Disclaimer: Not my characters.
A/N: I saw a physical theatre piece a while back about how you can choose to forget certain things in your life, but your body remembers, and how your scars make you who you are. I thought it was an interesting idea for a fic, and, well, here we are.
Nath, as always, thanks for betaing.
Alexx and I had a conversation a while back about how a person's body told a story. I'd asked her how she could perform autopsy after autopsy without getting creeped out. I don't think I'll ever get used to the sight of a dead body – and no, that's not a sign of weakness. I'm afraid that if I get used to it, I'll lose the part of myself that makes me human. Alexx agrees, and she says the only reason she's an ME is because the dead have a right to have their stories heard.
Of course, it's not only a corpse that tells a story. I'm quite happy to be lying in my boyfriend's bed, 'reading' his body.
And what a magnificent body it is1
It doesn't take him long to wonder what I'm up to. "Calleigh?"
"Hmm?"
"Having fun?" He sounds amused. I sit up and meet his gaze.
"I'm reading."
He laughs. I love it when he laughs. He's always so serious. This is a side to him that few people get to see. "Reading, huh? That's a new one."
"No, seriously." I let my hand move to his thigh. "I'm reading your scars."
Something in his expression changes. His smile softens. "And?"
And I think the most painful ones are on your heart. I don't say that, though. Instead, I trace the mark on his leg. "A bullet?"
He nods. "I walked into a scene I thought was secure. The guy surprised me. Bullet went straight through."
I move my hand to the back of his leg. Sure enough, there's another scar.
Suddenly, I can't bear to think about him hurt. He sees the tears in my eyes and pulls me into his arms.
"My turn." He kisses the butterfly tattoo on my shoulder blade. "Tell me about this one."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Do you regret having it done?"
"No. It brought us together, didn't it?" I remember that afternoon in the quarry, his tentative touch, our usual flirting.
His hand travels further down my back, his fingers lightly brushing the scars I don't want to talk about. "And these?"
"Horatio, I—" My voice catches in my throat.
"You don't have to tell me."
I know. But I did start this. And he is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I can't hide this forever.
"My father. He's not himself when he drinks." That's as close as I've ever come to admitting what happened.
He holds me tighter. "Oh, Cal."
He strokes my back, as if hoping his touch will remove the pain of the past. Or maybe that's just how my fanciful imagination sees it.
I'm so busy concentrating on his touch that it's a while before I realize he's speaking. His words – "I love you" over and over again – do more to erase any hurt that still remains than anything else he could do.
What did I do to deserve this man? He loves me, scars and all. This beautiful, wonderful man loves me.
It's only when he kisses my tears away that I realize I'm crying.
"Cal, what's wrong? Talk to me."
I shake my head. "Nothing's wrong. I'm good, I promise."
He holds my gaze, gauging if I'm telling the truth. As if I could ever lie to him. Eventually he smiles. "Is this one of those woman-things?"
"Yeah."
"I suppose I'd better get used to it then."
Laughter bubbles up in my throat and I push him back against the pillows. Count on it, handsome.