the afternoon light, the tightness around his eyes. Without thinking, he reached over, covering Barney’s hand where it rested on the gearshift. Barney turned his palm up, intertwining their fingers.
"Your place or mine?" Butch asked quietly.
Barney’s grip tightened. "Yours. I don’t ... I don’t want to be alone today."
Butch brought their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to Barney’s knuckles. "You’re not." He didn’t let go the entire drive home.
The truck idled at a red light, the engine's vibration thrumming through Barney's thigh where it pressed against Butch's. His grip on the steering wheel hadn't loosened since they left the nursing home, his knuckles pale under the fading afternoon light. Butch watched the pulse jump in Barney's throat when he swallowed hard, the tendons standing out like bridge cables.
"You hungry?" Butch asked, because it was easier than naming the weight in the cab.
Barney's laugh was a rough scrape of sound. "Starving, actually." He flexed his fingers on the wheel. "Didn't eat breakfast."
Butch knew why — the way nerves coiled tight before visiting days, how food turned to ash in your mouth when you prepared to be forgotten. He nudged Barney's knee with his own. "There's that Greek place you like off 7th."
Barney glanced at him sideways, something warm flickering beneath the exhaustion in his eyes. "You remember that?"
"Sure." Butch shrugged, pretending not to notice how Barney's shoulders relaxed incrementally. "You inhaled that gyro platter like a man who'd missed real food."
The light changed. Barney's hand found Butch's thigh as he accelerated, his thumb rubbing absent circles through the denim. "Yeah. Okay. Greek sounds good."
The restaurant was half-empty, the scent of roasting lamb and oregano thick in the air. They took a corner booth, Barney automatically scooting in until his shoulder pressed against Butch's. The waitress — a tired-looking woman with a pencil tucked behind her ear — barely glanced at their linked fingers on the Formica tabletop.
Barney ordered for them both, his voice regaining some of its usual depth as he recited their usual dishes. When the waitress left, he exhaled long and slow, his body sinking into Butch's side like a dock line going slack. "Today was ..."
Butch waited. The ice in their water glasses crackled.
"Harder than usual," Barney finished quietly. He picked at a chip in the table's laminate. "She's never called me Dad before."
Butch's chest ached. He covered Barney's hand with his own, calluses catching on knuckles. "She still knew you mattered. Kept asking if someone was being nice to you."
Barney's breath hitched. He turned his palm up, threading their fingers together just as the food arrived — steaming plates of meat and rice, warm pita stacked like fallen dominos. They ate in comfortable silence, Barney's knee bouncing against Butch's under the table until Butch stilled it with a firm hand.
Halfway through his meal, Barney froze mid-bite. "Shit. Your work." He set his fork down with a clatter. "You were supposed to pour that foundation today."
Butch shrugged, tearing off a piece of pita. "Rescheduled."
Barney stared at him. "You ... just like that?"
"Just like that," Butch confirmed, popping the bread in his mouth. The truth was simpler: nothing mattered more than being here right now. Not the job, not the overtime, nothing.
Barney's eyes gleamed suspiciously bright before he ducked his head, attacking his food with renewed vigor. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "I, uh. I switched shifts at the gym this weekend. Thought maybe we could ..."
"Go back to the cove?" Butch supplied.
Barney nodded, his smile small but real. "If you're free."
Butch bumped their shoulders together, knocking Barney off-balance just enough to make him grin. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "I'm free."
The check came. They split it down the middle despite Barney's half-hearted protests, their fingers brushing as they both reached for the receipt. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, painting Barney's profile in gold and shadow as they walked back to the truck.
Butch didn't ask if Barney wanted to stay over again. He just drove them home, his hand resting warm and sure on Barney's knee the whole way. The elevator ride up to his apartment was quiet, Barney leaning heavily against him, smelling of garlic and the faint antiseptic tang that lingered from the nursing home.
At the door, Barney hesitated, his key halfway to the lock. "Butch —"
Butch caught his wrist, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. "Stay," he murmured against Barney's mouth. It wasn't a question.
Barney's exhale shuddered between them. He dropped his keys. "Yeah." His lips found Butch's in the dark hallway, sweet with shared wine and something deeper neither of them named yet. "Okay."
The door clicked shut behind them, and Barney pressed Butch against it immediately, his hands fisting in Butch’s shirt like he needed an anchor. Their kiss was less about passion now and more about reassurance — slow, deep, with a tenderness that made Butch’s chest ache. Barney’s stubble scraped his chin, familiar and grounding, and Butch cupped the back of his neck, holding him there until Barney finally relaxed against him with a shaky sigh.
"Shower?" Butch murmured against his temple.
Barney nodded, but didn’t move, his forehead resting on Butch’s shoulder. Butch let him stay there as long as he needed, fingers tracing idle circles over the tense muscles of Barney’s back. Eventually, Barney straightened, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Shower."
