(no subject)
Just... Burying something in LJ again.
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Scars
~ A 'One Step At A Time' One-Shot ~
by TalithaX
===========================
Keeping my eyes closed, I let the beautiful simplicity of the moment wash over me and, not for the first time, idly wish that it could last longer than history tells me it's going to. In its own, actually far more special way, it's as good as everything that's only just come before it. My orgasm of only a few short moments ago is already little more than a memory, and in the back of my mind I might know what's going to take place any second now, but, for now, for as long as it lasts...
It's good.
Dear God is it good.
Innocent. Comforting. And, although I'm somewhat loath to pay thoughts like this too much attention, even - dare I say it - normal.
For an all too brief moment, absolutely nothing else matters. We're just two lovers basking in the afterglow of our love-making and that, quite literally, is all.
And, actually, calling it just... good... doesn't even do the moment full justice as, for me anyway, it really is nothing short of spectacular.
What it is to Will, however, is probably another one of those things I'm just better off not thinking about. For all I know, to Will it could be nothing more that an exercise in both willpower and carefully monitored timing. I hope this isn't the case. Hell, I'd... hate... for it to be the case, absolutely fucking hate it, but...
I know what's coming.
I know that, much sooner than I want it to, lying here naked will get the better of Will's not entirely broad comfort-zone and he'll up and leave me in order to pull on his pyjamas. He won't be gone long. In fact, he'll be back within minutes. He'll even, once he's covered and no longer feeling quite so - in every sense of the word - bare, return to my side and once again settle himself around me.
It just...
… Won't be the same though.
I'm not saying it won't be good, as of course it will. It's how we sleep every night that we're together. Always touching, and always covered by pyjamas. I like to think it's even something we both take for granted or possibly even... rely on. A comforting, reassuring way to, regardless of what it might have thrown at us, end the day.
It's just...
… Sometimes, like now for example, not having the barrier of clothing between us just adds a different element to that... taken for granted and reassuring... comfort. I'm not saying I wish it was always like this as I don't. Truth be told, having to wear to something to bed doesn't bother me. Ignoring Will's obvious preference, sleeping nude has never really been my thing either as thanks to our line of work you never quite know when you might have bolt from bed and be out of the door in mere seconds - and, hey, it's pretty easy to accept that having do so naked would just make a no doubt already bad situation even worse.
So...
When all is said and done, I'm actually more than fine with pyjamas.
I just...
… Like this too, that's all.
I like the feel of Will's bare leg draped loosely over mine. Just as I also like the feel of his breath on my naked chest as the arm I've got curled around his shoulders holds him warmly against me.
I like the innocence and, again, although it pains me a little to even think along these lines, the simple normalcy of the moment.
Then again, maybe it's not even the feel of Will's body pressed against mine that makes the moment so precious to me. Maybe it's just the fact that I hate what's coming so much that, in turn, it heightens it, this false sense of - again - normalcy, into something far more than it actually is. Actually, even that's not entirely true. No. It's knowing... why... it has to happen that I hate.
I hate that Will feels as though he has to cover himself up, that, despite having a body any man in his right mind would be proud of, he's just not comfortable in his own skin.
Most of all, I just...
… Hate knowing... why... it is he feels this way.
While I'm at it, I also hate that mother fucker Salter for the hell he inflicted on him, and, even without knowing the first thing about them, I hate each and every one of the faceless men who used him as though they felt it was their God given right.
It...
It's just not fair.
It really isn't.
I know it's been said a million and one times before, and that still thinking it now is as pointless as - what's done is, unfortunately, done - it's ever been, but Will didn't deserve what happened to him. No-one would have and, yeah, yeah, bad things happen to good people all the time, but... There's bad, and then there's... really... bad. Bad is... being injured and ending up in hospital. In time though, you'll heal and it'll just become a memory. Really bad, however, is... having to live with it every day of the rest of your life. It's... doubting yourself, and... feeling worthless, and... hating your body, and... having your entire life forever thrown in to disarray. It's...
… Still feeling the after effects fifteen months after it ended.
That's what really bad is.
And I hate it.
