The coffee maker gurgled its last drops into the carafe as Butch leaned against the counter, watching Barney shuffle barefoot across the kitchen tiles. Morning sunlight caught the silver streaks in his auburn stubble, the taut muscles of his back flexing as he stretched to grab two mismatched mugs from the top shelf.
"Left side's chipped," Butch warned as Barney's fingers closed around his favorite Marine Corps mug.
Barney smirked, deliberately choosing the damaged one. "Adds character." He filled it to the brim, black as his combat boots drying by the door.
Butch accepted his own mug, their fingers brushing in the transfer. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable — just the quiet of two men more accustomed to action than conversation before caffeine.
Barney's phone buzzed against the countertop, vibrating against the granite with military urgency. Butch watched the way Barney's shoulders tensed before he glanced at the screen, the way his thumb hovered over the answer button like it might detonate.
"Whitaker," Barney barked into the receiver, his posture straightening instinctively. Butch sipped his coffee, pretending not to notice the way Barney's knuckles whitened around the mug handle.
"Yeah. Understood." A pause. "Negative, sir. Not currently deployment-ready."
The kitchen clock ticked three loud seconds before Barney exhaled through his nose. "Roger that. Whitaker out."
Butch busied himself with the fridge, giving Barney space to process whatever bureaucratic grenade had just been lobbed into their morning. The milk carton shook slightly in his grip.
"They want me back at Pendleton," Barney said to the steam rising from his coffee. "Paperwork glitch — my medical discharge got flagged for review."
Butch set down the creamer with deliberate calm. "How long?"
"Two weeks. Maybe three." Barney finally looked up, his eyes tracking Butch's movements like a sniper scope. "I can fight it."
The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken implications. Butch studied the flecks of scar tissue along Barney's ribs — the shrapnel wounds that had nearly killed him in Fallujah. The wounds that had brought him here, to this kitchen, to this moment.
"You should go," Butch said, forcing his voice steady. He turned back to the coffee pot, pouring himself a refill he didn't want. "Get it sorted."
Barney's mug hit the counter with a sharp crack. "That's it? Just pack up and —"
"You're not packed yet," Butch interrupted. The steam from his coffee blurred his vision as he leaned against the counter. "And it's not forever. Just paperwork."
The lie tasted bitter. They both knew the Marines didn't recall honorably discharged staff sergeants for administrative reviews unless something was wrong. Unless someone had noticed the way Barney's hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking.
Barney exhaled through his nose, military-straight posture collapsing slightly as he braced his palms on the counter. "I don't want to leave." The admission came out rough, like it had been dragged over gravel.
Butch crossed the kitchen in three strides, catching Barney's face between his hands. The stubble scraped his palms, familiar and beloved. "Then come back," he said, thumbs brushing the dark circles under Barney's eyes. "Just as soon as they're done with you."
Barney's breath hitched. His fingers dug into Butch's hips, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. "What if —"
"No." Butch cut him off with a kiss, slow and deep and desperate. "No what-ifs."
The coffee cooled forgotten behind them as Barney pushed him against the refrigerator, his mouth hot and demanding. There was no tenderness now — just the sharp clash of teeth, the desperate press of bodies, as if they could weld themselves together through sheer force.
Clothes hit the linoleum in haphazard piles. Barney's hands mapped Butch's body like a man memorizing a coastline before deployment — the swell of his pecs, the ridge of his hipbones, the thick thatch of hair trailing downward. Butch arched into every touch, committing the calloused drag of fingertips to memory.
They didn't make it to the bedroom. Barney took him right there against the kitchen island, their coupling frantic and raw. No lube beyond spit and precum, no finesse — just the brutal, perfect friction of Barney fucking into him like he could imprint himself permanently beneath Butch's skin.
When they came, it was nearly simultaneous — Barney's bitten-off groan harmonizing with Butch's choked cry, their release painting stripes across Butch's abdomen where Barney's thrusts grew erratic before stilling.
Afterward, they slumped together on the kitchen floor, sweat cooling on their heaving chests. Barney's head dropped onto Butch's shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing. Outside, a mockingbird sang its repetitive song, oblivious to the seismic shift inside.
Butch carded his fingers through Barney's hair, shorter now than when they'd met. "When's your flight?"
Barney's exhale warmed his collarbone. "Tuesday."
Two days. Forty-eight hours. The clock had already started ticking.
