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Time heals all wounds, or so they say.
Written for the LJ me_and_thee_100 comm.
Time has a way of healing all wounds, they say. The slug I took in that little Italian restaurant—you can barely see the scar; a small twist in the skin, nothing more. Yet it’s the one that hurts the most, the one that still aches when it rains.
Not in me, you understand. In him.
I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe because it was the first bullet, or because it wasn’t the last. Hutch’s been there through all of them, suffered each one with me.
Today, we’re done, off the streets. Now, maybe he’ll heal. Now, we’ll have time.
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