He reached over his head to grab the back of his wifebeater and dragged it over his head one-handed, a move that always popped his biceps and drove her wild. Now, though, she could only concentrate on the pristine white bandage, and the way his chest heaved under it as his breathing accelerated further.
“I don’t…” he started, and then exhaled, long and slow. “If you hate it, just tell me. It won’t…it won’t, like, hurt my feelings or some stupid shit.”
Except it would, she could tell. It would cut him to the bone if she didn’t like it.
She’d never been more curious in her life. “Okay. Show me.”
He hesitated another moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek, and then carefully picked the tape loose.
She’d thought he might just fold it back, but he pulled the whole thing off and dropped it to the floor, too. They would have to redress it, she thought, absently. He no doubt had plenty of supplies in his med kit. They would…
Her eyes landed on the ink, fresh, deep black against needle-reddened skin, and all extraneous thoughts vaporized.
It was familiar: script plus a small drawing, the whole of it no bigger than his palm. But it took her a full five seconds to comprehend just what she was looking at.
Then she gasped.
“Oh my God.Oh my God.”
It was her signature. The mark she put in the corner of every sketch, and every painting. The one that graced each canvas over in the window. A big, bold C, and small, spidery lowercase letters, another bold series of strokes for the G. And then, beneath, a part of her signature since she was fourteen, a little cartoon Lean Dog, pointy-eared but non-threatening. An homage to her family.
Shep had paid an artist to tattoo her signature over his heart.
“I, uh,” he started, when the silence stretched, “took a photo with my phone.” He gestured over his shoulder at her studio space. “I told Anthony he had to get the lettering exact, and I think—I think he did a pretty good job.” He ducked his head, and looked up at her from under arched brows. “Do you hate it?”
Fresh tears welled and spilled, too-hot against her suddenly-cold cheeks. She ignored them, and reached for him with both hands. “Frank.”
He knelt down on the floor at her feet, and rested his forearms on her thighs. Up close, the tattoo was shiny with ointment; it looked like she’d taken a Sharpie and signed him herself.
“Cass.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, but steady; his eyes were dry, but big and puppy-dog sad with devotion. “I’m forty-six, and nobody’s ever loved me before. The guys in the club don’t evenlikeme.” His hands found her hips, thumbs pressing into the grooves where hip met thigh, warm even through the fabric of her jeans. His head tilted, imploring. “It’s like you said before, yeah?” One corner of his mouth hitched upward. “You’re my best friend. I’ve never felt this way about another person, not in my whole life.”
A sob formed in her throat, and she swallowed it down with difficulty.
“I don’t need you to be some chick at a bar, or an art student, or a fashion designer, or anything but what you want to be. I’ll be here. I wanted you to know—” he caught one of her hands and brought it to his chest. When she tried to pull back, he murmured, “It’s okay,” and pressed her palm over the new tattoo. His skin flickered, sensitive, but his expression stayed soft and steady. “I wanted you to know that I’d crawl through glass for you, baby. That I’m yours, for however long you’ll have me.”
“Oh my God.” She sniffed hard, and pulled her hand off his tattoo—his eyes widened with dismay—but only so she could grip him by the ears and press her wet face into his, shuddering and crying. “You stupid man,” she whimpered. “How could I ever want anyone but you?”
He let out a big, hitching breath, and tilted his face so he could kiss her cheek, the side of her nose. “You like it?”
“I love it. I loveyou.”
His arms slid around her waist, and he hugged her tight a moment before he stood, and hoisted her up into his arms to carry her to bed.
~*~
Later, he walked naked out to the living room to retrieve her presents and dumped them on top of the covers before he hitched himself back up on the mattress to sit beside her. “Open ‘em.” He was glowing, pink-faced, messy-haired, and loose-limbed. Very satisfied and very pleased with his performance.
She was pleased with that, too.
“It’s not my birthday anymore,” she said, reaching for the largest. She could tell it was a book, and a heavy, hardbound one at that.
“You better open ‘em. I spent two hours wrapping the damn things.”
She lifted an already-loose flap of paper. “I can tell.”
“Shit,” he accused, and kissed the side of her head.
The book turned out to be a massive omnibus of Daredevil comics, which she paged through slowly, in awe.
