The hospital gown made Barney look like a pissed-off ghost. He glowered at the IV in his arm like it had personally offended him.
"Nervous?" Butch asked, thumb rubbing circles on Barney’s ankle where it peeked from the scratchy blanket.
Barney flexed his toes — left foot, then right — a tic Butch recognized from pre-mission jitters. "They’re shaving my head."
Butch snorted. "Bastards."
The neurosurgeon bustled in, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Whitaker, we’ll be —"
"Barney."
"— right on schedule." The surgeon blinked. "Any final questions?"
Barney’s fingers found Butch’s, squeezing once. "Do I get to keep the bone flap?"
The surgeon sighed. "No."
The OR doors swallowed him whole.
Hours dripped by in the waiting room. Butch wore a path in the linoleum, ignoring the sympathetic looks from nurses. His phone buzzed — Mrs. Alvarez: Made tamales. Tell the idiot no heavy lifting.
The surgeon emerged at 3:17 PM, mask dangling. "Successful ablation. He’s asking for you."
Barney’s head was wrapped in gauze, his eyes bleary with drugs. His grin was lopsided. "Hey, princess."
Butch’s knees nearly buckled. He caught Barney’s hand — the left one, steady now — and pressed it to his stubbled cheek. "Did you miss me?"
Barney’s thumb traced his cheekbone. "I always do."
The nurse cleared her throat. "Visiting hours end at —"
"Try me," Butch said without looking.
She didn’t.
The antiseptic smell clung to Barney's skin even after three showers. Butch pressed his nose to the freshly shaved strip above Barney's left ear where the surgeons had burrowed in, inhaling the lingering scent of hospital soap beneath the coconut shampoo. "You stink like a fucking nursing home," he muttered against the tender skin.
Barney's chuckle vibrated through Butch's chest where they lay tangled on the couch. "I missed you too, princess." His fingers traced idle patterns along Butch's hipbone where his shirt had ridden up, the touch lighter than before the surgery but no less sure. The tremor was gone.
Butch caught Barney's wandering hand, pressing a kiss to each knuckle — the same calluses, the same scars, but the skin smelled different now. Sterile. Temporary. "Think you can manage a walk to the bodega? Mrs. Alvarez wants her casserole dish back."
Barney's nose wrinkled. "Did she send more tamales?"
"Three dozen. And a rosary." Butch nodded toward the kitchen counter where the beads lay coiled next to a stack of foil-wrapped packets. "Said you needed divine intervention."
The laugh burst out of Barney before he could stop it, sharp and bright in the quiet apartment. Mr. Whiskers startled from his nap on the windowsill, shooting them a baleful glare before stalking off. Barney winced, rubbing at his fresh scar. "Fuck, that hurts."
Butch's thumb replaced Barney's fingers, massaging the tender area with careful pressure. "No more skull jokes until your bone flap knits." His other hand slid under Barney's shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of his back. The familiar ridges of scar tissue greeted his fingertips like an old friend. "Walk or no walk?"
Barney stretched gingerly, testing his limits. The afternoon sunlight caught the silver threading through his auburn stubble, the surgical shearing having revealed more gray than Butch remembered. "I'll race you to the corner."
"Asshole." Butch stood, hauling Barney up with him. Their bodies aligned automatically — chest to chest, thigh to thigh — a fit honed through countless mornings and emergencies. Barney's breath hitched when Butch's arms tightened around him, but he didn't pull away.
The street greeted them with late September heat and the distant wail of sirens. Barney's fingers laced through Butch's as they navigated the cracked sidewalks, his grip stronger than it had been in months. "Think they'll let me back in the gym soon?" Barney asked, nudging a bottle cap with his sneaker.
Butch eyed the way Barney's shoulders filled out his old Marines t-shirt — thinner now, but still broad. "Next week. Light weights only." He squeezed Barney's hand. "And I'm spotting you."
Barney's smirk was pure trouble. "Is that a promise or a threat?"
The bodega's bell jingled their arrival. Old man Petrovich squinted at them from behind the counter, his cigarette bobbing. "You! Frankenstein!" He jabbed the cigarette at Barney's bandage. "No more seizures in my store, eh?"
Barney flipped him off with a grin, grabbing a six-pack of Coke Zero. Butch tossed a bag of pretzels on the counter — the soft kind Barney could manage with his healing jaw. Petrovich rang them up with a grunt, sliding the items into a paper bag stained with grease.
