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Face That You're Still Living

Summary:

IAW2021 Day #4: "Scars."

The medical technology available to the Global Defense Agency was top of the line, but it wasn't infallible - no matter how much they tried, some marks were simply there to stay. No matter how much Mark wished they wouldn't.

Notes:

I was going to do a submission for Day 3 ("No Powers AU.") but I felt that the idea I came up with could easily be expanded into a 10 chapter story. I'm still working out the semantics and planning it, but hopefully I'll start writing that AU soon so look out for that :] Late submission because I spent the week preparing for a model shoot which turned out pretty awesome

I hope you guys enjoy!

Work Text:

Mark feels like he's passing the day under a thousand tonnes of water.

A small part of him knew it'd be difficult - the getting back into a normal, everyday routine. Waking up early, preparing for school, actually making it through the school day. But he hadn't expected it to be like, well. Like this. The way everyone looks at him just feels so horribly, horribly wrong, like their gazes are fingernails digging just too deep into his skin and raking across everywhere they glance, leaving angry red marks and a stinging sensation that hurts a little too much for a little too long.

Cecil had warned him, when he'd woken up in the hospital room for the third lucid time. His mom had been there, too, and held his hand as the doctor removed his bandages from around his face and held up the mirror and. He couldn't really fault the medical team, could he? They had done their best. It's a bit hard to piece together the face of a teenager who got the shit kicked out of him by the world's strongest man.

"We've provided a cover story," Cecil had explained to his mom, softly, as he stared into the mirror and traced the angry red scar across the bridge of his nose, the swollen jagged line over his eyebrow, the thick split in his chin, the sunken skin of his right cheek from taking one too many hits. He glanced at his hands, saw the raised skin of his knuckles and the trails down his fingers, and was suddenly terrified to see the rest of his body. He forced himself to tune back into the conversation. "When the house across the street exploded, Nolan Grayson was killed, and Mark Grayson severely injured. This will explain the scarring and your family situation. But I must warn you, Mark, that this will not stop the people around you from asking questions."

Except it wasn't the questions that ended up hurting, in the end. It was the looks. And worse, the apologies.

"Sorry to hear about your dad," someone mumbles to him, in first period, and that single sentence knocks the breath out of his lungs. How did - how did they know about - he wants to hurl. That tiny, reasoning part of his brain reminds him of the cover story, and he grips the corners of his desk tightly and doesn't respond.

"You okay?" Another whispers to him during the group project, and he looks up, and watches numbly as his classmate tries not to stare at his scars. "I mean, after what happened to you and your... to your dad." He doesn't know how to respond, and just stares back down at his work.

"Hey," a kid he doesn't know steps up to him, at the start of the break, and places a hand on his arm and Mark freezes at the contact. "Sorry for your loss. I don't know what I'd do in your situation. I'm sure your dad was a good man."

Mark gives a tight-lipped smile and tries not to break down in the middle of the hallway. He just rushes to his locker, buries his head against the metal, and thinks of anything else.

"Are you sure you should be here?"

The voice cuts him back into reality. Blinking, Mark forces himself to focus. "Uh, yeah? I mean, yep. Yeah."

Amber's standing in front of him, he realises. She's looking at him with, well, the Look - the unimpressed one. Eyebrow cocked, no-nonsense. She'll call him out on his bullshit any second now.

But he's not bullshitting. He's supposed to be here.

Mark is fine.

Mark's fine.

Really.

He's fine.

Amber doesn't, in fact, call him out. She closes her eyes, smooths her expression out, gives a small exhale, then looks back up at him. A weird ritual, or something, to calm herself down like breathing exercises. Maybe she knows some good ones.

Not that Mark needs any breathing exercises. There is no tightness in his chest. There's nothing wrong. Nothing wrong with him, because he's fine.

Fine. It doesn't even sound like a real word.

Fiiii-nuh.

"Are you sure, Mark?" She asks, gentler this time. She's searching for something in his eyes, or whatever, her stare boring into him.

He doesn't meet her gaze. Just shuffles his feet, tightens a hand around his bag, and closes his locker. "Yeah," he swallows, and the words sound heavily rehearsed. "I'm, um. I'm fine."

She gives in, then, with one of those I'm-very-worried-but-I-won't-admit-it facial expressions, where she purses her lips like she's trying to stop herself from calling him an idiot for not respecting his own limits. Gently, as if he'd break if she handled him too roughly, she slips her hand into his and begins to guide him to their first class together.

