ashmusing: (don't have to put on that red light)
Ash ([personal profile] ashmusing) wrote2010-09-01 07:47 pm

FIC: Marks

TITLE: Marks
FANDOM: M'ways (24/Avatar)
RATING: R
WORDS: 415
CHARACTERS: Trudy Chacon, Carl Benton
PAIRING: Trudy/Carl
SUMMARY: Trudy's right pointer finger is forever marked by a window in Luanda, and it circles a scar that one of the thousands of bullets from Mogadishu left on his arm.
A/N: Written for the millirific prompt: Violence. For those who are curious, Luanda is the capital of Angola.



Violence leaves its mark, they both know that. Mind, body, and soul, all scarred from shrapnel and explosions and death. Hell, they even have some of the same scars; nicks from bullets and slices from the broken glass that is ubiquitous to urban warfare. Trudy's right pointer finger is forever marked by a window in Luanda, and it circles a scar that one of the thousands of bullets from Mogadishu left on his arm. Carl's hand brushes against a faded gash below her left breast, and he murmurs into her hair, Do I even want to know how you got this?

Piece of shit body armour.

Crazy Marine
, he tells her, because he knows knife scars, and that one is a beauty.

You should talk, she says with a breathless laugh, and ducks her head to run her tongue over a knife scar of his own, right at the join of neck and shoulder (courtesy of someone aiming for his throat in Classifiedistan). It isn't that they turn their battle injuries into a fetish, it's just that the scars are part and parcel of who each of them fundamentally is. He runs his fingers over the stories of her fractured tibia (her shins don't quite match, the Tibet break on her left was three inches lower than the Pandoran one on her right); when he goes down on her, she digs her blunt nails into the tale of the burn at the base of his neck (being underneath a gunship during a battle is not always advisable, not with their machine-guns and all the burning hot shells that fall). Her hands glide over vignettes involving locations he can't tell her, but she can still read this bullet-hole and still scan the prose of how these slashes came to mark his skin. There is a thin line that trails up her thigh to the curve of her behind which he is fairly certain she'd turn into a joke if asked; there is another thin razor line across her wrist that speaks of something more desperate (she'd turn that into a joke, too, a yeah, that's the last time I hesitated at shooting joke that isn't really funny when you think about it).

But when she flips them over and he clutches her hips, his fingers dig into not a scar, but the tattoo of a tiger she designed herself.

Violence might be the thing that marks them the most, but it is not the only thing.

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