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“Javier Peña.”
You watched as his shoulders slumped, an unmistakably tired sigh escaping him. He’d been trying to come in unnoticed; he’d closed the door and put his gun, badge, and keys on the counter as quietly as he could. Perhaps he’d been hoping to slip into bed with you, brush off his lateness while you were half-asleep. You didn’t really take pleasure in knowing he’d have no such luck.
You stood from where you’d been waiting on the couch.
“Do you know what time it is?” you asked.
His face was shadowed in the dim light. “Late.”
You crossed your arms over your chest.
“Late,” you repeated. “It’s three in the morning, Javi. Where the hell have you been?”
“Um... out.” He shook his head. “Drinking. Had a bad day at work.”
His voice sounded worn with exhaustion and tight with something worse, though you couldn’t figure out what. Pity mixed with frustration, and you worried the sleeve of your t-shirt.
“Why didn’t you call and tell me?” you asked. “I’ve been worried sick. I couldn’t get a hold of you.”
“I forgot my cell at the office,” he said. He rubbed his palm over the knuckles of his other hand. “Sorry.”
You felt a flare of anger. That was it? He’d left you to worry for hours, only to come home this late and offer you nothing more than a monosyllabic apology?
“Are you drunk?” you asked.
“Mmh. Probably.”
“Should I even bother fighting with you right now?”
His scowl was half-hidden. “That’s up to you,” he said, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
“Fine,” you snapped, rising to the bait. “I get wanting to go out drinking after a long day. I even get not wanting to talk to me. But you have to let me know if you’re going to be late. You don’t get to check out like that with me. I deserve better than that, Javi, and you know it.”
You knew you should have given him a chance to apologize, but you were suddenly so tired and fed up with him that you didn’t even want to be in the same room with him.
“Whatever,” you said, exhaustion and worry and anger wearing you to the breaking point. “I’m going to bed. I’m sure you’ll be fine sleeping it off on the couch.”
You turned to go, half regretting your decision to kick him to the couch, half wishing you’d sent him to sleep on Steve’s couch, or his office chair at the embassy, or the side of the road.
“Querida, wait.”
You stopped, standing for a moment with your back turned to him. You sighed deeply.
“Javi — ”
“I know,” he said. “I know you don’t want to talk any more. You don’t want to fight. I don’t either. Just... don’t go, yet.”
You turned around to face him, feeling a little wary. Something in his voice was off, more than the familiar colors of exhaustion and stress you knew too well.
“What’s wrong, Javi?”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing’s wrong.”
You stepped towards him, wanting to talk to him face to face. You knew him better than anyone, and you knew when something wasn’t right with him.
“Are you sick?” you asked. You stepped into the dark kitchen with him, reaching up to put a hand on his cheek to check for fever.
His breath caught, and he wasn’t quick enough to stop himself from drawing back from your touch.
“What was that?” you asked, searching his face. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he said, though the roughness of his voice betrayed him. “I’m fine.”
You huffed. You reached behind him to turn on the light over the stove, and immediately saw what was wrong.
“Javi,” you breathed, shocked into worried gentleness at the sight of him. His lip was split and bloody, and an angry mark blossomed over his cheekbone. You stepped back to look over the rest of him; he was holding right hand awkwardly, and you gently took it in both of yours.
“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse. You turned his hand towards the light to see his bruised and bloodied knuckles.
“Who did this to you?” you asked. You looked up at his face. “Javi.”
He took his hand from your grip. “How do you know I didn’t start it?”
Your heart sank. “Did you?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
You studied his face, trying to make sense of his injuries, replaying your argument in your head now that you knew he was hurt.
“You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”
His jaw worked. “I’ll be fine.”
You couldn’t tell if he was trying to keep you from worrying or just being macho — either way, you weren’t going to sit by and let your husband be in pain.
“I need to get a better look at you,” you said. “Let's patch you up, ok?"
He met your eyes, and you were surprised to see the shine of tears in his.
“You don’t have to.”
You softened. He was obviously upset about something, to the point of getting into drunken fistfights, and you were worried for him.
