Tender

He was fascinated by the colors; an angry artist's palette of mottled reds and purples, yellows and greens. Reaching out slowly he brought his fingers close, but did not make contact.

Rethinking, he drew his hand back and leaned forward, using the tip of his tongue to trace the memory of the irregular shape.

A soft whimper and sudden shift stopped him and he drew back again, concern drawing furrows between his brows.

A sigh, then silence.

He could see more now, smaller patches of color against alabaster pink.

Fingerprints.

Bruises.

Reminders of how fragile control could be; how easily flesh could be marked.

He held his hand over the marks, measuring. His splayed fingers matched the pattern and he stared, transfixed. It was humbling and frightening.

It could have been him.

It could have been his hand that bruised the pale skin, gripping hard, anger blanking out conscious knowledge of his strength. It could have been his body that pressed the slender frame against unforgiving surfaces. It could have been him.

He had taken care of Gabe and the others, given them a little of their own back after school. But that didn't make things better. It didn't make them all right.

The marks proved it.

It was up to him now, to soothe the pain away, to make it better. To help Casey heal.

He pressed his lips gently against the injuries, barely more than a whisper. Tender kisses for tender flesh.

It was a start.

::end::

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