( The Doctor earns himself a long, evaluating look, Licyn weighing internally the benefit-cost relationship to what he does or doesn't say. He can answer a what, while not answering a why; he has no desire to talk about his scars, visible or otherwise. Whatever he decides, it turns into a slow curl of his lips, half lowered lashes, the lean back against the steps. )

Consider that one answered for a proper kiss, love, or let the curiosity linger.

( It's no skin off his nose either way; thus far, he hasn't run into anything here that feels as dangerous as what he knows lurks in forgotten corners of his homelands and their adjacent territories. )

Everyone has those, don't they? Some smoother, some right ugly. Secondary cost of being alive, earning the unseen scars.