He stares at their linked hands for a moment, feet awkwardly stumbling over themselves as he follows. Her hands are smooth, but his are - his hand was shattered in every conceivable way, and he knows the heavy scarring over his knuckles and trailing down his fingers must just... feel horrible.

But Amber doesn't care, and just keeps pulling him down the hallway gently.

She's holding his right hand.

It's random, the thought that crosses him. Small. Inconsequential. His stomach drops and he stops breathing, all the same.

Because she's holding his right hand.

Suddenly all he hears is his heartbeat pulsing at the back of his head like a jackhammer and all he feels is the sensation of burning and choking spreading up into his throat, and the thundering of everyone's voices in the hallway drowns out everything else until he can't even focus on his own thoughts anymore.

All it takes is for him to blink once, and the next thing he knows her arm is bloodied and severed in jagged tears of still-spasming muscle and sinew past the elbow and horribly warm in his gloved hand, and he stares at it dumbly as smoke rises around him from the rubble and he can't breathe past the blood on his face and and and-

He tightens his grip on her hand. He knows he's strong, knows his strength intimately well, and tries to force himself to relax, to stop from bruising her, but he just. He can't. He can't. He can't. Oh god.

Amber is still here. Amber is fine.

He knows he's trembling horribly as he does it, but he traces the back of her hand over and over to remind himself that she's alive. Runs the tips of his fingers against hers.

Amber squeezes back. She traces his knuckles, and he can still feel the phantom sting of pain on the scars that nest there. They stop walking.

"We're going." She decides.

She changes direction, weaving through students and crowds back the way they came, and Mark wants desperately to tell her that he's okay and fine and unhurt and can we just go to class? But his throat feels too wobbly and he's still trembling and as good as he is at shoving everything to the back of the metaphorical mind-closet, deep down a part of him knows he won't make it through the day.

So he doesn't end up saying anything to stop her. Instead, he looks down at their joined hands one more time, and quickly slips out his hand to rest it just under her shoulder, tucked under her arm instead. He can't hold her hand, he just... and a part of him just wants to make sure - her arm is still - her arm's not - not.

She's not the woman he failed to save.

She doesn't question it when his grip tightens again. She just keeps walking. They push past more people and things very easily start to blur in Mark's vision because all he can think about is keeping his breathing under control and his hand on Amber's arm and the burning behind his eyes that encompasses everything down to his throat.

At some point between then and now they make it outside and - oh, William's there, talking to Amber, and what are they talking about? When did they get to the parking lot? When did William show up?

"Mark," a voice says softly, and for a moment Mark can't tell if it's Amber or William, and even when he confirms it's Amber he's not sure he's completely right. "You okay to get into the car?"

Mark pauses for a second, because he can remember hurtling into a van and cutting through it and watching the man inside it get crushed to death in an instant, can remember the upturned cars and shattered bodies and blood splatters on a child standing over her dead father in the wake of Mark's crash, and vividly recalls more violence that anyone should ever have the right to see in a singular moment.

"Yes," he says, eventually, because he takes that memory and shoves it into a titanium box and hopes he can pretend it doesn't exist for a little while longer. "Yeah."

He's not sure if he's absentmindedly tuned them out, if he's so stuck in his head he can't hear anything they say, or if his friends remain completely silent for the ride. His ears ring in the absence of any noise except the sputtering of the engine and the beat of his heart, and William must have put on the radio because he can just barely detect a faint melody which he struggles to line his breathing with. It's a slow song. Every four beats is a breath in and every four after that a breath out.

He just sits in the back seat, staring at the back of William's head, Amber's arms curled almost protectively around him. He doesn't complain, doesn't joke, doesn't comment. He doesn't think he can. He just... waits, until eventually the car slows and each bump hits a little softer, and eventually the car stops and the engine's sputtering dies down.

William and Amber exchange glances before getting out of the car, and it's some sort of signal or silent conversation that Mark can't understand. He watches as William steps out first, circles around, then opens Amber's door, and Amber gently tugs him out and supports the majority of his weight as she does so.

Wordlessly, they move into the house - Amber's, Mark registers, because William's is a little bigger and has different windows - where Amber slowly helps him settle down onto the couch. He doesn't even register the way his feet stumble on the hardwood floors as they move, nor the blanket that William has retrieved and slowly laid over his lap.