I hate knowing that I can't do anymore than I already am, that... regardless of how hard we both try, it will never truly be enough, and that... Will will forever have it hanging over his head. He's come so far that I'm both proud of him and trust him with my life, yet it's moments like this, the very moment I should in fact just be making the most of instead of dwelling on, that seems to just bring out - the worst in me - all my fears and concerns.
All because he was forced to associate nudity with both pain and being exposed and, because of this, can't feel comfortable lying naked next to me.
Again, it's just not fair.
Reality, in the form of Will's finger tracing aimless circles around the scar on my side from when I was shot and very nearly lost my life in the Everglades, settling over me and - for now, at least - banishing my going nowhere thoughts, I open my eyes and smile down him. While there's a lot of things I could say or do, the most sensible of which would be to either pull the bedding over him or get up and hand him his pyjamas, I decide, instead, to travel down the light hearted path and murmur, “Please don't tell me you're thinking what it is I think you're thinking...”
“I doubt it,” Will replies quietly as, frowning slightly, he continues to trail his fingers across my scar, “but... Try me anyway.”
“The attention you're paying that scar,” I respond, trying to inject an amused tone in to my voice even though there's just something in Will's demeanour that's already making me wish I'd never opened my mouth, “it's because you're giving careful thought to Jane and Benji's ever-helpful insistence that I get a tattoo there, isn't it...”
“What? No...” His frown intensifying, Will jerks his hand away and, without looking at me, sits up and, after settling himself with his back against the headboard, presses his ankles together and brings his knees up to his chest. He then, to my immediate dismay, wraps his arms around his shins and rests his chin on his knees so that he's staring directly in front of him. “I don't think you should get a tattoo at all,” he whispers. “I mean... Uh... Not that it's anything to do with me anyway. If... If you want to get a tattoo then...”
“Trust me, I... don't... want to get a tattoo,” I interrupt, shifting into a sitting position and following Will's lead by leaning against the headboard. “What's more, I'm... not... going to get one either, so... Come on, Will. What's the matter, huh? You seem...”
“I was just thinking about... scars, that's all,” he murmurs with a small shrug.
“Scars?” Just call it instinct, but I'm fairly certain I don't want to be having this conversation.
“Mmm... Scars. What caused them. What they represent. What... could have been...” Sighing, Will hugs his knees to his chest and closes his eyes. “It doesn't matter. Just... forget I ever said anything.”
Scars...
Like the one on my side that he was just tracing his finger around, the one that, if I hadn't been rescued when I had, could possibly have been the end of me.
Or maybe he's thinking about the numbers that were branded in to the back of the neck of all the women we successfully rescued from the human trafficking operation. Sure, we saved them from being sold into a life of slavery, but, even so, they'll still be forever marked by the number burnt into their flesh. The number that represents what... could have been, and which... will now always be there.
Or maybe, and this would be worst of all, he's thinking of the ones on his back. The three deep welts caused by some asshole who didn't know what he was doing with a whip and which, to this day, stand out stark across his pale flesh. The ones that I know keep him from going swimming and which, even though he's never come out and said it, I know he doesn't even like me touching.
“Will...” Idly - and, no, the irony isn't lost on me - wishing that things had stayed true to form and he'd simply gotten up and pulled on his pyjamas instead of falling prey to thoughts about scars of all things, I drape my arm around Will's slumped shoulders and am in the process of trying to hug him to me when he pulls away and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress.
“I... I never should have said anything,” he states hoarsely as, clearly not quite knowing what to do with himself, he just sits there gazing down at the floor.
Our luggage being on the other side of the room, I can't help but get the impression he doesn't want to have to walk past me to get his pyjamas and don't know whether I should just get up and retrieve them for him, or... whether I should take a moment or two to see if I can get through to him first. The kindest thing would, of course, be to just get his pyjamas, and God knows the last thing I want to do is either stress him out or inadvertently hurt him in any way, but...
There's something weighing on Will's mind, and if I don't get it out of him now, while he's vulnerable, I probably never will.
So...
I'll try.
For all of one, and one only, attempt, I'll see if I can get to the bottom of what's going on his head.
