When Larry first met Sam there were far less markings on Sam’s skin, both those left by weapons and those made by the inked needles of Ha'la'tha.
Larry had been volunteering at a local clinic and Sam had walked in, hard-eyed, his lip split and bleeding and his hand cradling his side like he was carrying the most fragile of cargo. Larry had spotted the tattoo on Sam’s wrist almost immediately and he knew what the markings meant. It should have worried him, he’d thought later, but maybe it was a sign from the gods that his breathing had evened then and he’d calmly told Sam to take off his shirt.
By the time he’d cleaned Sam’s wounds and wrapped his side, Larry was already falling for him. And Sam’s tough exterior was showing the slightest of cracks. Larry asked him out as he was applying the last of the bandage tape.
Sam looked at him sharply, motioned to his face and chest and asked Larry if he knew what Sam was. He did and it could have mattered, maybe it should have, but it didn’t, and Larry thanks the gods every morning that he nodded and asked Sam out again.
Nobody’s fool, Larry has always insisted Sam’s job, his obligations to the Ha'la'tha, have stayed as much outside the doors of their home as possible. He’s long since left any notions of being a great doctor to the masses behind. He’s still a healer, but it’s to Sam alone that his hands offer comfort and care.
In their years together--and there has been rarely been a night apart--Larry’s watched the story of Sam’s life grow on his skin--the ink symbols telling their story as much as the scars. But the most important are the scar at Sam’s lip--a sign of Sam’s vulnerability, of the fragility of their life--and the omega behind Sam’s ear--the symbol of their marriage.
It’s the two places Larry kisses each night, with each touch of his lips he renews his vow and his commitment.