It's just weight, to him - he caresses the fabric, and can't tell whether it's soft or rough at all. It's just there. He just pulls it up to his shoulders and stares at the coffee table, trying to blink away the tears that suddenly threaten to spill over his eyes. He doesn't know why he's crying. He doesn't have a reason to cry.

He's fine.

He's completely and utterly fine. He just - just one moment to rest, is all he needs, then he'll be fine.

"Can you grab the cups?" Amber's saying quietly to William, at the doorway of the kitchen, conversation as hushed as possible. Mark can still hear the words, but isn't quite registering them as well as he should be. "Saucepan's in the bottom row there, cocoa's in that pantry. Don't make it too hot, I'm not sure how steady his hands are right now."

"Okay," William murmurs back, and Mark's not sure he's ever heard him use that tone of voice in all the years they've been friends - ten years? Since primary. It's low, the syllables short and clipped to get the message out faster, tinged with something higher pitched. Concern? No, there's something more to it. "Should I... Should we call someone? Eve? His mom?"

Amber shakes her head, and her voice is equally quiet. "Call Eve, she can, uh. Relate, to the hero work, I guess. But don't - I'll text his mom soon. I hate to say it but she might overwhelm him, right now."

Biting his lip, Mark can see that William casts him a glance out of his peripheral. "Okay," William says, and it sounds like he's trying hard to convince himself. "Okay."

"Okay," Amber murmurs back.

"Will he..." Voice unsure, William cuts himself off, struggling to say what he wants to say. "Do you think... do you think he'll be okay?"

Mark doesn't hear or see Amber respond, but whatever answer she does give has William giving a sharp, soft exhale and retreating into the kitchen on unsteady feet. Another set of footsteps approach, and Mark finally looks up from the coffee table as Amber sits herself next to him.

She looks down at his hand, and hovers over it with her own, staring at him intently as if to gauge his reaction.

"This okay?" She mouths.

Mark stares at their hands, and swallows deeply, and stares again. Minutely, he shakes his head, and the shame that fills him is dangerously close to choking its way out of his throat. He wants to apologise, because it's so stupid, that he can't even hold his girlfriend's hand because of some shitty - some shitty experience that happened weeks ago now, but...

He just - he just can't.

Instead, Amber slowly moves her hand over to his arm, her every move controlled and within his view. When it rests on his upper arm, the same place he'd gripped her earlier, he gives a short and tentative nod, and she gently pulls herself closer to him.

"TV?" She asks, quietly.

"No news," he chokes out, and she nods. She flicks on the TV, and directs it over to movies.

Once they've browsed enough and finally picked one out, William steps out of the kitchen balancing four cups of hot chocolate, which he gently sets down on the coffee table in front of them. Afterwards, he draws the blinds of any windows around the living area, then settles into the couch on Mark's other side, being very careful not to invade his personal space.

Mark doesn't know whether to be so unbelievably grateful for his friends, or to scream out the frustration of being treated like glass. The mixed feelings bubble horribly in his chest, so he takes a sip of hot cocoa to drown the discomfort away to the best of his ability.

It doesn't work.

He still refuses to say anything.

"Eve will be here soon," William notifies them quietly, and Amber nods in response. "She's bringing some food."

"That's good," Amber says, and Mark just nods along mutely.

The silence that follows is uneasy, in the sense that everyone in the room wants to say something but isn't saying it despite how much they want to, so everyone just keeps shifting from one side to the other and casting glances everywhere except the TV.

"Mark," William starts, clearing his throat, and both Mark and Amber's attention immediately direct over to him. The two gazes get to him, because he stutters out an unsure, "You know you, um. You can talk to us, right? About, uh. About... anything."

Mark nods, once, and quietly gives a, "Yeah." He doesn't trust his voice to be able to continue coherently.

"Really," William continues on, "We mean it. You don't have to tell us, of course, but you can - you can tell us whatever you're, like, comfortable with. Besides, I've ugly cried in front of you a lot without judgement, I feel like I should return the favour, y'know?"

"He's right." Amber rests her hand gently on the nape of Mark's neck, which causes him to jump and stiffen, because for a second her touch felt like fire and pain and an iron-tight grip secured around the back of his head that he can't escape even as the train comes closer -

She starts to move her hand away, but Mark quickly reaches up and holds her hand there firmly. He needs this. He needs to know he can handle it.