“You know you can say anything to me,” I murmur, crawling across the mattress and positioning myself behind him. “Will? It's okay. Scars are just... one of those things. In fact... I challenge you to find one person who doesn't have at least one somewhere on their body...”
“I hate them,” Will whispers dejectedly as, his shoulders slumping even further down, he wraps his arms around his torso. “I... I hate what they represent, and I... I hate knowing how easily things could have ended up differently.”
“We're all still here though. You. Me. Even those women. I'm not saying I view scars as a badge of survival, but...”
“I hate them,” he repeats flatly, cutting me off. “You could have died in that mosquito infested hell-hole, those poor women are now forever marked with a Goddamn number, and I... I...” Trailing off, he shakes his head. “It's not like I'm not already pathetic enough or anything, but... but I can't even say it.”
“You don't have to...” Refusing to give in to either the tears I can suddenly feel wanting to well in my eyes or the futile desire to just ball my hands in to fists, I shift a little closer to Will and place my hands lightly on his shoulders. He doesn't have to say it, and the reason he doesn't have to say it is because, simply put, it... goes without saying. If it hadn't been for my mark insisting on taking me for absinthe that night in Paris, he might never have been rescued, and...
It's just one of those things that simply doesn't bear thinking about.
“Will, I... I know...”
“That night, before I was taken to you, the... the senior handler, he... he actually asked me if I wanted to go,” Will murmurs, seemingly apropos of nothing, in a voice barely above that of a whisper. “I'd been sick all day because of what had been done to me the night before and I... I think it was only because he thought you'd be offended by my back, if... if not the very sight of me, and didn't want to be seen as sending out... soiled goods, but... He did. For the first ever I was actually... asked... if I wanted to be...”
“Then... Why'd you go?” I interrupt, not because I'm anxious to be taken back to the events of that fateful night but because I want to save Will from having to find the right word - be it molested, raped, or tortured - to use. “You could have said... uh... that is, you could have indicated no...”
“Maybe I could have, but I... I didn't care. It... It was all I was good for, and, seriously, I just didn't even care,” he replies just a tad breathlessly as, no doubt wishing he'd never started down this particular path, the memories threaten to both overwhelm and get the better of him. “That, and... While I didn't care about what you were planning to put me through, I... I was still worried that if I said no the consequences would turn out to be even worse, that... it was all just a trick somehow and I... I'd only be punished for daring to have an opinion...”
“Will, I...” The tears once again threatening to fall, I blink them back and search desperately for the right things to say. This... As this is all news to me though, it's hard. Dear God is it hard. I never, not for a second, expected anyone other than Number Twenty-Eight to be delivered to my hotel room that night and, if it hadn't been the man I'd been trying to convince myself... wasn't... an IMF agent by the name of William Brandt, I...
I don't know what I would have done.
If Khavin hadn't taken me to La Fee Verte...
If I hadn't... seen something in his photograph that I recognised...
If Will had risked the consequences of staying behind and the club had sent another slave out to me... I mean, the idea of seeing my... paranoia... through in terms of finding out who Number Twenty-Eight just happened to be was definitely strong, and I wouldn't have just thrown in the towel and given up if he hadn't been delivered that night, but...
Knowing what I do now - that I was right, what... he was going through - just the thought, the mere... thought.. of delaying his rescue for so much as a couple of more hours makes me feel sick to the stomach.
“It... It's okay,” I murmur, gently squeezing my hands around Will's shoulders as much to reassure him that it's okay, that I'm here for him, as it is to reassure myself that, yes, he's actually here. “Everything fell in to place, and... You're here. We're... here. It... Oh, God, Will... Things, they're okay, yeah...”
“They're... okay,” Will confirms softly as he reaches up and place his left hand over mine. “While you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise given the way I'm carrying on, of course they're okay. In fact, they're... better... than okay and I apologise for coming over all... strange... on you. It... It's just that once I started thinking about scars, this... this is where I ended up and I... I apologise for it. You didn't need...”
“Neither did you,” I interject, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head as I remove my right hand from his shoulder and lightly trace my finger along the largest of the scars across his back. “But... Again, it's okay. It really is. Scars... They're just not worth working yourself up over, and...”
