Scott wasn't quite sure how the 'magic' worked that allowed him to be, but not be, but he was grateful for the extra seconds it took Derek to work his shirt over his head and toss it on the bed before Derek nudged the door closed. It gave Scott enough time to sneak into the room behind him, and saving himself from the risk of doing something stupid like slamming into a closed door thinking he could somehow walk through it.

Derek didn't reach for the light switch. Instead, he walked to the window and tugged the blinds up. Scott stopped still, awestruck by Derek's naked torso in the moonlight. It wasn't the muscles or the smooth skin that held his attention, though, nor was it the sparse patch of hair that darkened Derek's chest -- it was the scar that ran down the right side of Derek's back, over his rib cage, and beyond the waistband of his pants. It looked like he had been slammed into the side of something unforgiving, and that something had bitten back. Though healed, the lines were pink, which meant the wounds were relatively recent.

"You lost someone," Scott said. It made sense: the wounds, the sad smiles, and stilted conversation. Suddenly the grief he'd given Derek at the store, for no reason other than his own temper, threatened to drown him with guilt. He stepped forward, feeling an overwhelming desire to offer some kind of comfort, and without wondering if it was right or wrong, Scott drew his fingertip down Derek's scar, following it all the way from shoulder to waist.

Derek lifted his right hand and rested his palm just above where Scott's finger had stopped, and when Scott began to move his finger again, Derek's hand followed Scott's touch.

For several seconds Scott watched their hands move in tandem. It was oddly intense, and even more so when Derek breathed a long, low sigh. Scott rested his lips against Derek's ear and spoke in a voice so quiet, he barely heard it himself. "Are you remembering how he used to touch you?"

Derek sucked in a breath, his forehead creased in pain, and his left hand fisted against his belly. The ache that gesture ignited in Scott's chest was a pain that Scott hadn't felt in a very long time. He hadn't missed it; had, in fact, been certain he'd killed his ability to feel it. Anger had burned pain away a long time ago, and the monotonous drudgery that had followed had been comfortable. Scott didn't know Derek's personal pain, but he still knew the kind of pain that turned hands become fists even when a person was standing alone in the dark and had no one and nothing to use them on.

Scott slipped his arm around Derek's waist, moved closer, and cupped Derek's fist in his palm. It felt nice to touch somebody again. To hold someone.