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faye_dartmouthTitle: Scar Tissue
Disclaimer: I do not own Primeval;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lena7142 created Feral Stephen.
A/N: More in the Continued Adventures of Feral Stephen. With thanks tolena7142 as always. If you haven’t picked up on it, she basically wins at life.
Summary: Everyone else found Stephen’s scars to be a walking conversation starter.
-o-
Most scars you could see, and Stephen sported his with indifference. Over the months since Stephen’s return, Cutter had seen the younger man’s scar tissue more than he wanted to, a constant reminder of just what he’d endured.
Cutter chose to look away when he could, but everyone else found Stephen’s scars to be a walking conversation starter.
“Would you look at that one!” Connor exclaimed, pointing to a twisted one under Stephen’s arm and down his back as they changed after a messy run-in with an anomaly.
Cutter glanced at it, hurriedly looking away as he toweled himself off and found his own shirt. His own scars from the future predator were almost faded now, but sometimes the skin still felt tight when he took a deep breath in the cold.
Nose scrunched, Stephen lifted his arm to look at it. Then he shrugged. “Some kind of predator,” he said. “It went too fast to make out exactly what it was.”
Connor’s eyes bugged. “You have scars from creatures you can’t even name!” he said, plainly awestruck. “What about that one?”
He pointed to a jagged gouge in Stephen’s bicep.
“Something took a bite out of me,” Stephen replied, rummaging around in his bag for a clean shirt.
“And what did you do?” Connor asked, clearly enthralled.
Stephen sniffed a shirt, considered it passable and looked at Connor in all seriousness. “I bit it back,” he said.
Connor stared, as if waiting for the punchline. Then he snorted before laughing again. “You’re serious.”
Stephen put on his shirt. “It didn’t taste very good,” he said.
Connor laughed again. “So tell me,” he said. “Which one is your favourite?”
Stephen regarded him sceptically, hesitating for just a moment. And in that moment, Cutter saw the scars -- the old ones, the fresh ones, the deep gash he’d suffered while trying to protect Cutter and save the future.
But he saw more than that. He saw the years of pain and isolation, of self-loathing and recrimination. He saw a man who had endured everything and survived. A man who still dreamed of predators and prey and Helen bloody Cutter.
Stephen’s face went blank just as fast as he picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “None of them,” he said frankly. “Scars are mistakes. I don’t like to be reminded of my mistakes.”
With that, he walked out. There was no malice in his tone, just cold weariness that left Connor gaping in his wake.
“He’s like a superhero,” Connor said. “Only way cooler.”
Cutter smiled but didn’t reply, still watching the door where Stephen had left. He wondered about the scars; not just what caused them but how well they really healed. How long would the marks last? How much would the scar tissue hurt? Were they reminders he’d never leave behind? Because most scars you could see.
The ones you couldn’t, on the other hand, were the deepest ones of all.
Disclaimer: I do not own Primeval;
lena7142 created Feral Stephen.A/N: More in the Continued Adventures of Feral Stephen. With thanks to
lena7142 as always. If you haven’t picked up on it, she basically wins at life.Summary: Everyone else found Stephen’s scars to be a walking conversation starter.
-o-
Most scars you could see, and Stephen sported his with indifference. Over the months since Stephen’s return, Cutter had seen the younger man’s scar tissue more than he wanted to, a constant reminder of just what he’d endured.
Cutter chose to look away when he could, but everyone else found Stephen’s scars to be a walking conversation starter.
“Would you look at that one!” Connor exclaimed, pointing to a twisted one under Stephen’s arm and down his back as they changed after a messy run-in with an anomaly.
Cutter glanced at it, hurriedly looking away as he toweled himself off and found his own shirt. His own scars from the future predator were almost faded now, but sometimes the skin still felt tight when he took a deep breath in the cold.
Nose scrunched, Stephen lifted his arm to look at it. Then he shrugged. “Some kind of predator,” he said. “It went too fast to make out exactly what it was.”
Connor’s eyes bugged. “You have scars from creatures you can’t even name!” he said, plainly awestruck. “What about that one?”
He pointed to a jagged gouge in Stephen’s bicep.
“Something took a bite out of me,” Stephen replied, rummaging around in his bag for a clean shirt.
“And what did you do?” Connor asked, clearly enthralled.
Stephen sniffed a shirt, considered it passable and looked at Connor in all seriousness. “I bit it back,” he said.
Connor stared, as if waiting for the punchline. Then he snorted before laughing again. “You’re serious.”
Stephen put on his shirt. “It didn’t taste very good,” he said.
Connor laughed again. “So tell me,” he said. “Which one is your favourite?”
Stephen regarded him sceptically, hesitating for just a moment. And in that moment, Cutter saw the scars -- the old ones, the fresh ones, the deep gash he’d suffered while trying to protect Cutter and save the future.
But he saw more than that. He saw the years of pain and isolation, of self-loathing and recrimination. He saw a man who had endured everything and survived. A man who still dreamed of predators and prey and Helen bloody Cutter.
Stephen’s face went blank just as fast as he picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “None of them,” he said frankly. “Scars are mistakes. I don’t like to be reminded of my mistakes.”
With that, he walked out. There was no malice in his tone, just cold weariness that left Connor gaping in his wake.
“He’s like a superhero,” Connor said. “Only way cooler.”
Cutter smiled but didn’t reply, still watching the door where Stephen had left. He wondered about the scars; not just what caused them but how well they really healed. How long would the marks last? How much would the scar tissue hurt? Were they reminders he’d never leave behind? Because most scars you could see.
The ones you couldn’t, on the other hand, were the deepest ones of all.