"Your Russian is shit," Butch told him as they left, the door swinging shut behind them.
Barney's shoulder bumped his. "Says the guy who ordered tamales in sign language." He cracked open a soda, taking a careful sip. The sunlight caught the scar on his throat when he swallowed — the one from Fallujah that he still refused to talk about.
They detoured through the park, where pigeons scattered at their approach. Barney paused by a bench, his breathing slightly labored. Butch pretended not to notice, leaning against the backrest while Barney caught his breath. A kid on a skateboard whizzed past, his wheels clattering over the pavement.
"You good?" Butch asked when the color returned to Barney's face.
Barney's fingers found Butch's wrist, pressing against the pulse point there. "Better." His thumb rubbed circles over Butch's tattoo — the barbell with "PR" beneath it, inked after his first powerlifting meet. The touch lingered, warm and sure. "Home?"
Butch nodded, squeezing Barney's hand once before releasing it. The walk back was slower, their shoulders brushing with each step. Mr. Whiskers greeted them at the door with a yowl, weaving between Barney's ankles until he scooped the cat up one-handed, earning a rumbling purr.
The tamales were still warm. Butch watched Barney devour two, his movements slow but steady, the careful chewing of a man relearning his own strength. The rosary beads glinted in the late afternoon light where Barney had tossed them onto the coffee table — next to the half-finished arm-wrestling tournament application they’d started filling out weeks ago.
"Think Petrovich would let us use his back room for training?" Barney mused, licking chili grease from his thumb. His voice was clearer now, the post-surgery slur nearly gone.
Butch snorted, stealing a bite of Barney’s third tamale just to get his fingers swatted away. "Only if you promise not to seize on his linoleum again."
Barney’s laughter was sharp, unexpected — a sound Butch hadn’t realized he’d missed until it punched the air between them. He reached out on instinct, his palm settling against the back of Barney’s neck, fingers brushing the freshly shorn hair above his bandages. Barney stilled at the touch, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Barney turned his head and pressed a kiss to Butch’s wrist. "Stop worrying," he murmured against the pulse point there. "I’m not glass."
Butch’s thumb traced the shell of Barney’s ear — newly exposed by the surgical buzz cut, pink and vulnerable. "Could’ve fooled me," he muttered, but he let his hand drop when Barney stood, stretching with a groan that showcased every scar and every surviving muscle.
The tournament application taunted them from the table. Barney picked it up, his grip steady, and studied it with a critical eye. "We could still make the fall qualifiers," he said, more to himself than to Butch.
Butch watched the way Barney’s shoulders flexed beneath his thin t-shirt, the way his spine straightened — not quite the military posture of before, but something looser, more earned. He reached out and hooked a finger in Barney’s belt loop, tugging him back down onto the couch. "Qualifiers can wait," he said, his voice rough with something he couldn’t name.
Barney went willingly, his body folding into Butch’s with the ease of long practice. His head landed heavy on Butch’s shoulder, his breath warm through the fabric of Butch’s shirt. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice muffled against Butch’s collarbone. "They can wait."
Outside, the city hummed on — taxis honked, a siren wailed in the distance, someone’s TV blared through the open window across the air shaft. But here, on their battered couch with tamale wrappers scattered around them and a rosary glinting in the fading light, none of it mattered.
Barney’s fingers found Butch’s, threading them together with a quiet certainty. Butch squeezed back, his thumb rubbing circles over Barney’s knuckles. No words were needed. The quiet between them said everything.
*****
The arm wrestling tournament flier curled at the edges where Barney had pinned it to the fridge with a souvenir magnet from Atlantic City. Butch traced the embossed lettering with his thumb, the paper crinkling under his touch. "Two weeks," he muttered, counting the days backward from Barney's latest neurosurgery follow-up.
Barney's reflection appeared behind him in the stainless steel, freshly showered and grinning. "Doc cleared me for light training yesterday." He pressed close, his damp chest molding against Butch's back, hands sliding around to splay across Butch's abdomen. "Feel that grip strength?"
Butch snorted, elbowing him away. "Feels like a goddamn toddler trying to open a jar." But he didn't resist when Barney maneuvered him against the counter, calloused palms skating up his ribs.
