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He’d spend forever touching her if she’d allow him such a miracle. There’s no part of her, not an inch of her skin, which he would stray from. By now, after years of knowing her, he’s memorized every blemish and mark on her body, not a single scar or bruise hidden from his view even if he doesn’t quite know every dark story.
He never asks about the ones she hasn’t already told him, only presses his mouth to the different impressions littering her body, no matter how big or small or pink or white. Still, each one is a revelation, a new piece of her he has yet to learn.
The ones he hadn’t been a witness to are always unveiled in the dark, Selina’s voice quiet and cold, as if the unfolding of her past was equivalent to a secret passed between them, something dirty and terrible never to be brought into the light.
The thought always makes Bruce sadder than it should—he never wants her to be ashamed of any part of herself. He wants to know everything about her.
She slides into bed beside him, shifting until her head rests on his chest. Bruce winds an arm around her waist, tugging until she’s flush with his chest.
“What time’s work tomorrow?” she murmurs, voice half-muffled from her face being tucked so close to his sternum.
“Seven to six, maybe. My meeting with Gordon might run late.”
Selina huffs quietly. He understands her frustration, even if he never voices his complaints. His late nights have been more and more frequent the last few weeks, time at home often traded for meetings and missions. Less and less time he could be with her.
Her chin lifts enough for her to bump her forehead into his jaw, her hand drifting higher as she moves even closer. He winds his hand into her hair, stroking through her curls, careful not to catch any tangles.
“I’ll be cold without you,” she grumbles. Her leg lifts higher against his hip, her knee nearly digging into his stomach with how tightly she’s gripping his body.
“You’re always cold,” he argues with a soft laugh. In retaliation, he feels her icy fingertips pressing to his neck, gliding across his adam’s apple. At his unhappy sigh, her fingers flip and she presses the backs of her fingers to his skin, until he yelps quietly. He can feel her grinning against his neck and he pulls her tighter, gripping her waist as her amusement warms his chest.
She’s always been cold—no matter the weather, no matter the season. Her fingers are always frigid as she places them against him, her nose icy when she bumps it against his.
One finger drags across his neck, the press of her nail making him shiver as she traces down to his clavicle. “Maybe you’re just freakishly warm.”
“Very possible,” he mutters. Her soft laugh comes out in the shape of a warm exhale against his neck and he feels himself shudder, sharp prickles of delight winding up his spine.
He presses a short kiss to her head, trying to remind himself the reasons he needs to go to work. Tries to remember he’s partially responsible for the fate of Gotham, that he can’t leave it in ruins for the sake of a simple day off.
Such a feat is nearly impossible when the alternative is staying home with her. He’d never thought anywhere but the Manor could be home to him, but finding peace is all too easy when he’s beside her.
They don’t call it their apartment, only his, refusing to acknowledge Selina sleeps over more often than not. Trying to pretend her clothes aren’t littered across the floor, her shoes by the front entrance, that their sheets don’t smell like them both.
She curls close to his chest every morning she stays over, kisses him goodbye and then hello when he’s returned for the night. Still neither will call it theirs, because there’s no reason to, not when every inch of the space is draped in reminders of her presence.
“Wake me before you leave,” she orders gently. “So I can say goodbye.”
Bruce nods against her head and she tilts back and away, curving one cold hand around his nape as she tugs his lips to hers. He follows easily, gripping her hip with one hand, letting the other support his weight as he moves atop her. Her warm sigh raises goosebumps along his arms.
His hand drags up her stomach, just barely sliding under the edge of her—his—shirt. It always seems to turn into this nowadays; his hands pressed to her skin, desperately trying to satiate his urge to feel her. He always wants her skin pressed to his, always aches for the sound of her heartbeat in his ear, the reminders that she’s safe and alive in his arms.
Bruce drags his mouth away from hers only to press it to her jaw, reveling in her unsteady exhale. Her fingers slide through his curls, gripping gently as he kisses down to her neck, her clavicle. There’s a small scar there, atop her left collar bone, slightly raised but white with age.
It isn’t new, not by far. He’s pressed his mouth to its shape more times than he can count, dragged his thumb and fingers along its rough edges twice as often. He doesn’t know what it’s from, how old it really is, but he doesn’t ask, ever. Maybe with time she’ll reveal its past, unfurl the edges to its story. For now, Bruce lets it soak in anonymity, giving as much love to it as he can.
His hand slides under the edges of her shirt, fingers searching for the scar he knows better than any other; how could he not, after watching her blood spill across the floor, after feeling her heartbeat slow beneath his palm.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs.
She nods once. “Yes.”
At her approval, he moves lower, bypassing her chest entirely in favor of reaching the scars along her stomach—more than he could ever count yet familiar to his mouth, his touch.
The scar from Jeremiah’s bullet leaves his heart stuttering behind his ribs as always. Another curves around her shoulder, a cruel punishment from when she was a child and couldn't yet sneak her hand into a pocket without getting caught. One down the length of her thigh, another across her hip, dozens of small, white marks littering her knees and palms and back.
All of which Bruce has seen and touched, spent hours paying attention to and showering with gentle affection.
He lowers his mouth to the scar from Jeremiah. His mouth quirks at the sound of Selina’s content sigh and he presses light, slow kisses to the wound’s edges. His name falls from her mouth, soft and unsteady, and he kisses her stomach once more.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs. Her gentle laugh, a rare noise he’d do anything to hear, warms his entire body. Her fingers shift in his curls, petting his hair as he exhales.
There’s a thick scar on her side, just above her hip, impossible to miss with its size but still a mystery to him. She’s never told him and he doesn’t think she ever will.
Bruce kisses the faded mark once, twice, three times, over and over until he’s touched every centimeter.
Her hand winds tighter in his hair and drags him up and away, until his face is level with hers. Her nose brushes his once and she grins up at him.
“I’m still cold,” she teases through a whisper, despite the obvious flush to her cheeks and neck.
Bruce laughs and drops his head into her neck, savoring the feel of her pulse. “I’ll keep you warm.”