A/N: All right, we're jumping ahead in the timeline as I attempt to build intrigue in this story. More depressing chapters will come, but enjoy this kinda fluffy foray into the future.
October 2017
You're staring at yourself in front of the sink, observing the way your skin ripples under the white lights of your bathroom. A long, tapering pink scar runs under the edge of your right breast, thick in the middle and skinny at the ends. It's the worst one, the thing you like the least about yourself. You remember when Brian used to brush it, and it felt like the knife was being driven into you all over again.
Elliot comes in behind you to brush his teeth, and he notices how you've bundled your towel in front of your mouth.
"Are you okay?" He asks.
"Mm. Mmhmm."
He looks at you curiously, before picking up his toothbrush and the toothpaste that you had left discarded by the sink, cap off. You shake your head and sigh, pulling your gaze away from your body.
You feel like screaming - it's a common occurrence and something you do when Elliot isn't at your place, when you know Noah's asleep in bed. You scream into your towel until you feel better, usually after a scalding hot shower. You haven't told anyone about this habit before, mostly because you're afraid it would make you seem crazy. And you're doing a lot better, finally, so you don't want to seem like too much of a nutcase.
You put on an old t-shirt and shorts, settling into bed. Elliot comes and curls up next to you after a few minutes, his hand wrapping around your torso. "You have your thinkin' face on. What's up?"
"Nothing." You laugh a little, trying to throw him off. It doesn't work; that man can read you like a book.
"I want to know, Liv."
You pace your sentence awkwardly, pausing a lot as you try to think of the right way to phrase your thoughts. "I don't really like⦠the way I, uh, the way I look."
"Oh." You feel him tighten around you as he pulls you in closer. It's not something that you ever verbalized, but it's something that he's picked up on by now. "What about it bothers you?"
You trace the outline of his tattoo with your fingers - something you often do when you're nervous and talking to him. "I don't know, really. Guess I've just felt generally detached from my body for a long time." That's only part of it, you know, but it's not really like you understand what's going on with you well enough to describe anything more.
"So you don't feel like you're 'in' yourself?"
"Yeah."
He looks down at you, dead in the eyes. "Isn't that a PTSD thing?"
You nod. "I've talked to my therapist about it. Just a little."
"That's good, though, right? You're working on it."
"Sort of."
He gives you a kiss on the forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment. "Well, I'll always think you're beautiful, even when you don't feel that way about yourself."
"Sometimesā¦" You exhale deeply, trying to bide your time and keep yourself from bursting into tears, or rushing out of the room. "I wish I could see you like you see me. It's just exhausting looking at myself through this tunnel, all this shit I used to be and what I used to do. Because now I'm north of fifty, I have perpetual bags under my eyes, I have a huge scar under my - "
He interrupts you with laughter, of all things. "I've been wanting to name that scar for a while now, actually. Can we?"
You can't help but smile at how ridiculous he is, which was probably his secret plan all along - he always says something weird to cheer you up. "Yeah. What's your idea?"
"I don't know. Something big and mighty. Like Bertha, or Ethel. Sounds like a strong grandmother."
"God, El." You laugh a little more, feeling relieved that he has a sense of humor about all the ways in which your body has been marred. You remember feeling so insecure when you started having sex with each other, knowing that he'd seen you in your prime when you were a 35 year old version of badass Benson, with a slim bod and choppy hair. But he'd never made any comments about your appearance, other than you're so fucking beautiful and I always dreamt of seeing you this way. So you knew it didn't matter to him, and sex with all the lights on was something you both now regularly engaged in (something that you once swore to yourself would never happen with anyone again, ever).
He turns over, his hands on either side of you, palms digging into the mattress. "I love every part of you." He says, kissing your lips, your neck, down to your collarbone. "I love your body, and your mind, and especially these." He nuzzles your breasts, and you're caught giggling again. "I love your eyes, and the way you look when you laugh at me for being ridiculous." He hikes up the hem of your shirt, up to the middle of your breasts. He plants a soft, quick kiss on the large scar, Ethel or Bertha, and then on a few of the dotted scars around it - marks from cigarette butts and keys that stopped fading long ago, settling into the caramel hue of your skin. "I love your skin, and I know it hurts you to look at yourself sometimes. I know it's a reminder of something that killed you before, but it only made you stronger." He's looking into your eyes again, staring directly at the center of you. "And I wish you could see yourself like I see you. You're the sun I revolve around, every waking moment. I wish you could feel that way about yourself, Olivia, because it's what you deserve."
You can't help that you feel tears stinging the edges of your eyes now as he looks at you, as he kisses your lips and you kiss him back. "I love you, Elliot." You say to him, wrapping a leg around his waist.
You fall asleep with Elliot's lips pressed to your shoulder, forgetting the scar there, focussing on the sensation of his skin on yours, forgetting your sea of flaws momentarily.
