The first day he spends at home is always somewhat quiet – but only in the sense that they are alone and undisturbed. He still isn't quite used to seeing himself in a mirror every morning, or afternoon, or anytime he likes, really. Sometimes he wonders at the marking on his face. Memories of who he was before the Tower, before Lucy, before Ultear, before everything are hazy. He thinks maybe he remembered at one point but not anymore. Now it feels unimportant.
When Lucy catches him staring at his own reflection she touches his cheeks and directs his gaze downward. There he finds her smiling. Her fingers brush the thickest lines of the mark before she kisses his cheek. In his mind it marks him as hers.
Lucy has no defining marks. Her scars don't stand out angrily on her skin. They are, instead, silvery lines gracefully swooping and arching across her back and arms like the downy barbs of a feather. He knows them all now. The design is more complicated than any collection of stars he holds in his hands.
Even though they are temporary – Loke knows the bruises will fade in a day or two – he makes his own marks. The soft swell of skin on the inside of her thigh is perfect and rises into his mouth easily. The jut of her hip is harder to manage but he visits the spot when he feels most determined. Resting The underside of her right breast is perhaps his favorite. Lucy's favorite, however, is the sensitive curve of her neck. His lips pull at her and when she gasps and shudders he knows that she is his. She is his peace when others have conditions.