“Don't... Please, Ethan,” Will whispers with the just the right note of breathless pleading tone to his voice to immediately make me feel like the lowest life-form on earth as goosebumps break out across his skin and he cringes at my - apparently careless - touch. “Just... Don't... touch them...”
Feeling more than a little breathless myself at his reaction, I jerk my hands away from him and, not knowing what else to do, shuffle back and slump down until my butt is resting on my heels. “Will, they're just...”
“Hideous. They're just... hideous, that... that's what they are.”
“I was actually going to say that they're just... scars,” I murmur, once again not wanting to add to Will's obvious distress but, at the same time, just wanting to do what - little - I can to get it through to him that they're nowhere near as bad as he's clearly convinced himself they are. Yes, they're obvious and, yes, I hate knowing what caused them, but at the end of the day they're just part of Will and, despite wishing this wasn't the case at all, to me anyway they've just always been there.
“I... I don't know how you can even look at them, let alone... bring yourself to touch them,” Will mutters, glancing over his shoulder and giving me a beseeching look through bright eyes. “They're...”
“Part of you,” I finish as matter-a-factly as I can manage. “That's all they are, Will. They're a part of you.”
“They... They shouldn't be! They shouldn't be there...”
“But they are, and...” Taking a deep breath, I return my hands to Will shoulders and, as he gives every impression of just wanting to get up and bolt, press down on them. “They're a part of you, they've been there ever since I met you, and... Listen to me, Will, this... this is just how I know you, as...”
“As a freak!” he exclaims with obvious agitation as he tries half-heartedly to pull away from me.
“No.” Accepting that this has gone too far, I release my hold on Will and climb off the mattress I then, after quickly pulling on my pyjama pants and grabbing Will's from his bag, walk around the bed and, after placing his pyjamas next to him, take his hand in mine and carefully pull him upright. “As you,” I state thickly as, to my great relief, Will puts up no resistance and just relaxes in to my embrace. “Your scars are a part of you, but that's all they are. They're not hideous, they don't mark you... as a freak, and... they... they really are just another part of you. When I look at them, all I see is... you...”
“But...”
“And when I see you,” I interrupt, calmly cutting him off as I both hug him tightly and rest my forehead against his, “what I'm really seeing, hell... make that, all... that I'm seeing, is the man I love... Not his scars, or the memories of how he... shouldn't... have got them, or even... anything else for that matter. Will, I...” Taking a deep breath, I push through the emotion and just... go for it. “I love you, scars and all, and I... I just don't know what else to say or... what more I can do to get it through to you...”
“I...” Lifting his head, Will blushes and, through eyes bright with unshed tears, flashes me one of his heart-breakingly beautiful smiles. “I know,” he whispers, leaning forward and planting a fleeting kiss on my cheek. “Just as, and I really hope you already know this, I love you too. I... Of course I do.”
“I not only know, I also thank my lucky stars for it,” I reply, softening the emotionally-laden truth of my response behind a grin as I loosen my hold on Will in order to reach over to the bed and pick up his pyjama pants. “Now...” I hand him his pants and, as he gives me a grateful look before quickly pulling them on, look pointedly at the mattress. “What do you say we just put a full-stop on this night and go to bed, yeah?”
“Sounds good,” Will agrees, giving my cheek another kiss as grabs his top and pulls it on. “You know...” Pausing as he willingly lets me take on the self-imposed task of doing up the buttons on his pyjama top, he smiles and, to my continued relief, laughs. “You're actually so good to me, what with putting up with my random moods and... uh... everything else, that... even if you... were... to disfigure yourself with a tattoo of an Impala, I think I could still possibly bring myself to love you...”
“Possibly, huh?” Groaning, I shake my head and, once, that is, I've made a mental note to... possibly wave a gun at Jane and Benji the next time they feel compelled to bring up their pet subject of wanting me to get a tattoo, echo Will's laugh. “I'll...” Shaking my head again, I wrap my arms around Will and, as we settle together instinctively and he slides his arms around my waist, add, “I'll be sure to keep that in mind!”