The bathroom was small, steam quickly fogging the mirror as Butch adjusted the water temperature. Barney stripped methodically, folding his clothes with military precision even though they were headed straight for the hamper. Butch watched the way the fluorescent light caught the scars on Barney’s torso — the one below his collarbone from Fallujah, the jagged line along his ribs from a childhood bike accident he’d mentioned over breakfast yesterday.
They stepped under the spray together, Barney’s breath hitching as the hot water hit his shoulders. Butch reached for the soap, working up a lather between his palms before smoothing it over Barney’s back, kneading the tension from his muscles with deliberate pressure. Barney bowed his head, water sluicing down his neck as Butch’s thumbs dug into the knots along his spine.
"You’re good at that," Barney muttered, voice rough.
Butch hummed, rinsing the soap away before turning Barney to face him. He washed him slowly, thoroughly — the broad planes of his chest, the dusting of auburn hair trailing below his navel, the thick muscles of his thighs. Barney let him, his eyes half-lidded, his fingers flexing occasionally at his sides like he wanted to reach out but didn’t trust himself to.
When Butch’s hands slid lower, Barney caught his wrists, his grip firm but not unyielding. "Not tonight," he said quietly. "Just … this is enough."
Butch nodded, squeezing Barney’s hips once before reaching for the shampoo. He worked it into Barney’s short hair, fingertips massaging his scalp until Barney’s shoulders finally lost their rigidity. They rinsed off in silence, the only sound the patter of water against tile and Barney’s steadying breaths.
Toweling off was a quiet affair, Barney taking the second towel from the rack without being asked. Butch caught him staring at the fogged-up mirror, his expression unreadable.
"Hey." Butch hooked a finger under Barney’s chin, tilting his face up. "You with me?"
Barney’s throat worked. "Yeah." He grabbed Butch’s wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Just … thinking."
Butch didn’t push. He led them to the bedroom, where the sheets were still rumpled from this morning. Barney hesitated at the edge of the bed, then crawled in, settling on his side with his back to Butch. Butch flicked off the light and slid in behind him, curling his body around Barney’s, his chest to Barney’s back.
Barney’s hand found Butch’s where it rested on his stomach, intertwining their fingers tightly. "Are you okay?" he asked, even though Butch was already there.
Butch pressed a kiss to the knob of Barney’s spine. "Yeah."
Barney’s grip tightened briefly before he relaxed, his breathing evening out gradually. Outside, the city hummed — cars, distant sirens, the occasional shout — but here, in the dark, with Barney warm and solid in his arms, Butch felt something settle inside him, quiet and sure.
He didn’t know what this was yet, what it meant. But he knew he wasn’t letting go.
The alarm blared at 5:03 AM — Barney's pre-dawn gym time, even on Sundays. Butch felt the mattress shift as Barney rolled over, his palm slapping the nightstand blindly until silence returned. A damp foot hooked over Butch's calf, warm despite the AC humming in the window unit.
"You awake?" Barney's voice was sleep-graveled, his breath mintless against Butch's shoulder.
Butch grunted, dragging Barney closer by the hip. "Not anymore."
Barney laughed quietly, his fingers tracing the surgical scar on Butch's abdomen — the one he'd explained last night over reheated moussaka. Two inches to the left, and he wouldn't be here. The thought made Barney's touch linger, his thumb pressing into the raised tissue like a promise.
Sunrise painted the room in pale gold when Butch finally opened his eyes. Barney stood at the foot of the bed, already dressed in gray sweatpants and a Marines t-shirt stretched tight across his back. He was staring at his phone, shoulders tense in a way Butch recognized.
"Bad news?" Butch rasped, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Barney tossed the phone onto the rumpled sheets. "My mom's nurse. She's asking if we can bring more of those lemon tarts today." His jaw worked. "Apparently Mom told them Frank promised."
Butch sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. The raw hope in Barney's voice — the way his hands clenched and unclenched — made something twist behind Butch's sternum. "We'll stop at that bakery on 9th."
Barney's shoulders relaxed incrementally. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the headboard as he kissed Butch — slow, deep, with a tenderness that still surprised them both. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed the stubble along Butch's jaw. "I'll make coffee."
Butch listened to Barney's bare feet pad down the hallway, the familiar sounds of their morning routine — the grinder's whir, the fridge door thumping shut, Barney's off-key humming as he scooped grounds into the French press. The domesticity of it settled over Butch like a second skin.
By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, Barney was perched on the counter again, swinging one leg absently as steam curled from two mismatched mugs. He'd set out Butch's favorite chipped bowl and the box of generic bran flakes he pretended to hate but always finished.