Butch pressed his lips to the crown of Barney's head, inhaling the scent of coconut shampoo and gunpowder stubbornness. "Then we'd better make it count."
The suitcase lay open on the bed like a gaping wound. Butch watched from the doorway as Barney folded his shirts with military precision — each crease sharp enough to cut skin, each movement measured to avoid hesitation. Outside, rain pattered against the windowpane, blurring the afternoon light into something mournful.
"You don't have to stare," Barney muttered without looking up. His hands lingered on a faded Marine Corps t-shirt before tucking it into the case.
Butch crossed the room and caught Barney's wrist mid-fold. The pulse beneath his thumb was racing. "Slow down," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the scarred knuckles. "You're acting like this is a prison transfer."
Barney's laugh was hollow. He tugged his hand free to resume packing. "Feels like one."
The closet door creaked as Butch yanked it open. He grabbed a handful of hangers — Barney's spare flannels, his gym shorts, the ridiculous neon tank top he'd worn to that Pride parade last month — and dumped them onto the bed. "Take more. You'll need them."
Barney froze, staring at the pile like it might bite him. "This isn't a vacation, Butch."
"And it's not a fucking funeral either." Butch crowded into Barney's space, gripping his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "You're coming back. End of story."
Barney's jaw worked silently before he exhaled through his nose and pulled Butch into a rough embrace. Their foreheads knocked together, breathing syncing by degrees. Rain drummed harder against the roof.
They spent the evening on the couch, Barney's head in Butch's lap, reruns of some cooking show flickering unwatched on the TV. Butch traced the shell of Barney's ear with blunt fingertips, memorizing the way his lashes fluttered at the touch.
"You never answered," Barney said suddenly, catching Butch's wandering hand. "About moving in. After."
Butch's thumb brushed the inside of Barney's wrist where the skin was thinnest. "I thought that was obvious."
Barney's smile was a fleeting thing — there and gone like sunlight through storm clouds. He turned his face into Butch's thigh, lips pressing against denim. The clock ticked toward midnight.
Later, in the dark, Barney fucked him slow and deep, their bodies moving like they had all the time in the world. When Butch came with Barney's name shuddering through his teeth, Barney kissed the sound from his lips and followed him over the edge.
Morning came too soon. At the airport curb, Barney adjusted his duffle strap with white-knuckled grip. "Three weeks max," he said, like a vow.
Butch hauled him in by his jacket collar and kissed him until boarding announcements drowned out the pounding of his heart. "Don't forget your key," he growled, shoving the spare house key into Barney's palm.
Barney's fingers closed around it like a lifeline. The sliding doors hissed shut behind him, swallowing his broad shoulders whole.
Butch stood there long after the Uber tail lights vanished, rain soaking through his shirt. The key burned in his pocket — its twin already halfway to California in Barney's clenched fist.
The apartment smelled like bleach and loneliness when Butch returned. He tossed his keys onto the counter — no second set jingling beside them now — and stared at the silent coffee maker. The imprint of Barney’s body still dented the couch cushions; his favorite mug sat drying in the rack, chipped edge catching the afternoon light like a broken smile.
His phone buzzed — a photo of Barney mid-eye-roll in some fluorescent-lit military office, captioned Paperwork purgatory. Miss your shitty espresso. Butch’s thumb hovered over the heart react before typing instead: Espresso machine misses your ass. Get back here.
Three dots pulsed. Then: Day 2: They’ve issued me a fucking tie. Send help.
Butch snorted, the sound too loud in the empty kitchen. He opened the fridge — half a lasagna, two beers, and the tub of Rocky Road Barney had left unfinished. The spoon stood upright in the melting mess like a flag planted in conquered territory.
The gym was worse. Every rack, every bench carried ghosts — Barney spotting him on squats, Barney’s auburn hair dark with sweat as he deadlifted with that military-precision form. Butch slammed weights around extra hard, earning concerned looks from the new kid at the front desk.
At night, the bed felt cavernous. Butch sprawled across Barney’s side, face buried in the pillow that still held traces of coconut shampoo. His phone lit up at 1:17 AM — a grainy selfie of Barney in what looked like a barracks bunk, flipping off the camera. They stuck me with rookies. I’m gonna strangle someone with this tie.
Butch typed Wish you were here and deleted it twice before sending: Tie would work better as a gag.
The reply came instantly: Noted for homecoming.
Homecoming. The word curled warm in Butch’s chest.
Day 5 brought silence — no texts, no calls. Butch chewed through three protein bars waiting for his phone to light up. At midnight, he caved and called. Straight to voicemail.