~ end ~
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Scars
~ A 'One Step At A Time' One-Shot ~
by TalithaX
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Keeping my eyes closed, I let the beautiful simplicity of the moment wash over me and, not for the first time, idly wish that it could last longer than history tells me it's going to. In its own, actually far more special way, it's as good as everything that's only just come before it. My orgasm of only a few short moments ago is already little more than a memory, and in the back of my mind I might know what's going to take place any second now, but, for now, for as long as it lasts...
It's good.
Dear God is it good.
Innocent. Comforting. And, although I'm somewhat loath to pay thoughts like this too much attention, even - dare I say it - normal.
For an all too brief moment, absolutely nothing else matters. We're just two lovers basking in the afterglow of our love-making and that, quite literally, is all.
And, actually, calling it just... good... doesn't even do the moment full justice as, for me anyway, it really is nothing short of spectacular.
What it is to Will, however, is probably another one of those things I'm just better off not thinking about. For all I know, to Will it could be nothing more that an exercise in both willpower and carefully monitored timing. I hope this isn't the case. Hell, I'd... hate... for it to be the case, absolutely fucking hate it, but...
I know what's coming.
I know that, much sooner than I want it to, lying here naked will get the better of Will's not entirely broad comfort-zone and he'll up and leave me in order to pull on his pyjamas. He won't be gone long. In fact, he'll be back within minutes. He'll even, once he's covered and no longer feeling quite so - in every sense of the word - bare, return to my side and once again settle himself around me.
It just...
… Won't be the same though.
I'm not saying it won't be good, as of course it will. It's how we sleep every night that we're together. Always touching, and always covered by pyjamas. I like to think it's even something we both take for granted or possibly even... rely on. A comforting, reassuring way to, regardless of what it might have thrown at us, end the day.
It's just...
… Sometimes, like now for example, not having the barrier of clothing between us just adds a different element to that... taken for granted and reassuring... comfort. I'm not saying I wish it was always like this as I don't. Truth be told, having to wear to something to bed doesn't bother me. Ignoring Will's obvious preference, sleeping nude has never really been my thing either as thanks to our line of work you never quite know when you might have bolt from bed and be out of the door in mere seconds - and, hey, it's pretty easy to accept that having do so naked would just make a no doubt already bad situation even worse.
So...
When all is said and done, I'm actually more than fine with pyjamas.
I just...
… Like this too, that's all.
I like the feel of Will's bare leg draped loosely over mine. Just as I also like the feel of his breath on my naked chest as the arm I've got curled around his shoulders holds him warmly against me.
I like the innocence and, again, although it pains me a little to even think along these lines, the simple normalcy of the moment.
Then again, maybe it's not even the feel of Will's body pressed against mine that makes the moment so precious to me. Maybe it's just the fact that I hate what's coming so much that, in turn, it heightens it, this false sense of - again - normalcy, into something far more than it actually is. Actually, even that's not entirely true. No. It's knowing... why... it has to happen that I hate.
I hate that Will feels as though he has to cover himself up, that, despite having a body any man in his right mind would be proud of, he's just not comfortable in his own skin.
Most of all, I just...
… Hate knowing... why... it is he feels this way.
While I'm at it, I also hate that mother fucker Salter for the hell he inflicted on him, and, even without knowing the first thing about them, I hate each and every one of the faceless men who used him as though they felt it was their God given right.
It...
It's just not fair.
It really isn't.
I know it's been said a million and one times before, and that still thinking it now is as pointless as - what's done is, unfortunately, done - it's ever been, but Will didn't deserve what happened to him. No-one would have and, yeah, yeah, bad things happen to good people all the time, but... There's bad, and then there's... really... bad. Bad is... being injured and ending up in hospital. In time though, you'll heal and it'll just become a memory. Really bad, however, is... having to live with it every day of the rest of your life. It's... doubting yourself, and... feeling worthless, and... hating your body, and... having your entire life forever thrown in to disarray. It's...
… Still feeling the after effects fifteen months after it ended.
That's what really bad is.
And I hate it.