Their first training session was a disaster. Barney overcompensated with his left arm, sending a water bottle flying across the gym when his right unexpectedly gave out. The crash echoed through the empty weight room. Butch watched Barney stare at his trembling hand like it had betrayed him.
"Again," Barney growled, resetting his stance.
Butch caught his wrist before he could grip the practice dummy. "Not like that." He turned Barney's palm upward, exposing the thin scar running from wrist to elbow. "You're fighting the angle." He guided Barney's fingers into the proper position, their calluses catching against each other. "Let the leverage do the work."
Barney's exhale ruffled Butch's hair. "Since when did you become a grip coach?"
"Since my dumbass partner forgot how his own joints work." Butch knocked their foreheads together lightly, careful of Barney's healing scars.
By week's end, Barney could hold sixty percent of his former max. Butch spotted him through every rep, their shared sweat pooling on the bench beneath them.
The night before the tournament, Barney paced their bedroom like a caged animal. Butch watched from the bed as Barney flexed his right hand compulsively, the tendons standing out like cables beneath his skin.
"Come here." Butch caught him by the hips as Barney passed, dragging him onto the mattress. He pinned Barney's wrists to the sheets, leaning down to kiss the tension from his jaw. "You're ready."
Barney's throat worked under Butch's lips. "What if I —"
"You won't." Butch bit gently at his collarbone. "And if you do, I'll carry your ass home."
The venue smelled like stale beer and liniment. Competitors clustered around plywood tables, their biceps glistening under fluorescent lights. Barney's knee bounced under their assigned table, his tournament number ("48") fluttering with each nervous tremor.
Butch caught his chin, forcing eye contact. "Look at me." He waited until Barney's breathing evened out. "We do this together or not at all."
Barney's first match lasted eleven seconds. The crowd roared as he slammed his opponent's hand down, his biceps flexing under the Semper Fi tattoo. Butch's own victories came slower, methodical — wearing down each adversary with steady pressure rather than Barney's explosive power.
They met in the semifinals. The MC's microphone screeched as he announced the matchup: "Number 48 versus number 36 — household division!"
Barney's grin was all teeth as they locked hands. His thumb brushed Butch's pulse point — a silent promise. The referee's hand came down.
Muscles corded. Tremors spread through the table. Butch watched a bead of sweat trail down Barney's temple as their grips held equal, neither yielding. The crowd's noise faded to white static.
Barney's eyes flickered — not with seizure warning signs, but something warmer. His fingers slackened minutely, surrendering. Butch countered by easing his own pressure, maintaining perfect equilibrium.
The referee frowned at their unmoving arms. "You boys planning to finish tonight?"
Barney laughed first, the sound bright and unguarded. Butch followed, their foreheads meeting above their clasped hands as the confused crowd murmured.
"Draw," Butch called, never breaking Barney's gaze.
Their forfeit meant third place — a shared trophy and enough prize money for tacos on the way home. Barney balanced the cheap plastic cup on his thigh in the taxi, his right hand steady around Butch's left.
"You threw that match," Butch accused as they climbed their apartment stairs.
Barney's shoulder bumped his. "Prove it."
The argument continued through the doorway, over the squeak of their mattress springs, beneath the slap of skin on skin. Later, when Barney's breathing evened out in sleep, Butch pressed his lips to the surgical scar above his ear —
The trophy gathered dust on the dresser, wedged between a framed photo of Barney in dress blues and Mr. Whiskers' ceramic food bowl. Butch traced its plastic contours one morning while Barney snored behind him, the sheets tangled around his waist. Sunlight caught the silvery scar above Barney's ear — still pink at the edges, but healing.
"You're staring," Barney mumbled into his pillow without opening his eyes.
"Admiring my handiwork," Butch lied, pressing a thumb to the scar's raised ridge. Barney's hand shot out, grabbing Butch's wrist with reflexes honed in Fallujah ERs.
"You wish." Barney yanked him down, rolling them both until Butch was pinned beneath him, their morning wood aligned through thin boxer fabric. The move should've been effortless — Barney's old party trick — but Butch felt the tremor in his thighs, the way his breath hitched with the strain.
Barney's grin faltered for half a second before he buried it against Butch's throat. "Still got you," he muttered into sweat-damp skin.
The gym smelled of ammonia and stale protein farts when they arrived for their usual Thursday session. Barney headed straight for the grip trainers — his new obsession since the tournament — while Butch loaded plates onto the squat rack. He watched Barney's reflection in the mirror: the careful way he tested each finger's flexion before gripping, the military precision of his setup.
