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He is alive beneath her fingers, and not just in the breathing, warm way men usually are.
Pneumatic tubes buried beneath wires and plates, motherboards and chips, just to replicate the sound of air being pushed and pulled, so when someone pressed the bell of a stethoscope to the plate it wouldn’t be so disarming despite the lack of a heartbeat. He is outfitted with internal and external temperature sensors along the neck, down the spinal column, and in a band around the abdomen, connecting to a straining core that sends signals of discomfort through his body just so he could pull at his collar and go, “Did someone forget to turn on the A/C?” and put everyone at ease, never mind that he can’t sweat.
He disconnected these frivolities years ago.
She digs around inside of him, the pads of her fingers thrumming from the energy being pushed and pulled around his body and she imagines herself a surgeon, holding organs so warm they don’t feel wet in careful, cupped hands.
She drops shaved bolts into an old cup like she’s removing tumors and transplanting healthy tissue, peels back the ribbons with a car jack to access his processor as if she’s pulling apart his abdominal wall to access the cavity within, she curls her fingers around his core as if massaging it, and she checks the wires plugged into his wrists the same way nurses had checked her IVs and smiles at him when he stares at her, forever unblinking.
He is shiny inside with peat-dark oil and it coats her hands as blood, smeared across her face and clothes, caught in wisps of her hair — once a frantic attempt to save his life, now a quiet ritual.
She pieces back together his exoskeleton, ties his ribbons back into place, refills his capacitor with cooling liquid and wipes her hand on a rag that used to be a Nano-Cola towel, and as he flexes his muscles, adjusts the slant of his joints, and releases a groan that buzzes like cicadas, she marvels at what he is; all steel and carbon, walking and talking life and liberty, a beacon in a world that seeks to snuff out his light.
“Well,” Hana says, her hands on her hips and a grin pulling at her lips, “I’m done rearranging your guts.”
Ramattra sighs, a long, drawn out thing that twinges a little with a chuckle of amusement, his large hand reaching up to cup her chin in a grip that could eclipse her face if he wasn’t careful.
“Such petty humor,” He drawls as she lowers herself to straddle his knee, his fingers moving to play with a loose strand of her hair, “But, I can humor you… doctor .”
In one smooth move he draws her face to his, the kiss electric and oil-slicked.