I hate knowing that I can't do anymore than I already am, that... regardless of how hard we both try, it will never truly be enough, and that... Will will forever have it hanging over his head. He's come so far that I'm both proud of him and trust him with my life, yet it's moments like this, the very moment I should in fact just be making the most of instead of dwelling on, that seems to just bring out - the worst in me - all my fears and concerns.
All because he was forced to associate nudity with both pain and being exposed and, because of this, can't feel comfortable lying naked next to me.
Again, it's just not fair.
Reality, in the form of Will's finger tracing aimless circles around the scar on my side from when I was shot and very nearly lost my life in the Everglades, settling over me and - for now, at least - banishing my going nowhere thoughts, I open my eyes and smile down him. While there's a lot of things I could say or do, the most sensible of which would be to either pull the bedding over him or get up and hand him his pyjamas, I decide, instead, to travel down the light hearted path and murmur, “Please don't tell me you're thinking what it is I think you're thinking...”
“I doubt it,” Will replies quietly as, frowning slightly, he continues to trail his fingers across my scar, “but... Try me anyway.”
“The attention you're paying that scar,” I respond, trying to inject an amused tone in to my voice even though there's just something in Will's demeanour that's already making me wish I'd never opened my mouth, “it's because you're giving careful thought to Jane and Benji's ever-helpful insistence that I get a tattoo there, isn't it...”
“What? No...” His frown intensifying, Will jerks his hand away and, without looking at me, sits up and, after settling himself with his back against the headboard, presses his ankles together and brings his knees up to his chest. He then, to my immediate dismay, wraps his arms around his shins and rests his chin on his knees so that he's staring directly in front of him. “I don't think you should get a tattoo at all,” he whispers. “I mean... Uh... Not that it's anything to do with me anyway. If... If you want to get a tattoo then...”
“Trust me, I... don't... want to get a tattoo,” I interrupt, shifting into a sitting position and following Will's lead by leaning against the headboard. “What's more, I'm... not... going to get one either, so... Come on, Will. What's the matter, huh? You seem...”
“I was just thinking about... scars, that's all,” he murmurs with a small shrug.
“Scars?” Just call it instinct, but I'm fairly certain I don't want to be having this conversation.
“Mmm... Scars. What caused them. What they represent. What... could have been...” Sighing, Will hugs his knees to his chest and closes his eyes. “It doesn't matter. Just... forget I ever said anything.”
Scars...
Like the one on my side that he was just tracing his finger around, the one that, if I hadn't been rescued when I had, could possibly have been the end of me.
Or maybe he's thinking about the numbers that were branded in to the back of the neck of all the women we successfully rescued from the human trafficking operation. Sure, we saved them from being sold into a life of slavery, but, even so, they'll still be forever marked by the number burnt into their flesh. The number that represents what... could have been, and which... will now always be there.
Or maybe, and this would be worst of all, he's thinking of the ones on his back. The three deep welts caused by some asshole who didn't know what he was doing with a whip and which, to this day, stand out stark across his pale flesh. The ones that I know keep him from going swimming and which, even though he's never come out and said it, I know he doesn't even like me touching.
“Will...” Idly - and, no, the irony isn't lost on me - wishing that things had stayed true to form and he'd simply gotten up and pulled on his pyjamas instead of falling prey to thoughts about scars of all things, I drape my arm around Will's slumped shoulders and am in the process of trying to hug him to me when he pulls away and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress.
“I... I never should have said anything,” he states hoarsely as, clearly not quite knowing what to do with himself, he just sits there gazing down at the floor.
Our luggage being on the other side of the room, I can't help but get the impression he doesn't want to have to walk past me to get his pyjamas and don't know whether I should just get up and retrieve them for him, or... whether I should take a moment or two to see if I can get through to him first. The kindest thing would, of course, be to just get his pyjamas, and God knows the last thing I want to do is either stress him out or inadvertently hurt him in any way, but...
There's something weighing on Will's mind, and if I don't get it out of him now, while he's vulnerable, I probably never will.
So...
I'll try.
For all of one, and one only, attempt, I'll see if I can get to the bottom of what's going on his head.
