Chapter Text
A small cut, here and there. The razor's sharp edge meeting bruised skin.
It was only supposed to happen once, when the routine had grown too heavy in his chest, the army days Tim had assumed were long behind him, still trailing him. Close.
When his mind swept back to fields of dust and debris, shattered, broken bodies torn apart by the spawn of siege. C-130 and C-17 planes in the sky, smoke pouring overhead as flames erupted.
It was a war wrung upon those too resolute to deny, drafted by clean hands prosperous enough to never have the feeling of washing the blood dry.
Down the drain, never to be brought up.
They'd never see the fire, the destruction - the bodies he'd had to scrounge through, the prayers he whispered under his breath as he rifled through each one, desperately hoping he wouldn't see a familiar face staring back at him with those cold, lifeless eyes - they'd never see any of that.
Tim could accept that. Reluctantly, of course; because that was just how it was. He couldn't change that.
The military was a tool to be used when convenient.
Thus, he was a tool.
So, just once.
Just once.
The cuts were nothing like Iraq. Mosul.
The feeling of blood rippling, dripping down his thighs was nothing compared to Ray's airstrike. The airstrike that had taken out Henderson and Coyle. Both men knew the risks of the job, they all did, but both were supposed to walk away that day. Alive.
And they didn't.
The stinging pain that followed the cuts? It was nothing, either. Calloused hands grappling to hold onto the side of the Humvee, explosions ringing out of his ear and into his lungs as Mark and he made cover behind the vehicle; the bruises that followed after, because of Mark holding him so tightly a blood vessel had popped… that was something.
So.
No.
It didn't matter if the cuts bled enough to leave scars. Trains of conveniently placed marks on his body. Torso, chest, legs.
They were easy to explain away. Relatively.
(Though it was growing a tireless effort to hide them during his training sessions at the station, or the gym… at a minimum. It was much more preferred than his own arms being utilised as canvases.)
It was certainly a better alternative to suicide. It was a vice. A muse.
A muse. He recalled a suspect's wife (an artist, of course) remarking that he'd be perfect as one, after he and Chen had effectively apprehended her husband following the outstanding warrant for his arrest. The husband had robbed a convenience store - nothing fancy - so she'd attempted to make small talk from the back of the car.
He hadn't engaged in it, not much, with Lucy only offering an occasional comment in the car ride back to the station after he'd flashed her one of his looks. His main goal back then was just to get the wife's statement, send her home.
But Tim remembered hearing plenty enough about the muse.
Unwillingly, most obviously, but still.
He was told that he'd be wonderful as one; excellent, even. Supposedly, he held the structure for it too, and was recommended to go volunteer at a local art university - on the basis that he'd be helpful.
Whatever that meant.
Though, maybe this wasn't what she was referring to. His body as his muse and canvas, blood as his medium, was drastically different to most people's idea of a 'muse'.
Or volunteering for the art classes she'd suggested. Most definitely.
Tim almost laughed at the thought.
But, he didn't. He didn't. He couldn't be messing around with the concept of a 'muse'. That would mean having fun, and this was-
A punishment.
Instead, he glanced back to the mirror.
His eyes looked deep-set into his face in the reflection, ringed, dark crescents circling below like bruises. Tim winced, a hand reaching up to hover over it, and paused as he felt stubble - more than stubble - beneath his fingers.
Perfect timing, he thought, numb. The razor was already in his other hand.
The blood was still dripping down his leg, the wounds wide and center at the base of his hips.
Tim would patch that later - after he shaved, to prevent it from infecting and landing him in the hospital. He did not need anyone seeing it, especially not Grey, Lopez, or Lucy.
God, especially not her. Tim would never hear the end of it ever again. He'd likely never even make it back to being on duty if he was ever caught, he...
No. Focus on the task.
He reached for the shaving cream, and let out a short breath as his body turned too fast, his lower limbs weeping to sit down.
The tool scoffed.
It would not be weak.
None of this would do. Not at all. He looked back down, the razor still clutched firmly in his shaking hand.
Just for the shaking, another cut would have to suffice.
.
.
.
More crimson dripped, the liquid warm and inviting.
A sting.
It was numb, a bit, maybe.
.
.
.
Another.
.
.
.
.
and then, the familiar sound of his ringtone echoed through the hallway outside.
His phone was ringing.