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“And what about this one?” your finger traces a long scar that traveled across Rawhide’s chest, nearly obscured by the dark whisps of hair on his chest. Rawhide thinks a moment, as if trying to remember the incident. Suddenly, a cheeky grin spreads across his face.
“Ya see, that happened a little after our first gig together. Went out for some fresh air and ran into a mugger. Put up a helluva fight but...well, so did I. Couldn’t win it fair, so he pulled a knife on me. Did that and,” he shifted a bit to show a similar slash lower on his abdomen, “that.”
You nod, satisfied. Rawhide liked to tell you stories, and you liked to hear them. Even if they were seemingly mundane, the deep rumble in his chest made you listen no matter what the story was about. You feel his eyes looking at you, snuggled up close to him. This man adored you, and you always felt safe with him holding you. Nothing in the world could get to you here, and for a moment, you rest your head on his chest, and enjoy the quiet. His hand finds it way to your hair, carding through it gently, and he begins to hum.
The two of you had been getting ready to settle in for the night when you’d plucked up the courage to ask about his scars. The stories ranged from bite marks from mysterious animals and puncture wounds from odd plants he’d found while working as a naturalist, to burns from experiments gone wrong, all the way to old wounds from old fights. At one point, you’d asked about the mark in his hairline, to which he’d joked “my ex wife misses me, but her aim is getting better,” complete with a chuckle, a charming grin, and a peg on the cheek.
“Any more you’re curious ‘bout, darlin’?” he asks, smoothing your hair out of your face. You scan him, looking for any you’d missed.
“I don’t think you have any more,” you comment, looking back up at him. He smirks.
“For now.” and he presses a kiss to your temple, “How ‘bout we get some shut eye, sweetheart?”
You nod, yawning. He was right. It was late, and knowing his lifestyle, he probably needed to be up early, anyway. With a soft smile, he shifts out from under you, leaning to turn off the lamp.
Then you see it.
A scar on his back. Six puncture wounds in a perfect circle.
“What about that one?” you ask, touching it gently. At the touch, Rawhide flinches. You pull your hand away quickly. Rawhide was one of the toughest men you knew.
Rawhide didn’t just flinch at nothing.
“Sorry,” you say softly, and he turns to look at you, that soft expression still on his face, but the smile not quite reaching his eyes, where ghosts of memory seemed to stare at you through the clear blue hues.
“Some other time, darlin’.” and with a final kiss, he flips off the light, leaving a heavy blanket of unpleasant memories hanging in the air.
Any of the others you asked about had a story ready to be told, even the really weird ones he’d gotten from his adventures with Buckaroo, but that one was the where the line was drawn.
He’d tell you eventually. He trusted you enough, but maybe some reminders of the past just weren’t worth digging up.