"You're staring," Barney said without looking up from his coffee.
Butch crowded between his knees, hands settling on Barney's thighs. "I like the view."
Barney snorted but leaned down to kiss him anyway, his fingers tangling in Butch's bed-mussed hair. The coffee burned bitter on his tongue, undercut by the spearmint toothpaste they now shared. When Butch nipped at his lower lip, Barney groaned, his hips jerking forward instinctively.
The toaster popped.
Barney laughed against Butch's mouth, breaking the kiss. "Breakfast first," he murmured, though he made no move to get down. His thumb traced the shell of Butch's ear. "We've got time."
Butch hummed, resting his forehead against Barney's collarbone. The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning: We've got time. Not just for this morning, not just for the nursing home visit looming in the afternoon — but for whatever this was becoming.
Outside, a garbage truck beeped its way down the alley. The coffee machine hissed. Barney's heartbeat thudded steady against Butch's cheek.
Time, indeed.
The bakery on 9th smelled like butter and burnt sugar, the glass cases gleaming under fluorescent lights. Barney stood too close to the display, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against his thigh as the clerk boxed up the lemon tarts. Butch watched the way sunlight caught the gold in Barney’s stubble — how his jaw tightened when the clerk asked, "Anything else for you two?"
"Yeah," Butch said, pointing to a pistachio croissant. "That too."
Barney shot him a questioning look.
"You skipped lunch yesterday," Butch muttered, handing over a crumpled twenty.
Barney’s throat worked. He took the pastry bag without comment, but his fingers brushed Butch’s wrist — brief, deliberate — as they pushed through the door into the midday heat.
The nursing home parking lot was half-empty. Barney killed the engine but didn’t move, staring at the squat brick building through the windshield. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.
Butch reached over, prying Barney’s fingers loose one by one. "Ready?"
Barney exhaled sharply through his nose. "No." Then he shoved the door open, grabbing the pastry box with unnecessary force. At the front desk, he signed them in with quick, slashing letters, his shoulders rigid beneath his thin t-shirt. The elevator ride up was silent, Butch standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off Barney’s body.
Room 307’s door stood ajar. Inside, a tiny woman with flyaway white hair sat by the window, her gnarled hands clutching a photo album. She looked up as they entered, her clouded eyes flickering between them.
"Timothy?" she whispered.
Barney’s smile was a razor-thin thing. "Yeah, Ma. Brought your cookies."
She patted the seat beside her with childlike urgency. Barney sat gingerly, flipping open the pastry box. The scent of lemon filled the room as he lifted a tart to her lips. She took a bite, crumbs dusting her pink cardigan, her gaze drifting to Butch.
"Who’s this?"
Barney stiffened. "My —"
"Frank," Butch supplied, crouching beside her chair. "Remember? You told me to be nice to him."
Her face lit with sudden clarity. She reached up, patting Butch’s cheek with papery fingers. "Good boy."
Barney made a wounded noise in his throat.
They stayed until she dozed off, her head lolling onto Barney’s shoulder. He eased her back into the pillows with surgeon’s care, tucking the photo album under her hands. In the hallway, he sagged against the wall, his breath coming too fast.
Butch crowded him against the cinderblocks, palms flat on either side of Barney’s head. "Breathe," he ordered.
Barney’s fingers dug into Butch’s hips, his forehead dropping to Butch’s shoulder. "Fuck."
Butch held him there until the shaking stopped.
Back at the truck, Barney turned the key with unnecessary force. "Beach. Now."
The cove was deserted, waves slapping against jagged rocks. Barney stripped to his boxers without preamble, wading into the surf until the water hit his thighs. Butch followed, salt spray stinging his sun-warmed skin.
Barney turned suddenly, catching Butch’s wrist. "Why’d you say that? About being Frank?"
Butch shrugged. "Seemed right."
Barney’s grip tightened. His eyes were seawater green, lashes clumped with brine. "She hasn’t known my name in six months."
The waves shoved them together, chest to chest. Butch cradled Barney’s jaw, his thumb wiping away seawater — or maybe tears. "She knew you mattered."
Barney kissed him then, salt and desperation, his fingers twisting in Butch’s waistband. The tide pulled at their ankles as they stumbled back to shore, sand gritting beneath their tangled limbs.
Later, sprawled on the beach towel with Barney’s head heavy on his chest, Butch watched the gulls wheel overhead. Barney’s fingers traced the scar on Butch’s abdomen again — the near-miss — before settling possessively over his heartbeat.
"Stay over again," Butch said. It wasn’t a question.
Barney’s lips curved against his skin. "Yeah."
The sun dipped lower, painting them gold. Somewhere down the beach, a child laughed. Barney’s breathing evened out, his weight a comfortable anchor.
Butch closed his eyes. Time, indeed.
