“You don’t need to do this,” Bruce grumbles.

Applying balm won't erase the deep runs of scars on his body—the scratch marks on his shoulder, old stabbings on his torso, burn marks on his chest, gunshot holes.

Mismatched patches of scars traverse his back, resembling lightning strikes on his spine. Not all were the work of villains; his knuckles and fingers bear witness to the relentless use of batarangs and punches. The deep scar in his abdomen? Courtesy of Joker.

Little about Bruce mirrors the boy he was before his parents died. Gotham and Bruce himself ensured that. Time and again, Alfred's skilled hands stitched him back together.

This isn't the image people associate with the charming billionaire Bruce Wayne. It's a far cry from the flawless skin featured in last week's Gotham Gazette lifestyle piece on him. Body makeup, concealer, and synthetic skin grafts hide away decades of trauma and pain.

Bruce exhales, slouching on the sofa, swiping at his tablet to review the PDF Gordon sent him. His jaw tenses as Clark's fingers work the cream into the corded muscles of his shoulders, over an old burn scar from Clayface.

He can't recall the last time someone cared for him like this, touching the body he often sees as nothing more than a weapon for justice or a tool for manipulating Gotham's elite.

It's almost achingly tender, making him want to swat Clark's hands away, yet at the same time, lean into Clark's touch.