"You gonna spot me or just eye-fuck my delts?" Barney called over his shoulder.
Butch tossed his towel at Barney's head. "Delts need work."
Their routine had shifted post-surgery — fewer max lifts, more controlled reps. Barney swore louder with each set, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls. By the third circuit, his right arm shook visibly during bicep curls.
"Drop the weight," Butch ordered, stepping in.
Barney's jaw clenched. "I can —"
"You'll blow out your tendon." Butch pried the dumbbell from his grip, replacing it with a lighter one. "Try again."
Barney's glare could've melted steel, but he took the damn weight.
Shower steam curled around them afterward, obscuring the fresh scar tissue webbing Barney's scalp. Butch soaped up Barney's back, fingers skating over vertebrae as Barney braced against the tile.
"Petrovich asked about you," Butch said, working shampoo into Barney's buzzcut.
Barney snorted. "Still mad about his floor?"
"Said his nephew's opening a boxing gym. Wants us to train there." Butch rinsed suds from Barney's hair, watching the water sluice over his shoulders. "Told him you'd probably break their heavy bag."
Barney turned suddenly, catching Butch's waist under the spray. Water dripped from his lashes onto Butch's collarbones. "You signing us up for more stupid competitions?"
Butch thumbed droplets from Barney's cheekbones. "Only if you ask nice."
Barney's mouth crashed into his, all chlorine and spearmint toothpaste. The kiss tasted like home — like stolen diner menus and tamale grease and the metallic tang of hospital panic. Butch bit Barney's lower lip just to hear him growl, the sound vibrating through both their chests.
They toweled off in silence, dressing with the easy rhythm of shared years. Barney paused by the door, keys jangling in his palm.
"Breakfast?" he asked, nodding toward the diner across the street.
Butch grabbed his elbow, steering him toward the car instead. "Mrs. Alvarez left tamales."
Barney's grin flashed bright in the morning light. "Lead the way, princess."
The city blurred past — honking cabs, screeching trains, the endless pulse of survival. Butch kept one hand on the wheel, the other on Barney's thigh, his thumb tracing the seam of Barney's cargo pants. Somewhere ahead, their apartment waited: Mr. Whiskers yowling for breakfast, the half-filled tournament application still on the fridge, their bed still rumpled from this morning's tussle.
Barney's fingers laced through his at a red light. No words needed. The quiet between them said everything.
The tamales were cold by the time they got home, but Barney wolfed his down anyway, licking chili grease off his fingers with the same enthusiasm he'd shown for everything since the surgery — like each bite might be his last. Butch watched him from across the kitchen table, the morning paper spread between them, their knees bumping occasionally beneath the chipped laminate.
"Stop staring," Barney muttered around a mouthful of masa.
Butch flicked a corn husk at him. "Stop chewing like a damn woodchipper."
Barney flipped him off, but there was no heat in it. His right hand — the one that had trembled for weeks after the craniotomy — moved steadily now as he reached for his coffee. The mug was chipped, a souvenir from some long-forgotten arm-wrestling tournament in Reno, but Barney insisted it was his lucky charm.
Mr. Whiskers leapt onto the table with a disgruntled meow, knocking over the saltshaker. Barney scratched behind the cat's ears absently, his other hand turning the sports section to check the upcoming events.
"There's a strongman competition next month," he said casually, like he wasn't gauging Butch's reaction.
Butch snorted. "You can barely lift groceries."
Barney's grin was sharp. "I lifted you yesterday."
"That was foreplay."
"And?"
The paper crumpled between them as Butch leaned across the table, catching Barney's chin in his hand. The stubble under his fingers was coarse, familiar. "You're pushing too hard."
Barney didn't pull away. His exhale warmed Butch's wrist. "Gotta catch up."
"You're not behind."
"I feel behind."
The confession hung between them, raw as the fresh scar hidden beneath Barney's buzzcut. Butch knew better than to coddle him — Barney would just double down out of spite — but he also knew the difference between Barney's usual stubbornness and the reckless desperation that came with feeling broken.
Butch released him with a sigh. "Fine. Strongman comp." He reached for Barney's discarded tamale wrapper, folding it into a precise square. "But I'm spotting you. And we're training smart."
