Author: Daydreamer
Posted: March 6, 2004

Scars

I used to wonder sometimes, as we were lying together, spent from our passion, what really went on in his head. He was enthusiastic, generous, tender, loving -- but he was also tentative at times, and almost fragile. Like he wasn't sure how I was going to react. And he always seemed to be holding something back, or maybe it was just that he seemed braced for something -- waiting. I'd poke a little, prod, "Are you okay, babe? Something wrong?" but he'd just shake his head, grin that blinding grin, and capture me with a kiss.

But still, I couldn't help but feel he was waiting -- waiting for something. For me to say something or do something or give him something, and I hadn't a clue what it is.

I began to figure it out when I first saw the scars.

See, he sprawls on the bed when he sleeps, and takes up far more than his fair share of the mattress, but I don't care. I love watching him sleep. It's the only time he's completely relaxed; open in a way that I rarely see when he's awake. He's totally vulnerable, completely trusting. It takes courage to sleep with someone, and I don't just mean sex. I mean trusting that you'll be safe when you let your barriers down and drift off into oblivion. I never realized that before -- how vulnerable you are when you're asleep, how much trust it entails -- until I slept with Hutch and saw the scars.

I didn't see them -- the scars -- the first time we slept together. It was so gradual, this merging of ours. First to seek each other for company and companionship. Then for comfort -- he'd sleep on my couch, or I'd sleep on his. And then to sleep together, clinging to each other in the dark after an especially vicious day that had drained us both. No sex -- we wore pants and shirts the first time and it took months before we finally crawled into bed in just our boxers. But from the beginning, it was the contact. Bodies touching, arms holding, a hand that brushed back hair or gently rubbed a neck. Comfort. Comfort that slowly became routine. First we'd go to each other when we were in extremity -- when the day was bad, the events too much to carry alone. But slowly it shifted to where we'd seek each other out of loneliness or sadness, or just because we felt a little off. And then without our even being aware of it, it became routine to ask, "Your place or mine?" and we'd settle in for dinner and a little TV and then crawl in the bed together.

I didn't see the scars the first time we slept together, either. My mind was on other things. It was a bad day -- he'd killed a kid. A sixteen year old kid with a gun who would have killed me if Hutch hadn't got him first. So it was a clean shoot, and I was personally quite pleased to still be alive, but it was eating Hutch up. We'd had dinner, and then he'd stared at the television without turning it on while I cleaned up. When I came into the living room, he'd looked up at me, his eyes haunted and full of pain, and asked if we could go to bed. I told him to go, then watched as he almost stumbled to the bedroom. I turned out lights, locked up, and then followed him. By the time I got to the bedroom, he was curled up under the covers, trying to make over six feet of cop vanish beneath an old worn bedspread. I slid in behind him and without thinking, kissed the back of his neck.

He flinched and I thought I'd blown it. I thought it was all over. But then he turned in my arms and touched my face, a look of wonder chasing the pain from his eyes. I captured his hand and kissed his fingers. He rolled closer, moving against me, as if he wanted to crawl into my skin, and I found myself cooing in his ear, kissing him softly as I tried to slow his frantic race to the end. He was manic, his cock straining at the fabric of his boxers, mine doing the same, and I kissed my way across his palm then onto his face, his throat, his ears.

His fingers danced across my skin, until I rolled us over. His legs wrapped over and through mine, and our mouths fused together as we slid -- back and forth, faster and faster -- pressing against each other. His kisses were hungry, as if he were a starving man suddenly presented with a banquet. It didn't take long until he moaned, dug his fingers deeply into my back and the slick, wet evidence of his orgasm slid between us, coating my penis. That was all it took for me, and I rocked against him until I, too, achieved release.

No, it wasn't then that I saw the scars.

I'm not sure how long it took before I could separate his body from his beauty, and focus on the parts that made up the whole. I remember the moon was shining through the bedroom window and it turned his golden hair silver. He was sated, half-asleep in post-coital bliss, and I was indulging myself in a good long look at him, sprawled openly beside me. It was then I saw them. Faint white lines that criss-crossed his buttocks, his back, his upper thighs. Marks given to him by his father -- a man who supposedly loved him. That's what Hutch said when I asked -- "My Dad did it, because he loved me."

