You sat absentmindedly tracing different scars along his torso as you leaned against him, the marks from an array of causes. Daggers, bullets, top-surgery, claws, any number of things. The discoloured tissue sat as a reminder of what he'd either chosen or been forced to endure to get where he was today and you admired him for that. One of his hands buried in your hair as he held you close to his side, eventually breaking the near hours long silence by mumbling: "You're gorgeous, y'know that?"