“I know,” you said. “Let me take care of you, baby.”
He let you sit him on the edge of the coffee table and help ease his jacket off, both of you careful of his hands and the pain in his ribs you were quickly becoming aware of despite his efforts to hide it.
“Did you get in a fight at the bar?” you asked.
“Yes,” he said simply. His voice was tight with pain, and he didn’t offer any further explanation. You draped his jacket neatly over the back of the couch.
“Sit tight,” you said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
You rummaged around in the bathroom and kitchen until you found what you needed, bringing back an armful of supplies that you set beside him on the coffee table. He gave the pile a dubious look.
“Found the whole hospital, huh?”
You sat across from him on the couch, your knees touching, and gently batted his hand away as he searched through the ice packs and pain relievers. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah,” he said, a note of bitterness to his voice. This would be far from the first time you’d patched him up, whether from a work-related injury or some kind of altercation. His was a dangerous line of work, and he had more scars than either of you could count.
You gave him some medicine and weren’t surprised when he drank the whole bottle of water you gave him. The night was hot despite the rumble of your apartment’s air conditioning, and the only thing he’d had to drink in hours was tequila.
“Did you eat anything after work?” you asked, pressing a wet washcloth to his mouth. His expression crinkled in discomfort only for a second, and he didn’t pull away from you.
“No,” he said, and you could feel the word against your fingers. “But I’m not hungry.”
“Okay,” you said. You cleaned the smear of blood below his lip. “You don’t have to eat anything. But I’m making you food tomorrow, whenever you wake up.”
He grunted. “You’re getting up at five?”
You scoffed. “No, and you’re not either. I’m calling Steve in the morning to tell him you’re taking a sick day, and you’re sleeping as long as you need to.”
You folded the washcloth and held out your hand. “Hand, please.”
He obliged you and laid his palm over yours, soft and warm despite how big it was. You dabbed at the scrapes over his knuckles, trying your best to be gentle.
“Sorry,” you said when he gave the barest wince. “I’ll try to be more careful.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “You don’t have to apologize.”
You stole a glance at his face as you set the washcloth over your knee and found the bottle of peroxide. His expression was unreadable, a thousand miles away.
“This might sting,” you said. You poured a little bit of peroxide over his cuts, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” you said again.
“I told you, you don’t have to — ”
“I know,” you said. You cleaned his hand off and fished around for the triple antibiotic. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Javi.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, in a soft voice — “Thank you.”
You made gentle circling movements against his knuckles, making sure each little cut was taken care of. Neither of you spoke for a while.
“Querida.” He bumped his knee against yours, the first bit of affection he’d shown you that night.
You paused in wrapping his hand with an ace bandage and looked up at him.
“What is it?” you asked. “Too tight?”
He shook his head. “No, I — ” He stopped, brushed his fingers over your wrist.
“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked. “I was... awful to you tonight.”
You finished wrapping his hand and held it gently.
“Yes, you were,” you admitted. “But... for better or for worse, right?”
You shook your head and gave him a sad smile.
“You’re my husband, Javi," you said. "I’m going to take care of you, no matter what.”
He let his hand fall to his thigh.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was quiet and tight with guilt. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know where I was. You’re right — you don’t deserve that. It was unfair to make you worry like that, and I won’t ever do it again.”
He sighed. “I’m also sorry for the way I spoke to you. And I’m sorry I’m drunk and bleeding all over your clean towels.”
You couldn’t help a small laugh. “I used the old ones on you, don’t worry.”
His smile was rueful and flickered uncertainly as met your eyes.
“This is worse, isn’t it?” he asked. “In the whole ‘for better or for worse’ thing?”
“No,” you told him, without hesitation. You reached out to brush those stubborn curls back again. “You not coming home would be worse. Even if you do bleed all over my clean towels.”
He snorted. You gave a soft laugh and leaned forward to kiss his uninjured cheek.
“I’m sorry, querida,” he said again. “Really. Please forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” you said, and you meant it. You didn’t know the details, and you didn’t need to know them to forgive him.