The truck's tires crunched over broken oyster shells as they pulled into Butch's apartment complex. Barney sat slumped in the passenger seat, one hand curled loosely around the empty pastry box in his lap, his eyes distant in the fading afternoon light. Butch killed the engine but didn't move, watching the way Barney's thumb absently traced the bakery's logo — back and forth, back and forth.
"Hungry?" Butch asked finally, nodding toward the taqueria across the street.
Barney blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. "Yeah." His voice was sandpaper rough. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay."
They took the corner booth by the window, the vinyl seats cracked with age. Barney tore at his napkin while they waited for their carne asada plates, the shredded paper accumulating like snow on the Formica tabletop. Butch reached over, stilling Barney's fingers with his own.
"Stop."
Barney exhaled sharply but flipped his hand palm-up, interlacing their fingers. His grip was too tight, but Butch didn't complain. The waitress deposited their plates with a clatter, her gaze flickering to their joined hands before she hurried away.
Barney ate mechanically, his fork scraping against the ceramic. Halfway through his meal, he froze, staring at something past Butch's shoulder. Butch turned to see an elderly couple shuffling toward the register, the man's gnarled hand resting on his wife's elbow with the same careful precision Barney had used earlier.
"Fuck." Barney's fork clattered onto his plate. His knuckles whitened around his water glass. "What if that's us someday? What if I —" He cut himself off, jaw working.
Butch slid out of the booth, dropping enough cash to cover the bill before hauling Barney up by the elbow. "Walk."
The park three blocks over was nearly empty, just a few dog walkers and a tired-looking nanny pushing a stroller. They found an unoccupied bench beneath a sprawling oak, its roots pushing up through the pavement like arthritic fingers. Barney sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked sidewalk between his boots.
Butch nudged his shoulder. "You're spiraling."
Barney's laugh was hollow. "No shit." He scrubbed both hands over his face, the afternoon stubble making a sandpaper sound against his palms. "I keep thinking — what's the point? If she can't even remember my fucking name. If one day I'll be the one staring at some stranger thinking he's ..." His voice cracked.
A breeze stirred the oak leaves above them, dappling sunlight across Barney's hunched shoulders. Butch watched a ladybug navigate the terrain of Barney's knuckles before speaking.
"My dad," Butch said slowly, "used to tell this story about when I was three. How I cried for a week straight because my goldfish died. He could've flushed it, bought a new one — I wouldn't have known." He picked at a splinter on the bench. "Instead, we buried it in a matchbox under the maple tree. Put a popsicle stick cross on top."
Barney turned his head slightly, listening.
"The point is," Butch continued, "I don't remember that fish. Don't remember burying it. But he did." He met Barney's gaze. "Your mom might not know your name today, but she knew it when it counted. Knew you were worth baking those damn cookies for."
Barney's throat worked. He looked away first, blinking rapidly. A squirrel chittered at them from the oak's lowest branch, its tail flicking indignantly.
After a long silence, Barney exhaled through his nose. "You're shit at pep talks, you know that?" But the tension had bled from his shoulders.
Butch smirked. "Yeah, well. You're shit at sharing feelings. We all got flaws."
Barney's answering grin was fleeting but real. He stretched, his shoulder pressing warm against Butch's. The late afternoon light gilded the scar on his forearm — the one he'd never explained. Butch resisted the urge to trace it with his fingers.
"You wanna get out of here?" Barney asked suddenly, nodding toward a rusted swing set in the far corner of the park.
Butch snorted. "You're kidding."
Barney was already walking, tossing a challenging look over his shoulder. "What, scared you'll break it, old man?"
The chains groaned under Butch's weight as he settled onto the too-small seat, his knees comically bent. Barney kicked off beside him, pumping his legs until he arced high enough to make the metal frame shudder. Butch watched the way his shirt rode up with each forward swing, revealing a strip of sun-warmed abdomen, the trail of auburn hair leading downward.
"Christ, you're like a fucking golden retriever," Butch muttered, digging his heels into the dirt to stop his own swing.
Barney jumped off at the apex, landing in a crouch that made his quadriceps bulge impressively. He straightened, brushing wood chips from his knees. "Better than being a grumpy old bulldog."
They walked back toward the apartment as streetlights flickered on, shoulders bumping occasionally. At the crosswalk, Barney hooked two fingers through Butch's belt loop, tugging him closer as a cyclist sped past. The casual possessiveness sent heat curling through Butch's gut.
Their apartment building's stairwell smelled of mildew and takeout. On the third-floor landing, Barney suddenly pinned Butch against the peeling wallpaper, his mouth hot and demanding. Butch gripped his hips, grinding up as Barney's teeth scraped his lower lip.
"Inside," Butch growled when Barney's hand found his zipper.
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