Disclaimer: I don't own it.
A/n: This story is dedicated to my DAR sister Gypsydoggy10, in the hope it will encourage her to block anonymous reviews and re-post the wonderful Making Amends. Please?
Set just before Art Attack.
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Scars on the Soul
Silently as always, Max picked the lock to Logan's apartment, letting herself in with the careless ease of long practice. She was about to call out to him when she heard Bling's voice, sounding pleased.
"Well done, Logan, you've managed not to bust a single stitch this week. If Sam approves, you can have them taken out tomorrow. Just in time for basketball practice." Still without making a sound, Max shifted so that she could see into Logan's training room; he lay face down on the bench, head resting on his folded arms. Bling was blocking most of her view, but she could see enough to know he'd stripped down to his shorts. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth at the sight.
"Good," grunted Logan. "The damn things itch like hell. They're driving me crazy."
"I'll get some more lotion to put on them," the therapist said, amused. "Be right back."
Bling's considerable bulk moved away from him, revealing the full expanse of Logan's naked back to Max's widening eyes.
The pale skin stretched tightly over his muscular shoulders, emphasising their power. The sight was oddly discordant with the network of shiny white scars that marred the smoothness, and the pinkish almost healed one that ran half the length of his spine. That must be from the last surgery, Max realised. The one that almost killed him; again. She shuddered at the thought of how close she'd been to losing this man.
Right in the centre, almost obscured by the countless surgical incisions that had been made around it, lay a small, innocuous looking dimple of scar tissue. The only visible mark made by the bullet that had taken Logan's legs, and very nearly his life, from him.
Max couldn't tear her eyes from the sight. She marvelled that such a small thing could have caused so much devastation…
"Max?" Bling had returned, lotion in hand. "What are you doing here?"
On hearing her name, Logan's head snapped around. His humiliation that she should see him like this was unmistakable.
Max finally found her voice. "I, uh, I'm sorry, I was just dropping by… but I see you're busy, so…" She began to back away.
"We'll only be a few minutes," said Bling placidly. "You're welcome to wait."
Max looked back at Logan, but he refused to meet her gaze. She could imagine the shame and anger in his expressive blue eyes and found herself wanting to be there for him, to comfort him as he had her.
"Ok. I'll wait then," she said, leaving the two of them alone.
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Max needed the ten minutes or so before Logan's appearance to gather her thoughts, prepare for his reaction to what she'd seen.
He wheeled into the living room, now dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, the shame still burning in his eyes. "Hey," she said with a smile, trying to show him she was ok with this. "You sore?"
"I'm fine," he replied, shortly. "It's nothing to worry about. I'm sorry you had to see it."
"Sorry for what? I know what scars look like; mine just heal faster than most."
"I know; but my back isn't exactly an oil painting."
"I've seen worse," she told him. "Honestly, Logan, it's ok."
"That's not what your face said a few minutes ago," he said, his voice brittle.
"The consequences of wrong decisions can be hard to live with," replied Max quietly.
"Are you saying you think it's your fault?" Max's silence was reason enough for Logan to vent his anger. "That's why you hang around here, isn't it? Guilt, because you weren't there before. I don't want your pity, Max."
"Oh, no, I don't pity you, Logan. There's no need; you have more than enough of your own. You should be proud of those scars, not ashamed of them."
"You think I should be proud of failure?"
Both of them paused as they realised they were yelling.
"Come here, Logan," said Max, in a more normal tone. "I want to show you something." She rose from her seat and led him to the mirror they'd looked into together, so long ago.
"American," said Logan flatly. "Neoclassic, gold leaf detail late eighteen hundreds. You could probably fence it for two or three grand."
"No," she said, kneeling beside him and taking his jaw gently in her hand. "I meant this. Probably the singularly most incredible person I've ever met."
"You don't need to follow the script to make me feel better, Max."
"I'm not. I'm saying it because it's true. You're more than a chair, Logan; you're an intelligent, caring man with more integrity and nobility in your little finger than the rest of Seattle put together. So what if your legs don't work? That doesn't change who you are inside."
"You don't understand, Max," Logan said, harshly. "You can't. What it's like to have to wake up every morning and remember that I'm broken…"
"Why do you think I don't sleep?" She asked. "Just because the scars aren't on the surface doesn't mean they're not there."
"Scars on the soul," said he said softly. "Got a few of those, too."
"Show me again, Logan," Max asked. "I want to see your back again."
Reluctantly, Logan swivelled to the side and pulled up his t-shirt, exposing the scars once more. He watched in the mirror as Max ran one finger down his spine, until she felt the lump that was the bullet wound. And then softly, tenderly, she brushed her lips against it.
Suddenly embarrassed by her gesture, Max stood abruptly and headed for the door, calling out to him over her shoulder. "Gotta blaze or Normal'll have my ass. See ya."
Pulling himself from his daze, Logan managed to reply. "Hey, Max?"
"What?" She paused, looking back.
"Thanks. Uh, drop by the park after basketball tomorrow? There's… something I wanna talk to you about."
"No problem," she told him, smiling softly.
The same smile lingered on both of their lips for the rest of the day.
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Any sickos reading this need not review.