Work Text:
She feels the moment he first sees the tattoo, the one that was supposed to mark her Day of Death but ultimately was a permanent reminder of the first day of the rest of her life. The reaction is subtle. Tim’s fingers continue their smooth, feather-light glide across her skin, setting her nerves on fire. There’s only the slightest hitch of his breath against her ear to give it away.
But then he pulls back, their eyes meet, and without needing to discuss it they agree—it’s a discussion that will happen, but it can wait. It matters, but some things matter more. Right now, they matter more. This matters more. And they lose themselves to something bigger.
Later. After. They are tangled together and floating between satisfaction and giddy disbelief. Tim is becoming obsessed with the way his hand fits into the curve of Lucy’s waist, and he cannot stop running it from there, up over the arch of her hip, and back again, stopping every few strokes to grasp Lucy by her hip and pull her more securely against himself. It’s ridiculous, but every time he pulls her closer, Lucy makes a soft, happy cooing noise that makes Tim feel like his entire body is made of warm honey, so he keeps doing it.
Eventually he whispers, “You kept it.”
He squeezes her hip and nuzzles into her hair, breathing in the woody, slightly spicy scent of her shampoo. Lucy doesn’t make the cooing noise this time. She rolls away. Tim worries that he’s upset her for a moment, but then he realizes she’s just rolling over so she can face him.
Her tattooed side had been pressed into the mattress, but now it’s the one facing the air. Lucy pulls the sheet down so Tim can see it. He isn’t smiling, but his expression is soft, fond. There’s a touch of awe. “I knew you’d keep it,” he says, “but I didn’t know…” his voice fades as hand naturally drifts towards Lucy’s skin. He hesitates, looking to Lucy for permission. When she nods, he closes the gap with his finger tips, lightly tracing the lines of ink.
The DOD 12919 is still there, still mostly visible, but sprouting up through Death is a lush vine, its tendrils threading all the way out through the final nine. The leaves are smooth and egg shaped, pointed at the tip. The flowers are small but beautiful, with a double layer of delicate looking white petals. They somehow look fragrant. There’s a question in the way Tim touches each flower.
Lucy knows what he’s asking.
“Arabian jasmine,” she murmurs, closing her eyes as she remembers. She takes his hand and guides the tip of his index finger to the oldest flower. “This one is Jackson,” Her eyes are still closed. She moves his hand slightly down and to the left. She doesn’t need to look. The location of each bud is as carved into memory as it is etched into her skin. “And this one is Jack,” she tells him. She slides his hand across her skin again, using his finger to trace the length of the main vine. “This,” she says as she glides his finger across her skin, “is the day you rescued me. The day that made all of the flowers possible.”
Tim leans forward and presses his lips against her inked skin, marveling at how warm it is. There are more flowers on the vine, but they don’t go through them all. There will be more morning like this. There’s time to learn each one later. Because Lucy is alive. She survived. She lived. She grew. She changed. She thrived.
“Scars are the transformation of a wound,” Lucy says, again somehow sensing what Tim is thinking. “They’re what happens after you heal. After what you said I knew I couldn’t remove it. I had a cover tattoo designed, but doing it all in one session was just… wrong. Leaving it there in its original state wasn’t right either. It was like having a wound that wouldn’t heal.” She reaches out and touches the scar on his abdomen, the place where he was shot on her second day as a cop. Lucy doesn’t have to say it. The implication is clear. The scar Tim bears today looks very different from the bullet wound he had on Lucy’s second day. She doesn’t realize that she’s breathing harder, caught up in the memory of Tim getting hurt, until he puts his hand over her heart. She smiles, back in the present. “This way it’ll always be there, but life will grow over it, a little bit at a time. I don’t have rules for when I add to the vine. I just know when it’s time.”
Then Lucy curls into Tim’s chest. He pulls the blankets up over them both, tries to block out the rest of the world, and holds her like something precious. They’re quiet again for awhile, each trying to memorize what it feels like to be in the arms of the other. But Tim is too curious, so eventually he asks the question tickling the back of his mind.
“Are any of the flowers me?” he asks shyly.
Lucy kisses him, long and slow, not telling him that she can feel a new bud. That their first night together will be a flower.
“No, Tim. You are not one of the flowers. You’re the roots. You’re under my skin, all through me. Everywhere.”