It angered me when I saw them. I realized then that his childhood hadn't just been one of distant parents and emotional neglect -- he'd been abused. But when I voiced it, said the "A" word, he denied it so quickly, so completely, I was angry all over again. He swore it wasn't abuse, and it only happened one time. But I couldn't believe him; anything that left those kind of marks certainly was abuse. And no one-time beating could have left so many without killing him.

But I didn't argue because it upset him.

I just asked what had happened.

"I was careless," he said, shrugging as he rolled away.

I moved to him, wrapped my arms around him, and ignored the stiffening in his body. I didn't speak again, just held him until he relaxed. Held him until his breathing grew steady and even. Held him in silence until he finally slipped into sleep.

I put it aside for a while then, and we didn't speak of it again. But when we were together, naked in our bed, I couldn't resist peppering those lines with little kisses, as if my touch could heal those decades old scars.

I began to get more of the story the more time we spent together. I began to piece it all together, making new connections when his actions puzzled me. Like the time I broke one of his pots. He's a little weird about his plants -- talks to them, calls them by name, makes sure they're fed and all that. Even leaves the radio on during the day so they won't get lonely. So when I backed into Albert, knocking the pot on the floor and spilling most of the dirt all over the place, I really expected him to blow up. But it was almost the opposite. He was the one who flinched, backing away from me as if I were going to explode.

"I'll get it, Hutch. I'm sorry. Let me clean it up," I said.

But he scurried around, cleaning up and muttering assurances that it was "okay, okay, no harm done," until I had to stop him. He moved so fast, so frantically, I was afraid he was going to cut himself. Kneeling, he picked up the pottery shards in his bare hands until I reached out to stop him. He froze and the proverbial 'deer-in-the-headlights' look crossed his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't have put the pot there."

I frowned, and reached out to take his hand. "Hutch," I said softly, not quite sure where he was in his mind, what memories were carrying him away from me. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was me -- I broke the pot."

He nodded, his head bobbing up and down in a jerky little motion, and he came to his feet when I pulled him upward. He stared at me, then stared at the fragments in his hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to cry.

"Trash, Hutch," I said, pointing, and was relieved when he dropped the shards into the can. "Go wash your hands," I told him, "and I'll finish up here."

He nodded obediently and headed off while I finished the cleanup.

Afterward, he blew it off like nothing had happened and got really mad at me when I tried to get him to talk.

Hey, I may not have a college degree, but I know the after-effects of abuse when I see them.

And then I found out it was even worse. It wasn't just his childhood -- wasn't just his father.

See -- it's like he never got over that adolescent awkwardness -- legs too long for his body, arms that he doesn't quite know how to handle. It can make him clumsy at times. He was making coffee one morning and he dropped my cup. Now, it wasn't a special cup, nothing sentimental or valuable about it. It was just a cup that I had happened to bring over to his place one morning and somehow it had stayed there. But when he dropped it, you'd have thought he'd lost the crown jewels. He panicked -- completely. Full flashback, and believe me, I know a flashback when I see one. He was on his knees again, ignoring the scalding coffee, ignoring the cuts on his hands as he picked up the glass as quickly as he could. He was muttering again, "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry ..." as if his life depended on it.

To him, maybe it did.

I knelt, gently reaching out to stop his frantic movements.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he chanted. "Didn't mean it, Van, didn't mean it."

And then I knew. I wasn't just his father -- his wife had abused him, too.

She'd left him with scars -- every silvery line a silent testimony to his love for her. She bit him, cut him, struck him -- and yet, he stayed. He was loyal. He loved her.

I ache that he was so abused, so mistreated by the people who were supposed to love him, to care for him.

It took months more before he began to talk to me about it and then it came out in bits and pieces, but I remembered every one. I traced a line on his thigh, dropped a kiss there, and he said, "She was angry with me -- I didn't take the trash out."

