Scars

“Even if he never remembered what it felt like, to be shot, or what happened to him in the hours and minutes directly afterwards, somewhere inside him, his body knew.”

It wasn’t something he normally did. As a matter of fact, avoidance had become part of his daily routine.

It was surprisingly easy to do – turn his back before the robe dropped and get hurriedly into the shower, cover himself with soap-lather while he washed his hair, hum tunelessly under his breath, eyes closed, while he rinsed off, then grab the robe again and wrap it around himself before the curtain opened and step out. Sometimes he shaved in the shower, but more often he did it in front of the sink, the robe tightly belted around him.

It hadn’t been a conscious choice, really, to eschew a towel wrapped around his waist for the robe that Hutch had bought him while he was in the hospital. He’d just – gotten used to it, and kept wearing it once he came back home. It was comfortable, and blue – “baby blue,” even, like Hutch’s eyes. And that was – nice.

But today, the belt wasn’t quite as tight as he normally kept it, and when he bent over the sink to splash water on his face, washing away the last of the shaving cream, it loosed itself and the robe gaped open in the front, baring a slice of skin from his chest to the waist. He found himself unexpectedly catching his own eye in the mirror – and then his eyes moved lower.

It wasn’t as though he’d never looked at them; he could hardly avoid it, entirely. The first time they’d changed his dressings in the hospital, after he woke up, it was a sick fascination to see the criss-crossing riddle of bright red scars, tied together with the black stitches. On his chest. Those tiny, neat stitches, like his mother’s needlework, holding him together. Then, he’d been too grateful and too doped up to have any sort of coherent thought about anything except the fact that he was alive, and that was a good thing.

That was the second good thing. The first good thing was seeing Hutch alive, and unhurt, because he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known anything except darkness, for such a long time, and although the shooting itself was lost in the dark recesses of his own mind, that mind still knew that something very, very bad had happened to him, and that Hutch had been there, too. Seeing him, when he woke up, watching him babble and fumble around his words, that was the first good thing.

The dressings gradually got smaller and smaller, but they still provided a cover, an escape from reality. And then, they were gone, so he covered himself up with robes and pajama tops and then t-shirts and dress shirts that somehow managed to get buttoned up a lot further than they had before – although he still couldn’t stand anything wrapped around his neck. Those two top buttons were safe, though; nothing showed through, there.

He knew it didn’t make any sense, so there was no way that he could explain it – it didn’t even make sense to him. It was just – something that he had to do. There was no element of denial in it – he couldn’t just blink and wish away the past year, and he didn’t particularly even want to. The struggle had been too great – to get out of the hospital, to get back on his feet, to get his life back, beyond just the breathing-in and breathing-out existence to his actual day-to-day life – that couldn’t be denied. And, too many things had changed in the past year to make him wish that Gunther had never happened to him.

Not that he didn’t wish the guy had never been born.

Something tightened in his chest when he straightened up, still mesmerized by the reflection in front of him. He fought the urge to wrap the soft blue terrycloth around him and just leave, go get dressed and cover himself up again. Be safe again.

He reached down, following the movement of his hand as it descended not directly, but via its reflection in the mirror. The first scar was soft, baby-soft new skin, still pink and hairless. The edges where the bullet had entered weren’t quite true, anymore, confused together with the marks where the surgeon had cut into him, but he could discern them, nevertheless. Even if he never remembered what it felt like, to be shot, or what happened to him in the hours and minutes directly afterwards, somewhere inside him, his body knew. It remembered, even if it kept the knowledge from him. He circled his fingers around that scar, fascinated and repulsed.

The second was nearer his heart – that was the one that would have killed him instantly, if it had been some fraction of an inch closer to its mark. Then, he wouldn’t be having this moment of panic. He closed his eyes, palm flat over this scar, feeling past it to the organ underneath, beating a little faster, now, but still beating.

It took a few minutes for him to open his eyes again.

