He had never really been conscious of his own body before, except in as much as he often found himself the largest person in any given room. But under his clothes were a mass of scars, cuts and burns, marks of the process that had grafted him into the suit and of the fighting he had been forced to do after. And it wasn't that he thought she wouldn't want to see it or that she would turn away, but it was that awful past forcing its way into a place he wanted to keep from it.

But he didn't want to keep anything from her, either.

He reached down and slowly lifted up the hem of his shirt, pulling it off over his head and letting it fall.