The next morning, a single message: Medical eval took all day. Everything’s fine. The punctuation was too precise, the cadence all wrong. Butch knew bullshit when he heard it.
He sent a photo of Mr. Whiskers, Barney’s grumpy-ass cat he’d been feeding, perched disdainfully on Barney’s pillow. Your child is plotting my murder.
No response.
The phone call came at 3:47 AM. Butch knew the number before the second ring — Pendleton's prefix burned into his memory.
"Whitaker's stable." The voice was bureaucratic, clipped. "Collapsed during PT. They're keeping him for observation."
Butch was already pulling on jeans when the line went dead.
The Uber ride to LAX blurred into security lines and bitter airport coffee. On the plane, Butch clenched his fists against the armrests, staring at the streak of dawn through the window until his vision spotted. The rental car smelled like lemon cleaner and desperation as he sped down I-5.
Barney's hospital room was antiseptic white, his muscular frame diminished under thin sheets. IV lines snaked from his arm. Butch's boots squeaked on linoleum as he approached the bed.
"Told them not to call you," Barney rasped. His pupils were dilated, face pale beneath fading tan lines.
Butch dragged the visitor chair closer, the legs screeching. "Bullshit." He grabbed Barney's hand — too warm, pulse thready under his fingertips. "What happened?"
Barney's throat worked. "Seizure." He avoided Butch's gaze, staring at the cardiac monitor's rhythmic blips. "Turns out Fallujah left more souvenirs than scars."
The CT scan hung on the wall behind them — white spiderwebs of scar tissue branching through Barney's frontal lobe. Butch's grip tightened. "How long have you known?"
Barney exhaled through his nose. "First episode was six months ago." His thumb brushed Butch's knuckles. "Right before we met."
The pieces clicked — the migraines Barney blamed on dehydration, the way he'd sometimes lose thread mid-sentence. Butch remembered holding him through night tremors, attributing it to PTSD.
"They're discharging me," Barney said quietly. "Permanent medical separation."
The words hung between them. Butch studied the tremor in Barney's fingers, the way his proud shoulders curved inward. He reached into his jacket pocket.
"Good." He dropped Barney's spare key onto the bedside tray. "Then you won't need this anymore."
Barney's breath hitched. The key glinted under fluorescent lights, its teeth biting into plastic.
Butch stood abruptly, chair scraping. He yanked the privacy curtain closed with unnecessary force before straddling Barney's hips. Their foreheads knocked together as he gripped the railing.
"You listen good, Marine." Butch's voice cracked. "You're coming home with me. Tomorrow. And you're staying." His thumbs brushed Barney's cheekbones, smearing the wetness there. "No more fucking secrets."
Barney's laugh was half a sob. He fisted Butch's shirt, pulling him down until their lips crashed together — hospital tape catching on stubble, heart monitor beeping wildly.
A nurse cleared her throat outside the curtain. Barney flipped her off over Butch's shoulder without breaking the kiss.
The hospital discharge papers fluttered in Barney's lap as Butch pushed his wheelchair toward the parking lot. California sunlight hit Barney's face like a slap — too bright after days of fluorescent hell. He squinted up at Butch. "I can walk, you know."
Butch didn't slow his pace. "Hospital policy." The wheels hit a crack in the pavement; Barney's grip tightened on the armrests. "And I saw your gait assessment. You walk like a newborn giraffe."
Barney's middle finger jabbed upward. Butch caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to the scarred knuckles before releasing him. The rental car door screeched when he yanked it open. "In you go, princess."
Barney's attempt to stand lasted three seconds before his knees buckled. Butch caught him under the arms — all 190 pounds of muscle trembling like a sapling in a storm — and deposited him gently onto the seat. Their foreheads touched briefly as Butch fastened the seatbelt across Barney's lap. The antiseptic hospital scent clung to his skin, masking his usual coconut and gunpowder.
"You smell like a fucking nursing home," Butch muttered, straightening up.
Barney's grin was weak but genuine. "Miss my musk, old man?"
Butch slammed the door harder than necessary.
The highway stretched before them, endless asphalt shimmering in the heat. Barney slumped against the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass. Butch kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Barney's thigh — a silent anchor. Every mile marker felt like a small victory.
"You should've told me," Butch said when the silence grew teeth.
Barney's fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against his knee. "Would it have changed anything?"
