He watched her struggling with the information and just waited while she processed, reading the emotions on her face. Reminding himself to breath evenly, Bruce just waited until she spoke again, asking him for proof - some kind of verification of his identity.
Having prepared ahead, he gave her the best proof he had. Unbuttoning his shirt to reveal that he wasn't wearing an undershirt, Bruce let the halves open enough to show her his chest. The scars were horrific; a bullet wound in his shoulder and another in his side, both old and white with dead tissue. Obvious stab wounds, cuts, jagged slices of indeterminate origin, all marked their paths on him like a subway map in raised lines of white and pink braille.
But the most important was directly over his sternum from right to left - five distinct claw marks, no longer red and angry as they had been the night she'd given them to him, but still a vivid reminder of one of their first encounters twelve years earlier. Dead center on his chest, she could neither miss, nor mistake it for what it was -
The reason he'd never taken his shirt off in front of her in all these years.
Sensing the panic rising in her, Bruce gently took her hand and laid it over the mark she'd made on him. "You prefer the rooftops," he said quietly. "The weightless feeling after you jump, looking down on everything, feeling the wind on you." Releasing her hand, he briefly ran his thumb over her cheek before pulling back again. "So do I."