Summary: In the aftermath of Crowl's attack, Travis gets a tattoo. Demon!Wes AU.

Warnings: Trust. Trust issues. PTSD. Possession. Rape elements.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

This fic is a direct follow-up to 'In Memoriam'. This ficlet might not make a lot of sense if you haven't read that yet.

EDIT: This was actually supposed to be July's bonus fic, but wasn't working for me so I couldn't upload it at the time. And then I forgot about it. So here you are now!

OOOO

Skin-Deep

"You never know what lurks just beneath the surface of my fragile sanity."

—Ashly Lorenzana

Twenty-four minutes into Wes's interrogation of the tattoo artist's credentials and cleaning habits and god knows what else, Travis is about ready to make a break for it. He can't decide if he wants to jump in and apologizing to the woman, who has clearly been doing this a long time judging by the tattoo sleeves up both arms, or hang his head in shame for his partner's ways. Maybe a little bit of both; he ducks his head, an embarrassed heat creeping over his cheeks, and when the tattoo artist looks at him with one eyebrow raised, clearly saying Is this guy serious? Travis mouths I am so sorry at her.

"Hey Wes," he interrupts, because seriously, it's been—he subtly checks his watch—twenty-six minutes now. "What do you think about a dragon?"

Wes stops midword, turning blankly to him. "What?"

"A dragon." Travis turns the sample book around, showing off the page he'd found. "Isn't this awesome? It'd look amazing curled around my bicep."

Wes barely looks at the dragon, which is silly, because the dragon is incredible, but not unexpected. "We're not here for a dragon, Travis," he snaps, in that way he gets that says Why are you like this I can't take you anywhere. His eyes go black, flicker-flash the way he does when he's annoyed, but his back is to the tattoo artist so Travis is the only one who sees.

"Well, at the rate you're going, we're not gonna be here for anything else, either." He taps his watch pointedly. "You've been interrogating her for twenty-six minutes. Are we gonna do this, or do you want to terrorize some other tattoo artist?"

Wes looks torn. The tattoo artist crosses her arms, looking utterly unimpressed. Travis looks back down at the dragon, because it really is kind of awesome.

"Fine," Wes growls, "Fine. We'll do it here."

"Great." Travis snaps the sample book closed and smiles winningly at the tattoo artist, who continues to look unimpressed. "Do you take walk-ins?"

As a matter of fact, she doesn't, but she had a cancellation so her schedule is free. (Personally, Travis is pretty sure she just wants to get them done and gone so she doesn't have to deal with Wes anymore. Travis understands.) She leads them into the back room; Wes hands over the design, painstakingly sketched on a piece of printer paper, and the tattoo artist steps out to get her supplies. Travis finds himself bare-chested on the chair and studying the ceiling above him, doubts creeping through his mind.

"Are we sure I should do this?" In his periphery, Wes pauses, and Travis can feel his partner looking down at him.

"It was your idea, Travis."

And it had been, just a random thought he'd tossed out, because Wes had upped his overprotective hovering by about ten thousand, ever since the whole thing with the demon Wes calls Crowl, and he'd gone and gotten Travis like six different charms to keep him from getting possessed and Travis had jokingly asked, Wouldn't it be easier if I just got a tattoo?

And Wes had gone still, like that had never occurred to him. And then he'd lit up and declared that was a wonderful idea and Travis really didn't know what else he'd expected.

But the more he thought about it, the more it had seemed like a good idea, which is why he let Wes drag him to four different tattoo parlors until the demon found one he approved of. But now that he's sitting here…

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks. Wes pauses again, then leans over him, blinking down at him.

"You're the one getting the tattoo," Wes points out reasonably. "I don't have anything to do with this."

"You won't be able to possess me anymore."

"Travis," Wes says slowly, like he's talking to a child, "That's the point."

Travis meets his partner's (blue, blue) gaze. "I don't mind you possessing me," he says sincerely, if not entirely honestly. He's never had a problem with it, it's never been a problem, but when he actually thinks about it now, Wes crawling inside him like he's done before, a shiver of unease runs down Travis's spine.

(Travis doesn't think about it much. It's got nothing to do with Wes.)

Wes doesn't notice Travis's reaction. "It's not about me possessing you," he says patiently. "It's about everyone else."