You kissed him again, on his jaw. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said, following you with his gaze as you stood and made your way to the kitchen. “What are you getting now?”
You returned with a makeshift ice pack. “Come here.”
He leaned closer to you and let you hold the cloth to his cheek; after a brief moment of discomfort, he settled against your hand and closed his eyes.
“You’re tired,” you said softly, and he nodded. You tucked his hair behind his ear; it was getting a little shaggy, and he’d need a haircut soon.
“Why was work so bad?” you asked.
He shook his head.. “Just... seems like one dead end after another.”
You hummed in agreement. “So you went out for a drink, which turned into a few drinks, and some idiot said something about your very handsome yellow shirt, and you decked him.”
He opened his eyes and gave you an unimpressed look.
“While I'm glad you think my shirt is handsome," he said dryly, "do you want me to just tell you what happened?”
“Yes,” you said. “And I hope you have a very good reason for getting into a bar fight, Javier.”
“I did,” he assured you, more confidently than you would have expected. You raised a brow.
He sighed. “I had only had one drink, and then a few of the CIA idiots showed up. They must not have seen me, because once they had a few rounds, they started talking about you.”
You dropped the ice pack in surprise, ice cubes scattering between your feet. Javi seemed unruffled, and reached down to pick them up.
“Me?” you spluttered. “Why were they talking about me?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess they’ve seen you around the office.”
You wondered what they could have said that would make Javi want to get into a fight with them. You paled.
“What were they saying?”
He scowled as he put the last of the ice cubes back on the dish towel. “Nothing worth repeating.”
You thought of the altercation in light of that, and suddenly your husband wasn’t the hotheaded, drunken idiot you’d envisioned at the bar. No, he was your knight in shining armor, and you felt a wave of desire and affection wash through you.
“I don’t know,” he said, almost to himself. “Maybe I overreacted. But I wasn’t going to let anybody talk about you like — ”
“You didn’t overreact,” you said. “I’m glad you punched their lights out.”
His brows raised. “You are?”
“Yes,” you agreed. “You did punch their lights out, didn’t you?”
He smirked. “Yeah, baby, I did.”
You returned his smile, shaking your head a little as you looked at him. Your husband, bruised and bloody for your sake. You loved him.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” you asked.
He looked a little bashful. “Well, I got rip-roaring drunk after I laid them out — at another bar, because they kicked me out, even after I tried to explain. I guess I felt bad about it, even though they deserved it. But then I realized how late it was, and that I’d left my phone at the office, and you were probably going crazy at home. I didn’t want you to think I was making it up to get back on your good side.”
You thought that was probably a wise decision.
“You... believe me now, though, right?” he asked.
You kissed his cheek. “Yes, I believe you. Thank you for defending my honor, honey.”
You felt his smile. “Any time, querida.”
He tried to kiss you properly, but you pulled back before he could.
“No?” he asked, and you had the feeling he was asking about more than just a kiss.
You smiled. “Not tonight, baby. I don’t want your lip to start bleeding again, and I think you need sleep more than you need something... strenuous.”
You stood and offered him your hand. He looked like he was about to protest, but he winced as he stood with you.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he said. “One of those idiots caught me pretty good in the ribs.”
“Come lay down,” you said, tugging on his unhurt hand. “I’ll give you a massage so you won’t be so sore in the morning.”
He let you lead him into the bedroom and carefully undress him, running your fingers over his skin with more of an intent to soothe rather than tease. He pressed close to you in bed, the bridge of his nose snugly against your jaw.
“Just stay in bed with me forever,” he said, his voice low and sleepy. “Then I won’t be sore in the morning.”
You brushed your fingers through his hair. “Is the medicine starting to kick in?”
He didn’t say anything, and you assumed he’d fallen asleep.
“Feels better,” he mumbled after a minute. “Thanks for... taking good care of me, querida.”
You smiled. “You’re welcome. I love you.”
He didn’t say it back, already asleep, but he didn’t need to. You heard it in his slow, steady breathing and felt it in his warmth. You drew your husband closer, bruises and all, and knew how much he loved you.