"What did she do?" I asked, choking on the normalcy of the words, and he replied, "That one? That was a knife."

Dear God -- a knife. She sliced him with a knife -- she scarred him.

It made me bank my temper. I've always been a little short-tempered, but with him, it was like someone had thrown a switch, and I just didn't get upset. All those scars? I figured he'd had enough people upset at him to last a lifetime -- he didn't need it from me, too. Not that I'd ever hit him, or hurt him. I mean, I know even if I did get mad, I'd never hit him. But I don't think he knows that.

One night, we were doing the dishes -- I was washing and he was drying -- and he dropped a plate. It didn't break, wasn't a problem at all, and I was about to tease him about having the dropsies, when I saw his face.

"What?" I asked.

He frowned at me, then looked away, staring first at the ceiling, then the floor, then wiping almost desperately at the plate.

"What?" I asked again.

"I screw up," he whispered, his hand suddenly still as he clutched the plate in a death grip.

I shrugged, feeling like I was back in 'Nam on point, walking through a minefield. "We all do."

"No, I mean, I ..." He cleared his throat and looked away again. "You don't ..." His eyes caught mine for a fraction of a second and I could see fear and confusion there. "You say you love me ..." He didn't seem able to complete a thought.

"I do, Hutch," I said, taking the towel and the plate from him. I placed the plate in the drainer, then wiped my hands before I enfolded him in my arms. "More than life itself, buddy." His head came down to rest on my shoulder. "What's going on here, Hutch?"

I could feel him struggling with himself, struggling for words. "You don't ..."

"I don't what?" I prompted, still holding him tight.

"I screw up," he repeated, his voice barely audible. "You don't ... you know." His hand waved behind my back -- a swatting motion -- and I thought for a moment I was going to be sick.

I squeezed him hard, then pulled away, holding him at arms length and waiting until he met my gaze. "I'm not ever going to hit you, Hutch," I said, trying desperately to infuse my voice with enough sincerity, enough conviction, that he would believe me.

"Deserve it," he muttered, eyes on the ground.

I shook him a little. "You're a cop, Hutch. You know that's not true. No one deserves to get hit. How many women and kids you said that to? No one deserves to get hit." I touched his cheek, lifted his chin. "And especially not you."

He shook his head. "It gets all mixed up in my head, Starsk," he said. "I guess I know what you're saying is true on one level, but then, somewhere else, it's like I keep waiting for the blows, and when they don't come, I question if you really love me."

"I do," I replied. "I love you, but I'm not going to hit you. This is messed up, Hutch. You gotta know that."

He shrugged. "All messed up in my head. Too many years of Dad telling me it was for my own good and because he loved me -- and then Van, too. It all got mixed up in my head."

I took his hand, leading him to the sofa and then pulled him down to sit next to me. He curled up, amazing me again at how small he can make himself when he tries, and I wrapped my arm around him. I didn't know what to say, so I settled for kissing the top of his head and rubbing his arm in silence.

He sighed, then pulled away and looked at me; his blue eyes no longer confused. His hand came out and stroked my cheek and he whispered, "You're too good to me. So gentle, so careful. I see the way you hold your temper. I know you get mad, but you never show it. It's like you think I'll break."

I thought back to the times he flinched when I touched him, or pulled away if I moved toward him too quickly. "Sometimes I think you will," I murmured.

He flushed, shamed, but before he could draw further away, I pulled him close and kissed him. "Love you, Hutch," I whispered, holding him tight.

He nodded, then dropped his head. "Love you, too, partner." He sighed then, and let his head fall forward to rest against my chest. " 'm tired. Bed?"

I nodded and rose, pulling him up, kissing him again, and then sending him to the bedroom. It took no time at all to lock up and I slid into the bed with him, pulling him close again. I rubbed his back, and kissed his hair, and studiously ignored his tears because I knew he would want me to.

But when he was finally asleep, I turned my head and let my own tears fall.