Everyone else, meaning what happened a couple weeks ago, with Crowl. "I don't even remember that," he says, and that's not quite the truth either. He doesn't remember what happened when he was possessed, those few days when he'd been taken and forced to kill. He's watched the security tapes and read the police reports dozens of times, but nothing sparks in his memory. It's like someone went inside his head and erased everything.

Oh, he feels horrified at the crimes, and sick to his stomach at the thought of someone using his body to kill people, but he'd feel the same if it was any other poor soul being possessed. He doesn't remember any of it.

Except…

Except sometimes he wakes from dreams in a cold sweat, choking on a scream. Sometimes he'll have these moments, when he'll look down at his hands and see blood, and he'll feel so damn pleased with himself, even as his stomach heaves, and he'll have to go to the bathroom and throw up and then wash and wash and wash his hands, until he washes away blood that was never there.

Sometimes, in the dead of night when he's all alone, he'll hear a voice laughing in his ear, the taste of ash in his throat.

It's like only the surface memory of those few days has been stripped away. He doesn't remember it cognitively, but viscerally, deep in his muscles and bones, he feels it. He feels every goddamn bit of it.

He blinks, forces the not-quite-memories away, and Wes is watching him, face blank but eyes cautious, wary. And all of a sudden Travis notices the space between them, a few careful feet Wes has placed between himself and the chair, a tiny bubble around Travis he doesn't invade.

And Travis thinks back and realizes, for the first time, exactly how often Wes has been doing that the past few weeks. Wes has never been shy about Travis's personal boundaries—Travis is Wes's, and thus boundaries have no meaning (at least, Travis is pretty sure that's how it works in Wes's little demon brain).

Holy shit, Wes is giving him space.

"Hey." He reaches out, fumbles for Wes's hand—hesitantly, Wes takes a step forward, gently grasps his groping hand. "Hey, Wes, this isn't…this isn't about you."

Wes looks down at him, with eyes that go on forever, and nods shortly. "I know."

But Travis isn't certain Wes does. Wes is a demon, and maybe he just assumes that Travis fears and hates all demons now, even himself—maybe he just expects Travis's fear, can't even be upset about it because that's just how it works. But it's not, that's not it at all.

"It's not," he protests, clutching Wes's hand. "This isn't about you, it's about me." It's about his own piece of mind, needing to know his body is his own no matter what, because he was taken and violated and he may not remember it, but he can still feel it. He needs this,to exert what little control he has.

He reaches over, clasps Wes's hand between his own. "You're still my partner, Wes. I still trust you."

There's something a little sad about the way Wes's eyes widen, ever-so-slightly at that, before black slides over his sclera. Travis waits, but Wes's eyes don't return to blue—this isn't an annoyed flicker-flash, and Travis has gotten good at reading his partner. This is Wes hiding, not letting his emotions show, which means there's something he doesn't want Travis to see.

It means he's a lot more affected by Travis's words than he wants to admit.

"I trust you, Wes," Travis says again, and maybe if he says it enough Wes will start to believe it, will stop expecting rejection and betrayal like it's a foregone conclusion.

Some of the stiffness eases out of Wes's spine, something tight in the corner of his mouth relaxes, and he pats the back of Travis's hand with his free one. "Okay," he says, and Travis still isn't convinced Wes really understands, not one hundred percent, but he sounds a lot more willing to buy it.

That's okay. Travis is certain he'll be able to convince Wes eventually, even if he has to say those three little words every day for the rest of his life.

The tattoo artist finally bustles back into the room. Wes steps back, out of her working area, but Travis doesn't let go of his hand. After a second, like Wes is trying to decide if he should pull away and give Travis his bubble of space back or not, he settles, staying where he is, and Travis gives him a little smile.

"Alright," the tattoo artist says, holding up the template for the tattoo. "This is what you want, just plain black, yeah?"

Travis stares at the anti-possession sigil and can't help tightening his grip on Wes's hand. "Yeah," he says, swallowing hard. "That's what I want."

The woman nods and picks up the tattoo gun, and Travis leans back in the seat, closing his eyes. As the needle sinks into his skin, he holds Wes's hand tight and doesn't let go.

OOOO

Okay. This was supposed to be like a 500 word ficlet. I have no idea how it became three times longer.

I had this idea not long after writing 'In Memoriam' but I wasn't going to do much with it. But then I was playing it around in my head and I realized I did want to write it, so…I did.

Kind of a filler fic, but I like how it turned out. I hope you did too. Let me know what you thought! Comments, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.

Until next time~!