Scars

The fingers flowed over smooth skin, finding hair thin scars in the flesh of his arms.

Eyes closed, those fingers ghosted the scars as if he’d always known them, each one

crossed another and flowed into older, deeper scars of his shoulders. Then to the

screws and grate of his chest which rose and fell evenly with deep sleep. It had been so

long since he’d seen this man sleep so deeply; who usually tossed and turned in

nightmares he couldn’t even begin to understand. He felt his heart twist at the thought of 

those scars and the shit he had to go through to get them. Each scar told his questing

fingers it’s story, something this scarred soul couldn’t have ever told him.

These were caused by razor wire, these by gunshots, this by falling debris, this one...

His fingers stopped and his closed eyes burned, this one was his fault. It was soft and

smooth like most newly healed scars are. He regretted it now, sure, but when he’d first

met this man he couldn’t have realized that he’d regret it.

His fingers continued across the marred flesh, looking once more for the physical scars.

He was no saint, for sure, but he still didn’t understand the real pain this man could

have been through; the mental turmoil caused by his brother, and by all the people he’s

tried to save and failed. He’s probably seen people he cared for grow old and die,

yet never told anyone of this pain.

He opened his eyes to stare down at the sleeping face. So beautiful this face was, so

full of peace. Without the knowledge of those scars he was angelic. He used that

unmarred face as a mask to hide behind, but he could always see through it. Now he

knew why this man had such a hollow smile, knew why all the people called him a

disaster.

Poor guy, he thought, though he shook his head, that just isn’t enough to describe the

pain and tragedy he endured. His fingers slid along the scars back the way they’d come.

His angelic face was turned into the moonlight, his human arm cradling it just so that he

looked breath taking even with the knowledge of those scars and that pain.

He found his fingers returning to the new scars, the ones he caused, touching them

gently; giving them his full intense stare, as if he could unmake what he’d made. But the

scars only blurred in his vision as his concentration wavered. The scarred form moved

and he jerked his hand back as if he’d been stung. The man settled on his side, his

back to him, and his metal arm stretched across the bed beside his pillow.

Those scars, he shook his head again, are just too damned much for one person. The

scars stretching the expanse of his back--unbelievable. Even compared to the nasty

ones on his chest, his back was horrid. There was more scar tissue than flesh by far,

and it amazed him--made his heart twist again.

That was the legacy of baring the burden of one hundred years of torment by a man

who called him brother, a man wanting to utterly annihilate the human race. A breath

escaped him as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. A man like that, and he was leading

him right into that spider’s clutches.

He sat up completely then, a hand over his face, cutting off all visions those scars

created. He’d seen what that appalling man was capable of when his brother was

concerned. Only now, the real shock and horror of it all struck his senses hard.

He was leading this gentle man into certain death. He rose his head to look at the

ceiling. And he found himself doing something he didn’t do often. Nicholas D. Wolfwood

prayed to God. He prayed that the path to the right thing would open to him; prayed to

God that the man sleeping beside him didn’t fall into those terrible hands. 

He never realized how much the world was corrupted; never realized this man was not

truly Vash “the Stampede”.