The steering wheel creaked under Butch's grip. "No." The word came out raw. "But I could've been prepared when you —" His throat closed around the memory: Barney's seizure in the gym showers, his body convulsing against wet tile as Butch frantically cushioned his head.
Barney's hand covered his on the gearshift. "Next time —"
"There won't be a next time." Butch merged lanes too aggressively. A horn blared. "You're getting that laser ablation surgery. End of story."
Barney studied the passing billboards, his profile stark against the passenger window. "What if it doesn't work?" The question hung between them, fragile as a soap bubble.
Butch took the next exit without signaling. The tires crunched onto gravel as he pulled into an abandoned rest stop. Dust swirled around the car when he killed the engine. He turned fully to face Barney, gripping his chin to force eye contact. "Then we deal with it. Together." His thumb brushed the stubble along Barney's jaw. "But you don't get to make martyr decisions for both of us."
Barney's exhale shuddered through him. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, their shared breath hot between them. "Okay," he murmured. Just that — no sarcasm, no deflection. Butch felt the word more than heard it.
They stayed like that until the car's interior grew stifling. Butch restarted the engine with a jerk of his wrist. "Hungry?"
Barney's smirk returned, faint but familiar. "If you're offering —"
"Burger joint up ahead." Butch cut him off, rolling his eyes. "Keep your dick in your pants, Whitaker."
The diner was all cracked vinyl and faded neon. Barney swayed slightly when he stood, gripping the car door for balance. Butch slid an arm around his waist without comment, taking his weight as they navigated the parking lot. The hostess eyed Barney's pallor but said nothing when Butch growled, "Booth. Back corner."
Their knees knocked together under the Formica table. Barney stared at the menu like it was written in Cyrillic. Butch ordered for them both — double patties, extra bacon, chocolate shake — the way he'd memorized Barney's preferences months ago.
When the food came, Barney managed three bites before pushing his plate away. Butch didn't comment, just stole a fry from his tray. The shake straw made a wet sound when Barney sucked on it absently.
"Home by tonight," Butch said, watching a bead of condensation slide down the glass. "Your cat's probably pissed I forgot his fancy wet food."
Barney's lips quirked. "He'll shit in your shoes."
"Already did." Butch wiped ketchup from Barney's thumb with a napkin. "Left ones only. Little bastard's got aim."
The laugh that escaped Barney was startled out of him, bright and sudden. Butch stored the sound away like a treasure, watching as some color returned to Barney's face. Outside, the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the diner windows gold.
Barney's fingers drummed the tabletop — a nervous habit Butch had come to recognize. "What if..." He stopped, swallowed hard. "What if I can't train clients anymore? If the seizures—"
"Then you'll bench press paperwork at my gym's front desk." Butch stole another fry, crunching it pointedly. "Or hell, take up knitting. I hear it's great for hand strength."
Barney's middle finger jabbed across the table. The gesture was so familiar it ached. Butch caught his wrist, turning it palm-up to trace the raised scar along the lifeline — shrapnel from a story Barney still hadn't told him fully. Their hands stayed linked as the check came.
Back on the highway, Barney dozed against the window, his breathing deepening into something peaceful for the first time in days. Butch kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Barney's thigh, thumb rubbing absent circles through denim. The road hummed beneath them, a lullaby of asphalt and engine noise.
They crossed the county line as streetlights flickered to life. Barney stirred when Butch took the exit too fast, blinking owlishly at the familiar streets. "Almost home," Butch murmured, and felt more than saw Barney's nod.
The apartment welcomed them with stale air and Mr. Whiskers' indignant yowl. Barney's gym bag slumped by the door where he'd dropped it a lifetime ago. Butch guided him to the couch, ignoring Barney's muttered protests about being coddled.
"Shut up and take your meds." Butch pressed a glass of water into his hands along with the little white pills the hospital had dispensed. Barney downed them with a grimace, his Adam's apple bobbing.
The shower ran hot behind them as Butch stripped Barney methodically — shirt, jeans, boxers — each layer revealing more of the man beneath the hospital stink. Barney's ribs stood out sharper than Butch remembered, his muscles slack with exhaustion. The scars mapping his torso told silent stories Butch was still learning to read.
Steam curled around them as the water sluiced away days of antiseptic and sweat. Butch soaped Barney's back with careful hands, feeling each vertebrae beneath his fingertips. Barney leaned into the touch, his forehead pressed to the tiles. "Missed this," he mumbled, voice thick with fatigue.
