AN: A bunch of thanks to jostenneil on tumblr for helping me edit this! This has been an experimental piece for me, but I'm happy with the end result and I hope you enjoy it too!

Nate is going to make sure that he blacklists Bacardi in any of his future drinking stints, because right now, he's staring at a small unmarked box at his doorstep with only a vague drunken memory of ordering it a week ago.

Nate grabs the package and shuts the door with a surreptitious glance down the apartment hallway. He listens for Elena as he heads over to the kitchen counter, the incriminating box in hand. When only silence meets his ears, he smiles faintly. Good; she's still sleeping. God knows she needs it.

He arms himself with a butter knife and gets to work on the masking tape, trying to work as quietly as possible. Really, he ordered this for her; he has to show it to her at some point. But he hasn't prepared the complex explanation required for his most recent online purchase yet, and now that he's face to face with the contents inside the box, he's not even sure he knows.

He peels off the bubble wrap, popping a few bubbles idly in his free hand as he reads the big Edible Body Paint label off the package with a faint flush to his cheeks.

The only thing inside is a small bottle to hold the paint, and a bulky stylus for stencilling it on. The paint is a swirl of colours: blues and greens and purples flecked with bits of glittery sugar, looking like a tiny galaxy trapped inside. His ears burn as he frees the bottle and marker from the loud plastic packaging, and he flicks open the flimsy instructions, reading them in the first language he recognises.

Seems pretty straightforward, he thinks, unscrewing the bottle and taking a whiff. It smells artificially fruity, but it's not unpleasant. He shrugs and carefully pours some into the end of the stylus, filling it up to the thin line on the side and screwing the lid back on the marker.

He presses the stylus to the inside of his palm and makes a stroke across the meat of his thumb with it. The paint comes out nicely as a swirling mix of colours. He tests the resistance of the pen on his skin again, getting a feel for it.

"What's that?"

Nate doesn't react gracefully to the sudden question murmured behind him; paint spills all over his hand, and he drops the stylus onto the counter.

"Jesus—" He whirls and looks at a sleepy Elena. She's rubbing her eyes and wearing his shirt, and under different circumstances, he'd be thrilled see her like this.

"What are you…?" she trails off, frowning at the spilled paint on his hand. "Did you order drawing supplies?"

"Um—" He looks down at the paint, the stylus, the cheap packaging, and finally meets her eyes. "Kind of."

She raises a brow, looking more awake now. There are dark circles under her eyes—they're there a lot nowadays—but it doesn't diminish the piercing, observant stare she levels at him.

"A regrettable late night purchase, then?" She crosses her arms, pushing her breasts against the fabric of his shirt that hangs off her shoulders, and it's definitely not helping his train of thought right now.

"I, um—" The words die in his throat when Elena steps behind him, coming back into view a moment later wielding a towel. She grabs the bottle from his grip and sets it down next to the marker, then wipes at his hand. "Thanks."

She gives him a small smile, a playful open smirk that makes his heart stutter. "No problem. Now, you mind telling me what this… is…." she trails off, her gaze finding the packaging and reading the label off of it. Elena picks up the box and looks back at him. "Oh. Uh, Nate?"

"I—" He slips his now-clean hand into hers and takes the plastic from her grasp. She's looking up at him expectantly, and he launches into what he hopes is a semi-coherent explanation. I guess this is happening now. "You, um, well, you said you really liked that design I was doodling the other day, or last week or whatever, and you—well, you don't really wear short-sleeves shirts anymore, after, um—or—I mean, I just wanted to see if this would—would help." He sneaks a glance at her, but her expression is unreadable. "With. You know, your… injuries. I thought I could—I just wanted to cheer you up." He steps closer and cups a hand around her face, tilting her head up. "It sounds kinda dumb now that I say it out loud, but…."

"You…." She reaches for the stylus, twirling it in her fingers. "You mean you want to use this—" she holds the pen up to him, "to draw over my… my scars?" The words come out forcefully, like she's still not really ready to say them out loud.

"Um, yeah. Not that—not that I don't like them, I do—or I don't mind them, I mean. You're beautiful, just—" He huffs, trying to find the right thing to say. "I know... they bother you. If you don't want me to use this, or don't think it's a good idea, or—well, I won't. And this isn't a pressure for sex, or anything, not at all. I just wanted to help somehow, if I could," he ends meekly, with a shrug of one shoulder.

Elena's silent, staring off at a spot just right of his head. The smile she gives him is sad and painful and distant, a wobbly tilt of her lips that makes him think he's just made a really stupid decision—again.

And then she nods, a short bob of her head that makes it lean into his palm. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I'd… I'd like that."

"You're sure?"

He keeps asking her that. Elena's grateful for the concern, but she wants to move past this, get out of the fog that a near-death recovery had wrapped her brain up in, and she hopes—hopes—this is a good first, small step.

They stand opposed, facing one another in his room. She's intensely aware of just how flimsy his old shirt is, how loosely it hangs off of her. "Yeah," she says again, more to herself than him. "I'm sure."

She grabs the hem of the shirt and peels it off before she can dwell any longer on it and lets the fabric fall to the floor. It's quick, and leaves her completely, suddenly bared to the room—and to Nate. She's left exposed. Open.