Barney's knee knocked against his under the table — a silent thank you.
They spent the afternoon rearranging the living room furniture to make space for grip training, shifting the coffee table so Barney could practice farmer's carries with their heaviest dumbbells. Mr. Whiskers supervised from the couch, his tail flicking in disapproval every time the weights clanked.
"You're gonna piss off Mrs. Alvarez," Butch warned as Barney heaved the dumbbells again, his biceps straining.
Barney shot him a wicked grin. "She likes me."
"Because you fixed her AC unit, dumbass."
Barney dropped the weights with a grunt, shaking out his arms. Sweat darkened the neckline of his shirt, clinging to the hollow of his throat. "Speaking of which —"
Butch groaned. "No more handyman favors."
"I promised her I'd look at her sink."
"You promised the VA you'd rest."
Barney shrugged, already heading for the toolbox they kept by the door. "This is resting."
Butch watched him rummage through the wrenches, the way his fingers lingered over the hammer's handle like it was an old friend. He'd lost count of how many times Barney had fixed things for their neighbors — leaky faucets, stuck windows, the occasional busted lock. It was his version of physical therapy, Butch knew. Proof that his hands still worked, still mattered.
The toolbox snapped shut with a metallic clang. Barney straightened, tossing a screwdriver from hand to hand. "Coming?"
Butch sighed, grabbing his keys. "You're buying lunch after."
Barney's laughter followed him out the door, loud and unguarded, bouncing off the stairwell walls as they descended into the humid afternoon. The city stretched before them — noisy, relentless, alive — and for the first time in months, Butch didn't feel like he had to watch Barney's every step.
Mrs. Alvarez's sink awaited. Beyond that, the strongman competition and whatever came after.
But here, now, with Barney's shoulder brushing his as they crossed the sunbaked pavement, none of it mattered.
The pipes under Mrs. Alvarez's sink groaned like a dying animal when Barney twisted the wrench. Rusty water splattered across his forearms, mixing with sweat as he cursed under his breath. Butch leaned against the avocado-green refrigerator, arms crossed, watching the muscles in Barney's back flex through his grease-stained tank top.
"Told you it was the U-joint," Butch said, kicking a spare washer toward Barney's knee.
Barney shot him a glare over his shoulder. His right hand — the one that still twitched sometimes when he was exhausted — gripped the wrench with white-knuckled determination. "You're real helpful standing there looking pretty."
Mrs. Alvarez hovered by the stove, wringing her hands in a dish towel embroidered with chile peppers. "Is bad?"
"Nah," Barney grunted, elbow-deep in the cabinet now. His bicep strained as he yanked the corroded fitting free. "Just needs —" A metallic snap cut him off. The broken pipe dripped ominously onto his boot.
Silence.
Then Barney's shoulders started shaking. Butch tensed, ready to intervene, until he realized Barney was laughing, low and breathless, his forehead pressed against the cabinet door.
Mrs. Alvarez looked horrified.
Butch crouched beside him, nudging Barney's knee with his own. "Gonna cry, princess?"
Barney lifted his head, his grin wild under the streak of pipe gunk smeared across his cheekbone. "Fuck you. This is your fault."
"How?"
"You distracted me." Barney flicked a glob of plumber's putty at Butch's chest. It stuck to his shirt with a wet splat.
Mrs. Alvarez sighed loudly and shuffled toward the living room. "I make coffee. You boys fix my kitchen, or I tell landlord you break more."
The moment her footsteps faded, Barney grabbed Butch by the collar and hauled him into a filthy, grinning kiss. His mouth tasted like copper and stale coffee, his hands rough against Butch's jaw. Butch bit Barney's lower lip in retaliation, feeling the shudder it drew from him.
"Focus," Butch muttered when they broke apart, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Barney's eyes glittered with mischief. He palmed the wrench again. "Make me."
They got the sink working by sundown, though not without collateral damage — Barney's knuckles were scraped raw, and Butch's favorite shirt was now permanently streaked with industrial-strength cleaner. Mrs. Alvarez paid them in tamales and a twenty-dollar bill Barney tried to refuse until she threatened to revoke their hallway gossip privileges.
Outside, the summer air clung to their skin like a second layer of grime. Barney flexed his right hand absently, testing the grip that had held steady through two hours of pipe wrestling.
Butch bumped their shoulders together. "Admit it. You missed this."
