Tattoos.

They hide every secret he's ever refused to tell.

Every person who's ever laid in the arms they mottle. And every person whose arms he'd ever found himself in. Every in, every out. Nothing gets by them.

Old dappled scarring from needle pricks, in the company of a few new ones he'll never tell Joan about.

Knotted white scars twisting angrily across his arm.

Wrist to elbow.

Elbow to wrist.

He laughs at those who claim their tattoos tell intricate stories.

Their future.

Their past.

He laughs when he can see more in a person by looking at the art in their skin than the language of their body.

He laughs, because while others are parading around with their life stories written out on their bodies for all to see, he tries his hardest to keep his concealed with the same needle, the same ink.