Scars
She knew Finn had scars. She knew in her head that when bullets met flesh they ripped and tore, that the flesh needed to pull itself back together but would never be the same. She didn't really grasp it though until she saw the one on Finn's hand as she passed him a drink. Suddenly she was in the court room and the bullet hit flesh with a wet rip before screaming out the other side.
In the present she jerked away. Her eyes flashed to his with awkward shame, but he merely waited for her to recover herself, his eyes gentle, non-judgemental. She was so unused to that. She had gotten used to Cary's pity. Peter's censure. Finn's understanding was a whisper over her damaged soul. She took a breath and handed him the drink. They didn't talk about it.
She began to notice how, when they sat in court, her eyes were drawn to the scar, the permanent reminder of what had happened, of what had been lost. It took her a little while to realise that it wasn't morbid fascination on her part, but movement. She wondered if he knew that he ran the fingers of his unblemished hand compulsively over the damaged one. She wondered if it was unconscious habit or formed routine. She didn't ask him.
She did watch though. Her eyes tracked the contours of the raised tissue that his whole fingers bumped over. She didn't realise that he'd noticed until one evening as they sat at the bar he suddenly held it out to her. Alicia froze, panicked eyes flashing up to his cool, steady ones; his damaged hand held between them like a metaphor. He let the silence stretch a long while before he spoke, making his intentions clear before the tricky medium of words got involved.
"You can look," he told her simply.
As expected, the moment broke and Alicia turned away, standing up to go without finishing her drink. Unprecedented role reversal. The next day everything was the same, they didn't mention it.
Yet Alicia continued to think about it. She tried not to, but not very hard.
As the days drew towards December the after-work drink became more and more intimate. Darker nights and dimmer lighting. The press of warm bodies inside and cold absence outside. Drinks being served that tasted like childhood. They stuck to Scotch and Wine. It seemed safer to stay in the marked bays of routine, even if they did scuff the boundary on occasion. So, they had one drink, talked, and then left for their respective homes. Simple.
A few days before the relevant seasonal exclamation mark Finn broke pattern. Their bar of choice was at capacity and they'd both been working late on opposing cases so arrived at a more unreasonable hour. Conversation became a series of "Whats?" and grins at the less-than-ideal situation. It was so tempting to just lean over and whisper in an ear. She didn't.
Despite his efforts to hide it Alicia knew Finn was on edge. His grin was strained, and his fingers tripped time and again over the scar in a reassuring rhythm of anxiety. She finished her drink quickly, so he could leave. He would never say anything, but she took it on herself to notice. As her glass hit the bar with a noise drowned out by the patrons, Finn glanced over at her.
"I'm walking you back to your car," he told her firmly as a raucous cheer went up from those assembled a few tables over. Finn neatly downed the rest of his drink, trying to hide his flinch at the noise.
"Really, I'm okay," Alicia smiled reassuringly, placing a hand on his shoulder, but Finn barely glanced at her as he stood up and shrugged on his coat, some stiffness to the gesture. It meant she had to remove her hand.
"You kidding?" he muttered with a mere dash of wry humour. "There's something in the water tonight," he nodded at the rowdy stag do and Alicia grinned.
"Finn," there was an indulgent admonishment in the word, but he shook his head firmly.
"My sixth sense is tingling. I'm walking you back."
She sighed with resignation and pulled on her own coat.
"All right."
He didn't usually insist so she allowed it.
The walk back was cold. Each breath a thousand needles in her throat. As a sudden gust cut through their coats like they were nothing Alicia saw Finn wince with ill-concealed pain. His right hand reached for the opposite shoulder and squeezed lightly, massaging a little.
"The cold weather sets it off," he explained at her questioning look.
Scars. Bullets cut so deep the insides were as messy as the outsides. She felt momentarily stupid. In all her fantasies (and yes, she admitted that she did have fantasies about Finn) she had not once considered how the body under his clothes would also be scarred. She had a sudden flush of curiosity to see, to touch, but ground it down. It would definitely be crossing a line on their push and pull.
They reached the car and he turned to go.
"Finn," she chided with a head tilt. He twisted back to her questioningly. "I'm giving you a lift home." Her tone broached no argument, but he shook his head anyway.
"I'm not sure that's sensible, do you?" There was a smile quirking at the corner of his lips. A mixture of amusement and something intense in his eyes. She tried to let it slide over her as she pointed at the car door.
"I'm not letting you walk in the cold if it hurts your arm. Get in." To make her point she snapped the door open and slid inside, slamming it behind her. She didn't see the head-ducked smile, but she could imagine it. It was only a beat before he clicked open the other door and dropped into the seat.
"Might want to take your coat off," she remarked and set the heaters to full blast. His sigh of appreciation was audible, and she felt her skin warm a little. Coats were shrugged off, hers tossed onto the back seat, and she started to drive. Her mind was on the scars.
Will did not have any scars. His wounds were fatal and eternal. They were stitched up and made presentable, sealed not scarred. A body had to heal to scar. A body had to heal to be alive.
"You all right?" Finn asked gently when the silence stretched too long, and Alicia nodded around the lump in her throat. He seemed to know without her saying, so left her to her thoughts. It wasn't something they talked about.
As she pulled the car over at his place, and he prepared to get out, something inside her gave. Eyes on the verge of tears, which she refused to cry, she murmured, "Wait." He did. He watched her and waited. Will's death had bound him to Finn in her mind and she needed a disconnect. She needed something that was uniquely Finn. That was utterly and entirely not Will. A dividing line.
Without saying anything she turned to face him and held out her hand. Finn let a beat pass, his eyes searching hers for certainty, before placing his own damaged one into it. Alicia felt the frisson from rough, warm fingers skip up her arm and settle in her stomach.
She didn't move for a moment.
"Is this a push or a pull?" he murmured into the warm darkness and she shook her head.
"Neither."
With overly cautious movements she let her other hand settle over the damaged tissue and began to gently trace it. She heard his breath hitch but let it stay outside of her. She kept her eyes open as she examined the scars with touch and sight.
"What are you looking for?" he asked finally, voice pitched with curiosity but threaded with something far more dangerous that tugged at the same response inside of her. For a single moment she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining her lips where her fingers were but let go before she could act.
"I'm reminding myself," she replied cryptically and released his hand. "Thank you." He heard the dismissal even as she knew he saw the opposite in her face.
She could rely on him to be sensible.
"Good night Alicia."
"Good night Finn."
They exchanged smiles and he exited the car. She waited a moment before driving away, letting her eyes shut to remember more clearly. She felt the line between Will and Finn grow more solid, stronger.
Scars were for the living.