The third had just missed his nipple. It would have been odd to lose a nipple, odder than an organ. Because, he’d never seen any of his organs, didn’t have any real tangible feeling for any of them. But the nipples – the nipples were different. They were part of his masculinity, part of his existence as a sexual male. It was stupid, to think of it like that, but it was true. If someone had asked him whether he’d rather give up his nipples or his life, there would be no choice. But a nipple or a spleen – well, what good was a spleen, anyway? He’d never seen it, didn’t know where it was, didn’t even know what it did. Hutch would know; he thought he should probably ask, sometime. No sense in wishing away something that might be useful.

He wasn’t vain, he’d never been vain, particularly, just subject to those regular bouts of male posturing that were so pervasive in locker-room settings. Hell, it would have been nearly impossible to be vain next to the blond god he partnered with – the tall, lanky, golden-skinned, blue-eyed, white-toothed wet dream. Some woman had described Hutch that way, once, in a bar, when she thought nobody could hear. Nobody had heard, except Starsky, who was shaken by both the detail and the accuracy of the instant assessment. It had stayed with him for a long time; he still remembered it now.

Still, he knew what he had to offer, too. The tight denim jeans and the unbuttoned shirts hadn’t been an accident, not entirely, nor were the colours that matched his eyes and played up his complexion. He was as vain as the next person, when it came right down to it – vain enough to want to look good, whenever possible.

The nipple survived, cut only by a tiny, pie-shaped nick in the aureole, barely noticable. When he touched it, it peaked to life, and he was glad – glad that he could respond to this touch, despite the scars. Glad that he could arouse himself, still.

There were other marks on his skin, too. He’d been shot before, and cut, and bruised, but it wasn’t the reflected evidence of any of those previous incidents that now drew his eyes. He smiled as his hands moved upwards, resting on his collarbone and then sweeping up the now smooth expanse of skin on his neck. These marks were far newer, much more fresh, some bright purple and green or yellow-tinged, some redness underneath speaking of tiny broken blood vessels just below the skin. There were red indentations shaped just like teeth, as well – like a row of bright, white teeth that bit into him, mumbled words of passion, marked him with love. He wanted _these_ scars to stay, even though they wouldn’t last more than two or three days at the most. Still, he was sure that others would replace them once they faded away – he would make sure of it.

“Can’t get over yourself, huh, hotshot?” Hutch chuckled softly in the doorway, his blondness rumpled and sleepy-eyed.

“Just wondrin’ why I never knew my partner was a vampire,” Starsky shot back.

“Sorry,” Hutch said, sheepishly, and moved directly behind his partner, hands sliding under the open edges of the robe, around his waist. He placed a soft kiss just under Starsky’s ear. “Couldn’t seem to stop myself.”

“Wasn’t complainin’,” Starsky said. “Just makin’ an observation.” He leaned back into the embrace. “I’m keepin’ my eyes on the length of your teeth, though. You start sproutin’ fangs and I’ll – ”

“You’ll what? Break out the garlic, or start wearing turtlenecks?” Hutch’s voice rumbled with laughter, muffled against Starsky’s neck, and he deepened the kiss slightly, teeth nibbling against warm skin.

Starsky couldn’t check his moan as he felt those teeth worrying another bruise into his neck. “I’ll have to get used to livin’ without sunlight, I guess,” he said, closing his eyes.

“How about we start now?” Hutch said, catching his hand and pulling him out of the bathroom. “It’s too early to be out of bed,” he added, on the way back to the bedroom.

“I just had a shower,” Starsky half-complained, as he let himself be led.

“So we’ll have another. Later,” Hutch added. “And I’ll make breakfast.” He kissed Starsky, biting his already-bruised lower lip gently. “Or maybe lunch.”

“Or maybe dinner?”

“Or maybe dinner,” Hutch agreed, and pushed the robe completely off of Starsky’s body. “Or maybe breakfast tomorrow. I know exactly what I want to eat today, and food isn’t on the menu.” He licked his lips as Starsky fell backwards on the bed.

“Come and get it, babe,” Starsky said, holding his arms open. “‘m all yours.”

“All mine,” Hutch echoed, climbing onto the bed and pressing his lover’s body back into the mattress. . .

The end.