Butch rinsed shampoo from Barney's auburn hair, shorter now than when they'd met but still soft between his fingers. "Missed you," he admitted into the spray, the words nearly lost under the water's hiss.
They emerged pink-skinned and dripping, towels slung low on hips. Mr. Whiskers deigned to rub against Barney's ankles before stalking off, his point made. Butch herded Barney toward the bedroom, where clean sheets waited.
Barney collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, his body sinking into familiar contours. Butch climbed in beside him, pulling Barney against his chest — skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. Barney's sigh ghosted across his collarbones.
"We'll figure it out," Butch promised into the dark, his lips brushing Barney's damp hair. The words weren't just about meds or seizures or uncertain futures. They were about this — the weight of Barney in his arms, the way their legs tangled instinctively, the unspoken vow thrumming between them.
Barney's breathing evened out, his fingers lax against Butch's sternum. Outside, a car alarm wailed briefly before cutting off. The city hummed on, indifferent to their small, fierce love. Butch tightened his hold, listening to Barney's steady exhales, and let sleep claim them both.
The morning light filtered through the blinds in uneven stripes, painting Barney’s sleeping face gold and shadow. Butch watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes flickered with some dream. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet — Butch had silenced it hours ago, unwilling to fracture this fragile peace.
A soft knock at the door startled him. Mr. Whiskers leapt onto the bed with a disgruntled mrrp, his tail twitching as he stomped across Barney’s legs.
"Come in," Butch called softly, careful not to wake Barney.
The door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Alvarez from downstairs holding a steaming casserole dish. "Thought you boys could use some breakfast," she whispered, her sharp eyes darting to Barney’s sleeping form. "How’s he doing?"
Butch took the dish with a nod of thanks. The scent of chorizo and eggs rose between them. "Better," he murmured, though the word tasted uncertain on his tongue.
Barney stirred behind him, his voice rough with sleep. "Is that —?"
Mrs. Alvarez beamed. "Your favorite, mijo." She bustled over to pat Barney’s cheek, her gold bracelets clinking. "Eat every bite. You’re too skinny now."
Barney’s laugh was weak but genuine as he struggled upright against the pillows. "Yes, ma’am."
She lingered in the doorway, her gaze shifting between them. "You call if you need anything, eh?" Her meaning was clear — no pride, no hesitation. Just ask.
The door clicked shut behind her. Barney exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Think she knows about the seizures?"
Butch snorted, spooning a heap of eggs onto a plate. "She probably knew before we did." He passed the food to Barney, watching as he picked at it with unsteady hands. "Eat. Doctor’s orders."
Barney rolled his eyes but obeyed, his movements slow and deliberate. The sunlight caught the silver strands in his auburn hair — new, Butch realized with a pang. He reached out, tucking a loose strand behind Barney’s ear. "Gray looks good on you."
Barney caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to Butch’s palm before releasing him. "Bullshit. Makes me look old." But his eyes crinkled at the corners, softening the words.
The eggs disappeared bite by bite as morning traffic noise filtered through the windows. Butch watched Barney’s fingers — still broad and calloused, but less sure than they’d been two months ago. A tremor lingered in his left pinky, faint as a moth’s wing.
"You got that neurosurgery consult today," Butch said casually, swiping toast through chorizo grease.
Barney’s fork clinked against the plate. "I canceled it."
The air thickened between them. Butch set his jaw. "Why?"
"Because I’m not letting some prick with a laser scalp —"
"Butch?" Mrs. Alvarez’s voice cut through the tension as the front door creaked open again. "Forgot the salsa verde!"
Barney’s shoulders slumped in relief at the interruption. Butch forced a grin as she bustled in, her floral apron fluttering.
She froze mid-step, her sharp eyes darting between them. "Ah." The salsa jar thunked onto the nightstand. "Men." With that, she turned on her heel and left, the door snapping shut like punctuation.
Barney exhaled through his nose. "I’ll reschedule."
Butch caught his chin, forcing eye contact. "Today."
A muscle jumped in Barney’s jaw. Their stare-down lasted three breaths before Barney nodded curtly. Butch released him, reaching for his phone.
The shower ran while Butch made the call. He listened to the neurosurgeon’s receptionist rattle off dates, watching droplets trail down Barney’s spine through the bathroom door left ajar. The steam carried hints of coconut shampoo — the stubborn bastard still refused to switch to something less pungent.
"Next Thursday work?" Butch called over the water.