The agonised look that sweeps across his face is enough to make her want to immediately pull his shirt back on, build up layers between him and her skin. He hasn't really seen her still-healing injuries besides helping Tenzin redress her bandages back in Tibet, and she tries to avoid looking at herself as much as possible these days, but they're both here now, and there's nowhere to hide the ugly pocks and streaks of pink scar tissue covering the left side of her body.

He steps close, hesitant and asking for permission with a wary glance at her face. She reaches for his hand, nods, and his fingers slide up her arm. His touch is featherlight, barely even there. Nate's testing the waters, looking for boundary lines he dare not cross, and she's grateful for his caution as much as she hates the way he treats her like glass. She's scarred and bruised and far too exposed, but she's not broken. She won't ever give Flynn that victory.

"Where did you want to…." He looks to the bed, which she hadn't bothered to make, and frowns.

"Maybe, um, just do it standing? I don't want to stain your sheets."

He waves an immediate hand in dismissal. "They can be washed. Just sit where you're comfortable," he insists, giving her a tentative smile that she forces herself to return. This is progress, as much as the effort of a genuine smile takes out of her. She needs this as much as he does.

"Okay," she breathes, and she heads towards the bed. It's weird being back in his apartment after so many months apart, but the creak of the mattress is familiar as ever and she slips easily over to her side.

Nate slides up behind her, his hand on her good shoulder, and she hears him let out a hard breath. She hasn't had a good look at the damage on her back yet—hasn't had the courage to—and judging by the clench of his jaw, it's not pretty. It might not ever be again.

"I'll—" He pauses, turning her so that he can see her face. "I'll just... start with your shoulder and go from there, if that's okay?"

God, he sounds hesitant and nervous and doubtful. She's glad she's not the only one. "Yeah, okay." Elena turns back around so she's facing away from him and sweeps her hair forward.

She's expecting the warmth of a hand on her skin, so she jolts in surprise when she feels his lips skim across her left shoulder blade. It's a good jolt, one that makes her feel warm inside, and she quickly, embarrassingly so, leans into his touch. They've been back in the US for almost two weeks now, but this is the first time they've done anything like this. She's been finding refuge in the warm crook of his arm at night when flashes of blood and bone and senseless suffering rise up to torment her in her sleep, but she's always covered up—wearing pajamas, or his shirts, or old clothes that she'd never bothered to retrieve from his apartment. There's always been a protective barrier between them—between them and her brush with death.

His mouth is as gentle as his hands, pressing kisses to the jagged flesh of her still-healing skin. Her nerves have numbed around the worst of the injuries, but she can still feel how warm he is, how careful he's being. If he's trying to get her to relax, it's working; the tense knot between her shoulders slowly dissolves, and her head falls back to rest against his collarbone.

Her eyes finally slip closed just as she feels the first touch of the marker on her skin. The paint leaves a pleasant, tingling streak across her flesh, starting at her clavicle and swooping down around the pivot of her shoulder.

"What are you drawing?" she whispers, eyes still closed and not daring to speak too loudly.

"Just… lines," he responds, equally as quiet. "I don't have a design in mind, really."

Elens grins, and this time it comes more easily. "Haven't thought that far ahead?"

She's rewarded with a laugh that brushes against her ear and makes her shiver. "Yeah, something like that."

Silently he continues, his free hand resting on her waist while he carefully makes sketch marks in blues and greens and purples across her skin. She can't tell from sensation alone what he's drawing, but the patterned movement of his hand invokes images of the endless mandalas and Persian calligraphy that Nate so often painstakingly recreates in his journals.

The sweeping arc of his touch, intermixed with small dots or shapes that he pauses to draw out, is soothing. It lulls her into a sleepy rhythm, one that matches the slow, steady rise and fall of Nate's chest at her back.

When he's satisfied with her shoulder, he motions for her to turn towards him with a gentle hand. Her eyes flutter open, and Elena meets his gaze.

"There's more," he whispers, sounding hesitant again. "On your… front."

She looks down at her body, forcing herself not to grimace at the blemished marks on her left breast that creep down her rib cage and up towards her neck.

"I don't have to—"

She turns around fully and shakes her head. "No, I want—I want you to do all of it."

He nods, searching her face for doubt. Finding none after a deliberating moment, his wrist settles against her collarbone, careful not to touch what he's already drawn. The stylus begins to make more lines over the damaged flesh, and she's soon lulled back into a quiet peacefulness.

She can't help the shiver down her spine or the sigh that escapes her when his hand reaches her breast, though. He's not immune, either, and looks up at her with hazy eyes. Elena leans forward and presses her mouth to his, pleased when he eagerly pushes up against her lips. Nate's never pushed for them to do anything more than sleep in the same bed since they got back, and she's grateful that they're slowing down enough to take a bit of a breather, but she can tell he's holding a lot back.

Elena lingers at his mouth, her tongue only teasing at the edge of his lips but not pushing through. His hand comes up to cradle her head, keeping her steady, and when she does pull away he's breathing hard. Yeah, he's definitely holding back.

