It was a stupid thing to do. Kerry knows that now.

He's had hours to think about how much of an idiot he was as he's been laid in a hospital bed, staring at the bandaged wrapped stump that was his leg. Driving a brand new motorcycle in a drunken stupor wasn't his brightest idea. He can see that now.

For weeks, he's hated the way you've looked at him. That worried, sympathetic look in your eye every time you came to visit. It made him feel small, like an emasculated idiot.

But now, after coming home, and attempting to travel around the ground floor on his crutches for the first time, he understands why.

You followed behind him the whole time, nervously wringing your hands, on edge and ready to catch him at any semblance of a slip. You're scared. You've been scared and he's been ignoring you. Oh fuck.

Bedtime was quick, and came fast, because the pain meds that he's been on have made him drowsy and have made his mind awfully foggy. It's not a nice high. And when you slip into bed beside him at a measly seven thirty, he doesn't protest, just sighing softly as you tentatively cuddle up beside him.

It's almost as if you're scared to touch him.

How will things work now? How will morning runs work? How will late night drives work? How will shared baths work? How will those line dancing nights down at the community centre, that you love so much, happen if he hasn't got two feet to stand on? How will sex, of all things, work?

He can't think. No, he doesn't want to think. And he hasn't even started to think about what he'll do for work, or how he'll get back in the ring.

No. Instead, with a resigned sigh, he hoists your leg up and drapes it over his abdomen, pulling your head down to meet his shoulder and pressing a frustrated kiss to your forehead. He's not vulnerable. And he's not fragile. And he's definitely still your Kerry.

His body just looks a little different.

"You're not gonna hurt me, y'know?.. I'm not gonna fall apart if you cuddle me, darlin'..."