Barney’s pause stretched just a heartbeat too long. "Yeah."
The lie tasted bitter. Butch ended the call and padded to the bathroom doorway. Barney stood motionless under the spray, his forehead pressed to the tiles. Water sluiced over the scarred ridge of his iliac crest — the one he’d claimed was from a barbell mishap, though the shape screamed shrapnel.
Butch stripped silently and stepped into the shower. Barney didn’t turn, but his back met Butch’s chest as arms slid around his waist. They stood like that, letting the water scald them both pink.
"You’re a shitty liar," Butch murmured into Barney’s wet shoulder.
Barney’s hands covered his, their interlaced fingers pressed against his abdomen. "I’m scared," he admitted, so quiet the water nearly drowned it.
The confession lodged like a stone in Butch’s throat. He turned Barney gently, cupping his face. Water dripped from Barney’s lashes as Butch thumbed the hollows under his eyes. "Me too."
Their kiss tasted of chlorine and vulnerability. Barney’s hands fisted in Butch’s hair, pulling just shy of pain. When they broke apart, Butch pressed their foreheads together. "Thursday," he repeated. "Together."
Barney nodded, his breath shuddering. The water cooled around them, but neither moved to turn it off. Outside, Mr. Whiskers yowled indignantly at his empty food bowl — a mundane anchor in the storm.
Butch reached past Barney to shut off the faucet. Dripping wet, they stood in the sudden silence, foreheads still touching. Barney’s pulse fluttered under Butch’s palm where it rested against his neck.
"Breakfast first," Butch said at last. "Then we call the damn surgeon."
Barney’s chuckle was rough but real. "Bossy bastard."
"Yeah." Butch grabbed a towel, tossing it at Barney’s head. "Yours."
The towel muffled Barney’s laugh, but his eyes — clear and present — said everything they couldn’t yet voice aloud.
The shower tiles were still damp when Barney emerged, towel slung low on his hips, water beading along the scar that jagged across his ribs like a lightning strike. Butch watched him from the kitchenette where he was burning scrambled eggs — deliberately, because Barney insisted they tasted better that way — and tried not to stare at the tremor in Barney’s left hand as he reached for his toothbrush.
"You called him," Barney said around a mouthful of paste, not a question.
Butch scraped the pan harder than necessary. "Someone had to."
Barney spat into the sink, then braced both palms against the porcelain. His reflection in the mirror was pale under the fluorescents. "What’d he say?"
"That you’re a stubborn asshole." Butch dumped the eggs onto toast — charred, just how Barney liked them — and slid the plate across the counter. "And that your temporal lobe looks like Swiss cheese."
Barney’s laugh was short, humorless. He picked up a fork, fingers curling tight around the handle. "So what’s the play?"
Butch leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Laser ablation. They go in, fry the misfiring tissue. Recovery’s a bitch, but —"
"Seizure-free." Barney stabbed at the eggs. "If it works."
"If it works," Butch echoed. He didn’t mention the risks — the memory loss, the speech impairment, the way Barney might wake up not knowing his own name. The neurosurgeon’s clinical detachment had made it worse. Possible personality changes, he’d said, like that wasn’t the thing that kept Butch awake at three AM, knuckles white around the sheets.
Barney chewed methodically, his gaze fixed on the fire escape outside the window where a pigeon was fighting its own reflection. "When?"
"Thursday. Seven AM." Butch reached over, thumb swiping a crumb from Barney’s stubbled chin. "I’ll be there."
Barney’s fork clattered onto the plate. He caught Butch’s wrist, grip stronger than it had been in weeks. "What if I don’t come back the same?"
The question hung between them, raw as an open wound. Butch turned his hand palm-up, lacing their fingers together. "Then I’ll learn you all over again."
Barney’s breath hitched. He stood abruptly, chair screeching, and hauled Butch in by the waistband. Their kiss tasted of burnt toast and desperation, Barney’s hands fisting in Butch’s shirt like a lifeline.
Mr. Whiskers yowled, darting between their ankles as Barney backed Butch against the fridge. The magnets clattered to the floor — a souvenir from Coney Island, a takeout menu, the stupid "World’s Best Grandpa" one Barney had stolen from a diner just to piss Butch off.
"You’re stuck with me," Barney growled against his lips, "even if I wake up thinking I’m the fucking Pope."
Butch laughed into his mouth, hands spanning Barney’s ribs where the scars dipped beneath his waistband. "Deal. But I’m not calling you Your Holiness."
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