There is a scar on Claire's hip, right side, just above the sharp angle of the bone (she's always been so, so small and thin, but they're on rations now, underground, and everything juts out a bit more from the body), and Topher can trace the jagged curve of it perfectly without even glancing down.
He knows it better than any of her other scars, despite the fact that, compared to the ones on her face, he hardly ever sees it. After all, he spent almost three years inventing stories for that scar, explanations to satisfy any clients with curious hands. Actives can't deal with incongruities once they're pointed out.
From her file: Whiskey – scar right hip, approx. 3 in. – correct for imprint. So she fell off her bike, or the neighbor's cat scratched her, or she got into a fight and someone pulled a knife on her. Whatever made sense for the engagement. You could never fault him for a lack of creativity.
He thinks if she appeared one day without the scars Alpha gave her (they can do that now, and he knows she thinks of it, smoothing that history away), he'd never be able to remember their exact pattern. But he'll always know this one.
Topher sweeps his thumb over the line of it and thinks, strangely, he can't recall what explanation he created for Claire Saunders. (He doesn't look at her file anymore, because that's cheating.)
He asks her, "How did you get this scar?" and she immediately narrows her eyes. Funny how her glare is no less fierce for the way her legs are hooked around his waist and her hands are knotted in his hair. He knows she still kind of hates him and always will. He tries his damnedest to hate her, but it's hindered by that fact that he still kind of loves her, his masterpiece in flesh. They're buried so deeply in each other's minds that matching the bodies only makes sense.
"I don't know," she says sharply in reply. "You know that."
He corrects himself, says, "How do you think you got it?"
Claire looks at him with suspicion, slides a hand down to the back of his neck and digs her nails in, like she wants to give him his own scar just to make him explain it. Finally, she gives in and says, "Climbing a tree when I was younger. I fell."
Topher laughs. He laughs obnoxiously hard, and she can feel the vibrations travel through their bodies. "That's boring," he smirks when he finally stops. "Definitely not my best."
She yanks on his hair, makes him wince and lose that amused expression, and pulls his head down until his nose nearly touches hers. "Stop talking," she breathes, and she presses her mouth to his to enforce the order. This doesn't work right if he talks.
Topher feels the rough brush of scar tissue against his lips and closes his eyes, flicks his tongue across where the old wound splits nose-to-chin when she lets him pull back. He's getting to know this one quite well, too, and thinks he might miss it when it's gone and he can no longer picture which side of her face it marred. The little things slip away from him so easily these days. He presses his hand against her side and sighs, "Whiskey, correct for imprint."
Claire frowns at him and says, "Losing your mind."
"I know," he responds, smiling.