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Ian has scarring around his shin, where the bone split through flesh, and where the T. rex's teeth cut him. There are scars from the surgery to fix the badly broken bone. There's a scar that runs the entire length of his leg, from an infection that had to be purged—compartment syndrome, they said. Scars, everywhere, knotting his skin in stark pale lines.
Ian never felt self conscious before but now, suddenly, he can feel himself squirming in his skin. It's late evening and he has Sarah Harding in his bed—she's beautiful, feisty and sharp, her mind the thing that attracted him to her more than her body. But it's undeniable that she's attractive in body too; lithe, strong limbs with defined muscles and a heavy scatter of freckles, from days hiking under the African sun, her red hair falling over her shoulders in a humidity-frizzed wave. She's only a handful of years younger than Ian, but somehow it feels like more now, as he sees their bodies side by side.
There are lines around his eyes from stress. Dark bags under them from sleepless nights. And then there's the scarring, deep and jagged, breaking up the olive tan of his skin. It makes him look older – or, it makes him feel older, anyway.
Sarah looks up at him from where she's perched on the side of the mattress, newly divested of her shirt to reveal the simple, practical bra she's wearing underneath. Her eyes are bright and searching, keen. She reaches out and settles her hands on Ian's hips, and he lets out a breath he hadn't really known he was holding. She tilts her head a little, fingertips playing with the waistband of his boxers.
"Getting shy on me, Ian?" She asks with her lips quirking into a teasing smile. "And here I was believing the talk of you being a seasoned womaniser."
"A, ah, a serial monogamist, is all I am." Ian mumbles, licking his lips. "I like women, but they tend to like me less, I suppose." He takes in another breath, lets it out. "I'm sorry. This is, uh, it's the first time since- Well, y'know, ah..." He gestures down to his leg, to the scarring that never lets him forget the worst weekend of his life. As a man with three children and as many ex-wives, he considers it impressive that something other than his various messy divorce proceedings made the top of the list.
Sarah's gaze softens a little, and she looks down, those keen eyes scanning every broken inch of him. He can see the stark difference, between the surgical cuts in neat straight lines, clean-edged and even, and the ragged craters of the rex's teeth. He's lucky she didn't catch a proper hold of his leg, he knows—just the front few teeth, managing to nip at his calf and thigh, but from teeth that size it had still been catastrophic. There are permanent gouges in the muscles of his leg, scars puckered from healing. He can mostly walk as normal now, but sometimes when it's very cold the muscles cause a slight limp, and when it's wet his knee aches. He's sure Sarah can catalogue and estimate the damage; she's seen apex predators hunt before, she's seen the results of their attacks.
"Is it hurting you?" She asks, one hand moving to rub at the muscle of his thigh, fingers just skirting the edge of the scar down the length of his leg. "You know, if you joined me in bed, you could take a load off. Relax a little, you know?" She chuckles a little, eyes going half-lidded and coy. "Let me take care of all the hard stuff, huh?"
Ian can't help but laugh a little, swaying towards her, hand threading into her hair and leaning down to kiss her mouth, both of them smiling into each other.
"It's a lovely offer." He says. "It doesn't hurt, it just, it's only- well, it's an ugly thing, isn't it?" He grimaces a little. He's always considered himself handsome – he's been told as much for starters, and he'd always tried to keep himself well-groomed, in good shape, fit and healthy. His skin is smooth, tan, and though he's not muscular by any stretch of the imagination, there is still the hint of definition over his chest, his stomach. His hair is dark and curled, roguishly mussed but neatly styled. He's not a vain man, but he's been comfortably on the right side of 'handsome' since graduating from awkward teenhood. His left leg, then, feels out of place now, at odds with that old image of himself.
All of him is, really. He wishes he could go back to the Ian Malcolm he had been before Jurassic Park. Suave and cool, top of his field, handsome and strong.
He's a shadow of that now. No fellowship, no university. A shitty part time job at a local college which is the only place that will hire him with his academic reputation in tatters. Thin and tired and ragged, jumping at noises in the night. He feels pathetic, sometimes, when he doesn't feel just plain damaged. He's never really learned to fit his new reality against his old self image. There's something to that he's sure, Freudian talk of super-egos and ids, the conflict of the ideal self against reality, but psychology isn't his field.
Sarah presses a palm flat in the centre of his chest, smiling up at him. "Is it?" She asks. "It's just skin. It's evidence of your body's will to survive. It's a mark of strength, really." She tips her head at him. "And it's very cool, besides. It gives you an air of intrigue." There's laughter in her eyes, and Ian can feel something in his chest loosen a little. This is why he likes Sarah: she's a free spirit, and she doesn't let herself get too bogged down in social rules or outsiders’ perceptions, taking everything lightly and twisting it to her own will. Of course she thinks the wreckage of his leg is a mark of character and intrigue.
"Plus you could make up some cool stories about what happened. Shark attack. Mauled by a leopard. Rogue mathematic theorems in the university basement." She says, her grin cheeky.
Ian feels something sour in his throat at the thought and shakes his head. "Ah, no, no I don't think I will. I'm not going to lie. I'll keep telling the truth until they hear me." He says seriously. "But, uh, I suppose you're right. It's not the, the thing that's ugly. Just the memories behind it."
Sarah hums, stroking at his skin soothingly as she nods, acquiescing. She knows Ian has a hard time making light of his ordeal, even though she says that's the best way to deal with it. It has only been two years, and she seems to accept that it's too soon for him.
"So... do you want me to take these off, or are we trying again another day?" She asks, raising an eyebrow, fingers plucking at the waistband of his boxers again. "The offer still stands, if you want."
Ian chuckles a little. The mood is a little dead, but he's sure it can be recovered. It's not fossilised yet. He leans down to kiss her again, and this time there's more heat, his mouth against hers and his tongue sweeping the ridge of her mouth. She groans softly, her hands gripping tighter.
"Well now, how could I refuse such a, hm, generous offer? You said something about taking care of the hard stuff?" He teases, and tastes Sarah's laughter.