Fighters

The white washed walls and bright lights brought on a migraine as I made myself down the hospital hallway. The room that the nurse had told me held its door open and I stood in the doorway. J.W. was sitting on the examination table, bare skin on his chest, belly, and shoulders already turning putrid colors of green, purple, and black. It splotched his skin like a gruesome piece of art.

He looked up at me. His curly, sandy-blonde hair was unkempt and flattened at the top with a condition of hat hair. Without even a word from me, he said, “Abby, I'm alright.”

Against my own will, my lip quivered. Knowing the down pour that was about to start, J.W. jumped down from the table and held open his arms. I pressed into them, sobbing and spluttering like a fool as his sculpted arms encircled me and held me tightly. His hands, so familiar, ran over my back and shoulders. He kissed my hair, telling me everything was okay and that we could go home.

“I'm so sorry,” I blabbled over and over again.

J.W. chuckled. “Its okay, babe. I'd rather have you crying than laughing at my dumb ass.”

“Your ass isn't dumb,” I sniffled. “Its perfect. Especially in your Wranglers.”

He chuckled again and kissed me on the cheek. “So is yours.”

I smiled up at him and placed my hands on his face, prickly with incoming facial hair. “Let's go home.”

--

“Honey, can you get me some ice packs?”

“Yeah,” I answered from the kitchen and poured tea into a mug. With that in one hand and two ice packs in the other, I tread into our room quietly. J.W. was already in bed, laying straight on his back, hands folded over his stomach. “Here,” I said and offered him the jell-filled plastic.

He took them thankfully and laid them against his bruising sides. I handed him the mug, which he drank from. Then, he sighed, placed the mug on the bedside table and patted the spot on the mattress next to him. I smiled and crawled onto the bed. My body laid next to his and I sighed, laying on my head on an elbow so his perfect face was in my vision.

His head turned, blue eyes searching my face and a smile caressing those lips. “I'm okay,” he assured me. A warm hand reached down to squeeze my own.

“Five broken ribs and a bruised lung are not 'okay',” I said. “Do you ever consider just...stopping?”

He smirked. “You know I can't.”

“You need to before it kills you.”

“I will.”

His voice could remain so calm, so level. Mine tended to rise in volume and demand at times like that because I knew I was losing. Why couldn't he just listen?

Well, he did listen, he understood why I worried. But it was his job; he'd been doing it since he was in high school. Bull fighting had become a major part of his life. But so had I. I didn't want to be that bitchy wife who made him choose between myself and other things. That wasn't the way a relationship worked. But I couldn't stand to see him constantly getting hurt, damaged, and dissipated. And I'd tell him that...and he'd always promise he'd quit. Eventually.

I removed my hand from his to run a finger down the stern, masculine jaw. “I hate to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Broken,” I answered quietly.

He smiled. “I'll be broken when I can't be happy with what I love anymore. The only time I'm gonna be broken is when I stop loving you.” He shifted to the side so his lips could brush against my forehead. “Which will be never,” he whispered, hot breath blowing against my skin.

“I just can't think about...”

“Then, don't.”

“J.W....”

“Hey.” He placed a hand on the side of my face. “Listen to me. I know. And it'll end soon, I promise. We're going to to be okay; you know why?”

I shook my head, lost in those cool blue orbs and husky purr.

“Because we're fighters,” he whispered.