Barney didn't answer immediately. He tilted his face toward the fading sunlight, his scars gilded for a brief moment — the one above his ear from the surgery, the older one along his jaw from Fallujah, the tiny white crescent on his brow where Butch had accidentally elbowed him during their first drunken fuck.
"Yeah," he said at last, catching Butch's wrist and pressing a grease-stained thumb to his pulse point. "Missed you too."
The streetlights flickered on as they walked home, their shadows stretching long and tangled behind them.
The broken pipe's metallic tang still clung to their skin when they stumbled into their apartment, exhausted but wired from the day's labor. Barney kicked off his boots by the door, leaving grimy footprints on the hardwood that Mr. Whiskers inspected with feline disdain. Butch grabbed Barney's elbow before he could collapse onto the couch.
"Shower," Butch ordered, peeling Barney's grease-stained shirt over his head. "You smell like a mechanic's asshole."
Barney smirked, letting himself be manhandled toward the bathroom. "Y'know, I think Mrs. Alvarez was checking you out when you bent over her dishwasher."
Butch snorted, turning the shower knobs with unnecessary force. Steam billowed around them as Barney shucked his cargo pants, revealing the faded Semper Fi tattoo curling around his thigh. The hot water hit his shoulders first, sluicing rust and sweat down his torso in reddish-brown streaks.
"You missed a spot," Butch murmured, pressing close behind Barney to soap up his back. His palms slid over the familiar terrain of scars and muscle, kneading the tension from Barney's shoulders with practiced hands.
Barney leaned into the touch, his head dropping forward. "I thought you hated playing nurse."
"This ain't nursing." Butch's teeth grazed Barney's damp trapezius. "This is foreplay."
A chuckle vibrated through Barney's chest as he turned, trapping Butch against the tiled wall. Water plastered his buzzcut to his scalp, emphasizing the surgical scar above his ear — still pink at the edges, but healed enough to touch. Butch traced it now with his thumb while Barney's hands mapped his hips.
"You're staring again," Barney murmured, his breath hot against Butch's collarbone.
"Admiring my handiwork," Butch lied for the second time that day.
Barney's laugh dissolved into a groan as Butch's hand found his half-hard cock beneath the spray. Their movements grew lazy, unhurried — more about shared warmth than urgency. When Barney came, it was with his forehead pressed to Butch's shoulder, his release lost in the swirling drain between their feet.
Later, wrapped in threadbare towels, they reheated Mrs. Alvarez's tamales while Mr. Whiskers yowled for scraps. Barney ate standing at the counter, shirtless, his damp hair glinting auburn under the kitchen light. The strongman competition flyer lay between them, grease-stained and dog-eared.
"We should register tomorrow," Barney said around a mouthful of masa.
Butch flicked a corn husk at him. "After we see your PT."
Barney rolled his eyes but didn't argue — progress. The VA physical therapist had been clear about his recovery timeline, and for once, Barney seemed inclined to listen. Mostly.
The bed creaked when they finally collapsed into it, the sheets cool against their shower-warmed skin. Barney's right hand found Butch's in the dark, their calluses catching in the quiet. Outside, the city hummed — distant sirens, the rattle of the elevated train, the occasional shout from the bodega downstairs.
Butch thought about pipes and scars and tamales. About the way Barney's body had moved under Mrs. Alvarez's sink — certain again, fluid in a way it hadn't been since before the surgery. He squeezed Barney's hand, feeling the strength in those fingers that had pinned him down just last week, that had gripped his hips this morning, that would undoubtedly drag him into some new ridiculous challenge tomorrow.
Barney's breathing evened out beside him, his body a solid warmth against Butch's side. The streetlight through their blinds painted stripes across his shoulders, highlighting the old shrapnel scars and newer scratches from today's plumbing disaster. Butch watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath like a gift.
Mr. Whiskers leapt onto the bed, purring as he kneaded Barney's stomach. Barney didn't stir, just tightened his grip on Butch's hand in his sleep.
Butch closed his eyes. The alarm would blare at 5:30 for their morning workout. There would be grumbling and coffee and maybe another argument about proper lifting form. There would be strongman applications and VA appointments and Mrs. Alvarez's latest home repair crisis.
But for now, there was this — Barney's pulse under his fingertips, the city's distant heartbeat, the quiet certainty of another shared tomorrow.
The End
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