“You know you can say anything to me,” I murmur, crawling across the mattress and positioning myself behind him. “Will? It's okay. Scars are just... one of those things. In fact... I challenge you to find one person who doesn't have at least one somewhere on their body...”
“I hate them,” Will whispers dejectedly as, his shoulders slumping even further down, he wraps his arms around his torso. “I... I hate what they represent, and I... I hate knowing how easily things could have ended up differently.”
“We're all still here though. You. Me. Even those women. I'm not saying I view scars as a badge of survival, but...”
“I hate them,” he repeats flatly, cutting me off. “You could have died in that mosquito infested hell-hole, those poor women are now forever marked with a Goddamn number, and I... I...” Trailing off, he shakes his head. “It's not like I'm not already pathetic enough or anything, but... but I can't even say it.”
“You don't have to...” Refusing to give in to either the tears I can suddenly feel wanting to well in my eyes or the futile desire to just ball my hands in to fists, I shift a little closer to Will and place my hands lightly on his shoulders. He doesn't have to say it, and the reason he doesn't have to say it is because, simply put, it... goes without saying. If it hadn't been for my mark insisting on taking me for absinthe that night in Paris, he might never have been rescued, and...
It's just one of those things that simply doesn't bear thinking about.
“Will, I... I know...”
“That night, before I was taken to you, the... the senior handler, he... he actually asked me if I wanted to go,” Will murmurs, seemingly apropos of nothing, in a voice barely above that of a whisper. “I'd been sick all day because of what had been done to me the night before and I... I think it was only because he thought you'd be offended by my back, if... if not the very sight of me, and didn't want to be seen as sending out... soiled goods, but... He did. For the first ever I was actually... asked... if I wanted to be...”
“Then... Why'd you go?” I interrupt, not because I'm anxious to be taken back to the events of that fateful night but because I want to save Will from having to find the right word - be it molested, raped, or tortured - to use. “You could have said... uh... that is, you could have indicated no...”
“Maybe I could have, but I... I didn't care. It... It was all I was good for, and, seriously, I just didn't even care,” he replies just a tad breathlessly as, no doubt wishing he'd never started down this particular path, the memories threaten to both overwhelm and get the better of him. “That, and... While I didn't care about what you were planning to put me through, I... I was still worried that if I said no the consequences would turn out to be even worse, that... it was all just a trick somehow and I... I'd only be punished for daring to have an opinion...”
“Will, I...” The tears once again threatening to fall, I blink them back and search desperately for the right things to say. This... As this is all news to me though, it's hard. Dear God is it hard. I never, not for a second, expected anyone other than Number Twenty-Eight to be delivered to my hotel room that night and, if it hadn't been the man I'd been trying to convince myself... wasn't... an IMF agent by the name of William Brandt, I...
I don't know what I would have done.
If Khavin hadn't taken me to La Fee Verte...
If I hadn't... seen something in his photograph that I recognised...
If Will had risked the consequences of staying behind and the club had sent another slave out to me... I mean, the idea of seeing my... paranoia... through in terms of finding out who Number Twenty-Eight just happened to be was definitely strong, and I wouldn't have just thrown in the towel and given up if he hadn't been delivered that night, but...
Knowing what I do now - that I was right, what... he was going through - just the thought, the mere... thought.. of delaying his rescue for so much as a couple of more hours makes me feel sick to the stomach.
“It... It's okay,” I murmur, gently squeezing my hands around Will's shoulders as much to reassure him that it's okay, that I'm here for him, as it is to reassure myself that, yes, he's actually here. “Everything fell in to place, and... You're here. We're... here. It... Oh, God, Will... Things, they're okay, yeah...”
“They're... okay,” Will confirms softly as he reaches up and place his left hand over mine. “While you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise given the way I'm carrying on, of course they're okay. In fact, they're... better... than okay and I apologise for coming over all... strange... on you. It... It's just that once I started thinking about scars, this... this is where I ended up and I... I apologise for it. You didn't need...”
“Neither did you,” I interject, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head as I remove my right hand from his shoulder and lightly trace my finger along the largest of the scars across his back. “But... Again, it's okay. It really is. Scars... They're just not worth working yourself up over, and...”