"...Don't push yourself," William cautions, and Amber gently traces the back of Mark's neck.

"Take your time," she says. "What you've been through... Take as much time as you need. And please don't ever be afraid to ask."

Mark gives a shuddering breath, and another nod. Slowly, he opens his mouth the speak, and his tongue lies at the bottom of his mouth like lead for several moments as he thinks for what to say.

"...Thank - uh. Thank you," he gets out, eventually, and his throat cracks so horribly as he does so. He swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry, and tries his best to convey what he needs. "My, uh. My... My face," Mark chokes on the word, because something horrible rushes through his throat and he doesn't know how to get rid of it. "I. Um. I need you to... Let me know. Just. Don't lie to me. Pl- please."

The two of them stare at him for some time, and every second that passes feels like an agonisingly uncomfortable eternity. He shifts nervously, and watches as Amber slowly reaches towards him, and William gently pries the cup from his trembling hands.

"Can I?" She asks, her hands just in front of his face, hovering over his cheeks. Closing his eyes, Mark takes in a deep breath that he feels doesn't quite fill his lungs, then gives a slow nod of affirmation.

Her left hand touches his skin first, and he forces himself against the sudden, visceral reaction that screams at him to pull away because there's a hand on his face and it has to be a fist, it can't possibly be anything else. But it's just the tips of Amber's fingers, and she gently traces an outline over his cheek which just feels inherently wrong in the way it's positioned.

He knows there, in that exact spot she's circling, that his cheek is sunken inwards and the skin is stretched taut and ugly in a brutal display over where his bone and flesh had been pummeled in, over where he'd bitten his cheek so hard he'd torn out a chunk of his own -

Swallowing, Mark pretends these thoughts never crossed his mind.

It's a little difficult, because now both of Amber's hands are on his cheeks, and she's slowly tracing her fingertips to his nose, where that large white and still-slightly-pink scar cuts its way across the middle of the bridge. It takes up more space than he's comfortable with, and he fidgets at the slightly muted sensation her fingers make against the firm skin.

Her thumb brushes upwards, at his eyebrow, and he swallows as she passes over the jagged, raised tissue which stretches from his forehead, across his brow, and by his eye. The skin there is rough, and certainly tougher than the surrounding tissue, which stops hair from growing and just makes the red swollen mark even more visible.

Finally, her hand traces down his jawline and to his chin, where the most visible scar lies. He remembers this one intimately well, remembers how it felt for first his skin to split, then each layer tearing with each punch until bone was exposed, then finally the way the bone itself shattered under the final hit. He bites his lip, and it's horrible, because he feels the way the white-red skin stretches with the movement with such queasy intimacy that it makes him sick to his stomach.

He loathes them. Every single one - the ones smattered over his face, the ones crowding his hands, the sunken impact scar on his back just inches from his spine, the cuts over his biceps and the surgery scars on his legs. He hates the sunken skin of his chest, where his lungs were pummelled until he could barely breathe, and can't stand the sight of them next to the cross over his abdomen. The cross is perhaps the only scar that wasn't given to him by... by...

Mark hates that they all remind him of Him.

Mark hates that no matter how old he gets, his body will always be marked by that day. He just... he can't...

Amber traces his chin gently with the pad of her forefinger, and Mark stays very, very still as she does so. Slowly, she retreats, the ghost of her hands still lingering against the scars as phantom discomfort, and only then does Mark crack open an eye to carefully watch her reaction.

"You're perfect," She says, even after everything she's seen, and Mark can't hold it in anymore.

He starts crying with a singular tear, which multiplies to two, then five, then he's suddenly sobbing, desperately shoving his fists against his eyes to wipe away the evidence before they can see -

A hand gently brushes away tears from his cheek, and Mark faintly registers as William slowly pulls him into a hug, giving him ample time to escape. He just keeps sobbing, wetting William's shoulder, but the teen refuses to budge.

It takes a while for Eve to arrive, but when she does, Mark has gotten the majority of his tears for the day out of his system, and they've started the next film. Regardless, Eve pulls him into a long, comforting hug, and gently murmurs words of comfort to him whenever he tenses for even the slightest moment.

He watches as William sneaks fries from Eve until she smacks him over the head, as Amber loudly criticises the shitty rom-com blaring from the television, as they take turns providing a running back-up commentary as though they were sports commentators, and he can't help but think.

Maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

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