He knew what it was like to have scars cover your face, not to your degree for sure, but he understood. You had been here years, even back when Arthur was young, you watched little John come in, and even back then you had those scars covering your face, deep gashes clearly put there on purpose, not an animal, it was too precise to be an animal.

Scarface, that's what people called you behind your back, kids hid mothers held them tight in fear you'd snap your jaws and tear them up like some beast. You stayed silent, you stayed in corners even in the gang, away from everyone. Even when you went to get things from shops, he could see the fear in workers eyes, often avoiding looking at you completely as if they would be swallowed whole by your eyes alone.

You sat out by the fire, looking deep into the flames, everyone had been long gone sleeping peacefully in their tents while you stayed wide awake. You heard the crunch of boots against grass before John sat down next to you with a sigh, carefully grabbing himself a beer and handing another one out to you with a slight smile.