“Don't... Please, Ethan,” Will whispers with the just the right note of breathless pleading tone to his voice to immediately make me feel like the lowest life-form on earth as goosebumps break out across his skin and he cringes at my - apparently careless - touch. “Just... Don't... touch them...”
Feeling more than a little breathless myself at his reaction, I jerk my hands away from him and, not knowing what else to do, shuffle back and slump down until my butt is resting on my heels. “Will, they're just...”
“Hideous. They're just... hideous, that... that's what they are.”
“I was actually going to say that they're just... scars,” I murmur, once again not wanting to add to Will's obvious distress but, at the same time, just wanting to do what - little - I can to get it through to him that they're nowhere near as bad as he's clearly convinced himself they are. Yes, they're obvious and, yes, I hate knowing what caused them, but at the end of the day they're just part of Will and, despite wishing this wasn't the case at all, to me anyway they've just always been there.
“I... I don't know how you can even look at them, let alone... bring yourself to touch them,” Will mutters, glancing over his shoulder and giving me a beseeching look through bright eyes. “They're...”
“Part of you,” I finish as matter-a-factly as I can manage. “That's all they are, Will. They're a part of you.”
“They... They shouldn't be! They shouldn't be there...”
“But they are, and...” Taking a deep breath, I return my hands to Will shoulders and, as he gives every impression of just wanting to get up and bolt, press down on them. “They're a part of you, they've been there ever since I met you, and... Listen to me, Will, this... this is just how I know you, as...”
“As a freak!” he exclaims with obvious agitation as he tries half-heartedly to pull away from me.
“No.” Accepting that this has gone too far, I release my hold on Will and climb off the mattress I then, after quickly pulling on my pyjama pants and grabbing Will's from his bag, walk around the bed and, after placing his pyjamas next to him, take his hand in mine and carefully pull him upright. “As you,” I state thickly as, to my great relief, Will puts up no resistance and just relaxes in to my embrace. “Your scars are a part of you, but that's all they are. They're not hideous, they don't mark you... as a freak, and... they... they really are just another part of you. When I look at them, all I see is... you...”
“But...”
“And when I see you,” I interrupt, calmly cutting him off as I both hug him tightly and rest my forehead against his, “what I'm really seeing, hell... make that, all... that I'm seeing, is the man I love... Not his scars, or the memories of how he... shouldn't... have got them, or even... anything else for that matter. Will, I...” Taking a deep breath, I push through the emotion and just... go for it. “I love you, scars and all, and I... I just don't know what else to say or... what more I can do to get it through to you...”
“I...” Lifting his head, Will blushes and, through eyes bright with unshed tears, flashes me one of his heart-breakingly beautiful smiles. “I know,” he whispers, leaning forward and planting a fleeting kiss on my cheek. “Just as, and I really hope you already know this, I love you too. I... Of course I do.”
“I not only know, I also thank my lucky stars for it,” I reply, softening the emotionally-laden truth of my response behind a grin as I loosen my hold on Will in order to reach over to the bed and pick up his pyjama pants. “Now...” I hand him his pants and, as he gives me a grateful look before quickly pulling them on, look pointedly at the mattress. “What do you say we just put a full-stop on this night and go to bed, yeah?”
“Sounds good,” Will agrees, giving my cheek another kiss as grabs his top and pulls it on. “You know...” Pausing as he willingly lets me take on the self-imposed task of doing up the buttons on his pyjama top, he smiles and, to my continued relief, laughs. “You're actually so good to me, what with putting up with my random moods and... uh... everything else, that... even if you... were... to disfigure yourself with a tattoo of an Impala, I think I could still possibly bring myself to love you...”
“Possibly, huh?” Groaning, I shake my head and, once, that is, I've made a mental note to... possibly wave a gun at Jane and Benji the next time they feel compelled to bring up their pet subject of wanting me to get a tattoo, echo Will's laugh. “I'll...” Shaking my head again, I wrap my arms around Will and, as we settle together instinctively and he slides his arms around my waist, add, “I'll be sure to keep that in mind!”
~ end ~