"Where are your scars?" Bart says one day, pulling the Yggdrasil hatch closed behind them and peeling out of his sopping shirt.

Billy, who didn't realize he was staring, blinks guiltily. He is no less wet; the thunderstorm blew up all suddenly while they were on the deck, and the two of them couldn't scramble for cover in time. But as always he is more hesitant to shed his layers, content to shiver in the climate controlled interior of the submarine. Instead, he was watching the way Bart moved, watching the faded lines etched on the desert prince's back, like some inscrutable foreign language. He isn't quite used to them. Not that he hasn't seen them before. Not that Margie has never whispered confidences about them, her voice a little unsteady as she shared the memory. But Bart seems to have a knack for catching him off guard.

"...What?"

"Where are your scars, I said," Bart repeats himself good-naturedly. He shrugs a bare shoulder, tossing a glance at Billy and raising an eyebrow. Ignoring Billy's protest, Bart relieves him of his cloak, which falls to the floor in a sodden blue heap. Satisfied, he grins. "I mean, you've already seen mine."

"I don't have any," Billy says diffidently, trying to mop his face with his scarf, and having to wring it out yet again.

Bart makes a face, though Billy can't tell if it's directed at him or the sorry state of his braid. "You fight, you must have some scars. Don't tell me no one's ever touched you?"

Billy looks away, coloring slightly, shoving hands in his clammy pockets and more determined than ever to leave his shirt on.

Not seeming to notice, Bart is unbraiding his hair, kicking his discarded clothes on top of Billy's cape-- as though Sig wouldn't have a royal coronary at the mess. His hair falls in waves around his face, golden and bright with the rainwater. Billy doesn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed that the cascade of hair, unbound, covers the most of Bart's back.

Undaunted, the pirate presses on, "Hey, what about the spot, on the inside of your right elbow? One of your guns shoot a bit close to home, maybe? Or a Reaper?"

Wide-eyed, Billy rests his hand over the spot, shuddering at the touch of cool wet cloth beneath his palm. It wasn't something easily seen; he might have thought it hadn't caught anyone's attention. "Birthmark," he murmurs, truthfully.

Bart laughs. "All right, all right, so you've never let anyone get to you." He wags a finger at Billy's still-dressed state, but the former Etone crosses his arms tight across his chest, not to be swayed. "Might've guessed. But that's no good."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Billy bridles. He wonders why he's getting flustered, why after all this time it still surprises him that Bart can rattle him. "Who doesn't want to be untouchable in battle?"

There is unexpected warmth in Bart's eyes when he tilts his head and looks Billy in the face. With a crooked little smile he says, "'Cause it means your scars are on the inside." And before Billy can react, he hauls up the mass of soggy clothes and flashes him another shining, Bart smile. "C'mon. Let's go get dry. These pants are killing me."