"Keep going," she whispers against his jaw, which is scratchy with stubble. He nods and sits back, looking dazed but determined to continue.

She can watch what he's doing a lot better from this angle, and now she can see the pattern he's drawing down the front of her. Elena stretches out and rests on her hands behind her to give him better access, and shudders when the felty material of the marker feathers around her nipple.

Nate finishes the final parts of the design with small, deliberate flicks of his wrist, finding and correcting any wobbles or faults in his lines. "Okay," he breathes, voice hoarse. She grins at him, and he gives her a tight smile in return. His touch hadn't lingered on her body, but now his pupils are blown out and his eyes are dark. "Now time for your back."

She wants to go to the mirror and see what he's done so far, but she doesn't want to break whatever trance Nate seems to be in, and, well, the bed is really comfortable. So Elena turns instead, giving him access to her back, and he immediately gets to work. His fingers are all smudged with paint by now, much like the lead that would always dust his skin whenever he drew for a long time, and she entertains herself with wondering what his reaction will be if she suggested to him that she lick them clean.

Her back takes the longest, making her wonder just how awful the extent of the scarring is. She bought oils that were supposed to reduce scarring and will help to fade the horrible, blotchy marks and pocks in the future, but right now, they're painful to look at.

She's careful not to touch the paint already on her skin, or sweep her hair into it, but she's nodding off by the time Nate's finally done. He taps her on the shoulder—the one not covered in paint—and she hears him set the marker down on the bedside table.

"'lena," he says softly, and she pulls her head up to look at him. "Hey, I'm done."

She sits up properly and turns back to look at him, nodding. "Okay. I want to see."

Her fingers slip into his, which are sticky with paint, and she pulls them off the bed and towards the bathroom. She closes the door on their way in; not that she really needs to, but this is the longest she's been naked in a while and the small space helps make her feel less vulnerable.

She walks up to the mirror hanging on the wall. Nate stands behind her, his eyes on her face, but he quickly melts away from her line of sight because all she can look at right now is her own body.

He said he'd been just drawing lines, but the fruits of his labour deliver something far more intricate—it reminds her of henna, almost, but with broader strokes and ink coloured like the stars. Swirls and dots and alternating lines flow across her body like water, starting from her shoulder and sweeping down over her breast and across her ribs. Most importantly, he's drawn them in such a way that the angry red blotching and the bumpiness of her injuries are hidden entirely beneath cool blues and greens and purples. Even the horrible, disfiguring scar that pulls at her left nipple is lost in the design, and she finds herself wanting to keep looking in the mirror for the first time since she'd been swept off her feet by the explosion.

"Oh... my god, Nate," she breathes, her eyes instantly welling with tears. "I…."

"D'you like it?" he asks, still nervous, but only because he just wants her to be okay, and God, does she ever love him.

She finally tears her eyes away from her body and looks at him in the mirror. Her mouth opens to respond, but her throat is too tight, so she simply nods instead. He gives her a relieved smile, and then his hand comes back to settle on her hip.

"You can see the back, too," he tells her, turning her around. He lifts her hair away so she can see over her shoulder to look in the mirror properly.

The design on her back is impossibly more beautiful than on her front. Hints of Tibetan and Arabic and Buddhist filigree have all been woven together, and each line brings forth a memory of her sitting next to him on a couch or hotel bed or bus seat watching him sketch out an artifact or design that happened to catch his eye. It's a roadmap of places they've been to together, of little ornaments and jewellery he'd gifted to her in the too-short time they'd spent travelling the world as a team. He's etched their history into her skin, replacing the disfigured geography of scars running over her body with their memories.

She cups a hand to her mouth, trying to stem the sob that springs forth, and then she curls into him, pressing against his body. His arm comes up to circle around her back, still careful of the paint, and his other hand settles on her cheek. She lets herself melt into the warm strength of his chest and holds onto him like an anchor as something besides a dull apathy spreads through her for the first time in weeks.

"Thank you," she rasps finally, looking up at him. His eyes are a brilliant blue in spite of the ugly light of the bathroom, and the grin that spreads across his face is enough to break her heart all over again.

"I'm glad you like it," he says, still not daring to speak too loudly. "If you want, I can take a picture, so you can keep it for later."

She shakes her head. "No—mandalas are supposed to blow away with the wind anyway, aren't they?" She smiles through her tears. "You'll just have to draw it on again sometime."

He laughs at that. "Sounds like a plan."

Elena steps up on her toes to kiss him again, and he stoops down to meet her halfway. Nate pulls her in, his hand snaking low across her back, and he's a wonderfully warm contrast to the cool air of the bathroom.

"I want to—" she whispers around his mouth, and he pulls back to look at her. "I just, I want to look at this a bit more," she continues, looking down at her left side. "It's really beautiful, Nate."

"Want me to stay?"

There's no obligation in his question, she thinks, looking at the simple, open concern on his face. He only wants her to be happy.

"I think… I think I want a few minutes alone, if that's okay."

He smiles, smoothing a stray hair out of her face. "Okay. Let me know if you need anything."

She warms to the words, allowing a small smile of her own. "I will."