Disclaimer: I, in know way shape, form, or contract, own anything related to TinMan.
The Absence of Touch
Eight years without experiencing the touch of another human had affected him greatly. Beneath his ever present stoic exterior lay a gnawing need. He refused to allow that need to show to the others, but he could feel it running beneath the surface of his skin.
Each innocent touch brought the restlessness closer to the surface. Ever hug and gentle touch to his arm or shoulder resulted in an internal struggle for control. He fought with his inner demon to control the surging desire to feel the breadth of human flesh against his own.
Nights were the worst for him. There was nothing left to stop the incessant longings that coursed through him. He slept only in short naps. To the others, he foisted some pathetic excuse for needing to keep watch, no need for a lot of sleep since being in the suit, etc. You get the picture. The reality was the visions that he could not keep at bay. Visions of dark hair winding itself over and around his body, soft hands that traced muscles hardened by years of work, lips that soothed and tormented his starved flesh. It all created a nightmare for him. He could not give in to those feverish dreams.
It wasn't fair. God, he was confused as to what was right and wrong. His wife had only been dead a short while; he should still be mourning for her, and in some ways he was. But he had also lived eight years with the knowledge that his wife had been ripped from his life. He had watched over and over the savage brutality being visited upon those he held most dear. He had mourned for them for eight long brutal years. A part of him was ready to let the anguish go. But what type of man did that make him?
His life as a TinMan had been surrounded by rules and expectations of always doing the right thing. He had been raised by his father to always stand up against wrongs. To the world it was expected he should keep his emotions firmly locked behind an emotionless mask. He was in essence a man made of tin, devoid of all expression, able to deflect all things human. Except for this burning need that wove its way through his body.
It could be considered a sexual need, and to be honest, in part it was. He couldn't stop his eyes from watching the graceful sway of feminine hips as SHE passed by him. He watched beneath his fedora the way her breasts pushed and moved beneath her shirt. It was only through sheer will and determination that the desire he felt did not manifest itself through his body.
He made certain his thoughts, feelings, desires, whatever were locked up tighter than a Tin Suit. No one was allowed to see him as any thing other than a hard-ass protector, especially her.
But his need for touch was only partly sexual. It was also born from a need to really know that he had escaped that wretched suit. He was really alive, not just stuck in another demented time loop dreamed up by the witch. He wanted to ground himself to this reality, this time frame, this moment. However, fear kept him from reaching out to those who would understand his dilemma.
Fear that his needs would overwhelm them and drive them away. He would be alone again. Fear that he couldn't control the burning hunger that roared through him. Fear that maybe he was just to damn broke to ever be fixed.
Maybe someday, he'll be able to break free from this suit of Not Tin, but until then, he would remain ever vigilant and ever present, waiting for her to break him out of this prison.
The End.