Battle Scarred - Robin, John Stoker

It’s not like they don’t all have scars. John certainly has his fair share, and some painfully visible ones at that. No one who’s been in this job long can avoid them. They’re badges of honor, really, proof that you were strong enough to survive what the job threw at you.
John remembers getting congratulated in the Amarillo locker room for his first new one. He’d gotten his fair share as a kid, but the first one a vamp gave him, the long thin line on his left calf, was something of a rite of passage. An initiation that suddenly made him one of the guys, gave him permission to brag up and exaggerate the story of how he came by that mark to the guy across the locker room from him. Totally implausible scar stories are as common in hunter locker rooms as dirty jokes are in high school ones, and John knows from what Maira and Emma used to tell him that there’s really no difference when it comes to the women.
It’s not the scars that have him glancing at the tiles when he sees Robin’s back. It’s the thought of how the kid got them.
Robin’s more comfortable around John than he used to be, but somehow it still feels a dozen kinds of messed up to stare. Knowing what he does about Robin’s past, John’s surprised the kid’s done so much as take off his shirt around him, let alone let down his glamour.
Don’t look. He’s not some freak show to be stared at.
That’s not how anyone around here thinks of their injuries.
He’s different.
Only because you insist on seeing him that way.
John shakes off the thought and reaches for a clean t-shirt from his locker.
A soft Seelie curse from the kid beside him stops his hand.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, still not really looking at Robin.
“Used up my last clean shirt.”
“Here.” John grabs one from his own locker, a t-shirt that’s worn soft with age and probably won’t have enough dye left in it to bother Robin’s skin. “You can borrow this one.”
He turns to toss it to Robin and catches sight of the white lines on the kid’s ribs when Robin reaches out to grab it.
Those sick tally marks.
John’s only seen Lewis once after the warehouse fire, from a distance when they tracked down a vamp that wandered into his turf. The guy’s face has a big burn scar on the cheek now, and John’s glad Robin finally left him with a souvenir. Lewis deserves it after all the marks he left on Robin. Both the visible and invisible ones.
Robin balls the shirt up in his hands and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry. I was tired and I let the glamour drop.” John smells a crackle of ozone and when he looks up again Robin’s skin is unmarred.
“That’s not…” John sighs.
He doesn’t really know what to say. Sorry would fall flat, he’s not responsible for the scars the kid got before they met. And he doesn’t want to bring up bad memories anyway.
Those scars mean the same things as everyone else’s. That he survived. Don’t treat him differently just because he endured a different kind of hell.
“You’ve got no reason to be ashamed of them, Robin. At least not with me.” He looks up, meeting Robin’s eyes for the first time since he caught the glimpse of the kid’s back. “If you don’t want to share that with the others that’s your business, and I respect that. But I don’t think they’re ugly and I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide them so I don’t have to look.”
Robin swallows. “I just…they’re nothing to be proud of.”
“All they tell me is that you were stronger than the people who tried to break you.” John says gently. “That isn’t weakness.”
Robin blinks and looks down at the shirt still crushed in his thin fingers. “I guess so.”
“I know so.” John says. “Just because you weren’t fighting the same war as the rest of us doesn’t mean you weren’t fighting. Of course I wish you didn’t have to. But I wish the same thing whenever I see that gash on Kira’s shoulder. I wish none of you kids had to get hurt. I wish you didn’t have to be a part of this fight. But you are. And all those scars say is that you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than whatever tried to take you down.” He looks at Robin. “I know the difference between you feeling self-conscious and feeling like you’re being an annoyance, and I know you felt comfortable letting that glamour down until I started acting weird about it.”
Robin bites his lip.
“You’re not making me uncomfortable. I’m the one who made it weird.” John says gently. “I’m glad you trust me.”
“Of course I do.” Robin looks up, and as he does the glamour fades away again, showing all of the marks, so many, too many for a kid his age, and John doesn’t look away.