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Nick stepped out of the shower and toweled off, his shoulders and chest red from the hot water. He knew he had turned the temperature up too high, but he wasn’t about to let his first actual shower in over a century be lukewarm. He looked in the mirror and ran his fingers through his wet hair. The water made it look dark, almost black. He wondered what shade it would be when it dried.
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the fact that he had hair again. Skin, too. Genuine, organic skin, smooth and clean, with not a scar in sight. Not to mention some pretty impressive eyebrows. And no missing pieces.
He traced his thumb over his jawline. His new, completely intact jawline that culminated in a strong, well-defined chin.
“Not too shabby,” he muttered.
With some struggle, he pulled himself away from the reflection and started getting dressed. Sole had found him a clean, tan suit and coat to go with his new body. Part of him wanted to keep wearing his old patched coat, but after studying himself in the mirror, he decided against it. It just wouldn’t look right anymore. His hat, on the other hand—he would never give that up.
He had just pulled on his undershirt and slacks when there came a knock at the door. He ducked back into the bathroom and did his best to arrange his hair.
“It’s open,” he called.
The door mechanism squeaked. He could hear light footsteps making their way into the room. He took a deep breath. Time to make a good first impression.
He stepped through the door.
Sole stood by the bed. She wore the same pink dress that she had found for their wedding. The sight made him stop dead in his tracks.
She raised a hand to her lips, then let it fall. He could see the stream of words just on the tip of her tongue, but she remained silent. After a moment, she spoke.
“Nick?” she said in a faltering tone.
“Hey, Doll,” he said, surprised by the hesitance in his own voice.
Her breath escaped her in a sound that was half laugh, half cry. Her tear-filled eyes traced him up and down.
“Well, what do you think?” he said.
“Before I say anything, I want to know what you think.”
“I think it’s pretty snazzy.”
She half-laughed again, then reached out to him.
“Let me—let me look at you.”
He stepped closer and let her take his hand. She turned it over, running her thumb along his knuckles, curling and uncurling his fingers. Every touch sent shivers up his arm.
She pulled a gold band from her pocket and slipped it on his finger.
“Thanks for hanging onto that for me,” he said.
“Just look at me with those pretty eyes of yours, and I’d do anything,” she said. “I’m glad you decided to keep the old ones. I’ve always loved those glowing peepers.”
She smiled at him, tears tracing down the sides of her face. He couldn’t stand for her to be so far away. He couldn’t stand to see those tears, even if they were tears of joy. Without letting another second tick by, he threw his arms around her and held her close. The sensation nearly overwhelmed him; everything felt so much more than it used to. His hands remembered her shape as they traced up and down her back, but something was different.
“Are you chilly? You feel a little cold,” he said.
“You’re just warmer than you used to be. And look.”
She brought his hand to his neck and pressed his fingers just to the left of his throat.
“Feel that?” she said.
“Feel what? Wait—”
He pressed harder. Then he felt it—the rhythmic pulsing just below the skin.
“Is that—?” his throat closed around the words. He caught his breath. He clapped a hand to his mouth as tears began to roll down his cheeks. Sole brushed them away, letting her hand linger on the side of his face. He leaned into it and pressed her close. She touched her forehead to his.
“It sure is,” she said.
His heart began to race—his actual heart—pumping not coolant, but blood—real blood— the honest to goodness, genuine thing. He couldn’t stop smiling. He held her tight and pressed her ear to his chest.
“Can you hear it?” he said.
“Let me listen… Ah, there it is. Goodness, it’s going a million miles a minute.”
“Making up for lost time,” he laughed.
“That’s nothing,” she said. “Let me really get it going.”
She cradled his head and planted a kiss that stole the breath from his lungs. The feeling of her lips on his set his mind awhirl. A thousand sparks danced between them. He thought of everything and nothing. Every touch threatened to drag him under—under what, he couldn’t say. It was too much.
He flinched back.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Sorry,” he said, breathless. “It’s just… I don’t know, it’s just a lot right now.”
“That’s fine,” she said, tracing her thumbs along his jaw. “We can take it slow if you need to. I can wait.”
He let his eyes fall closed. He only half-heard what she said; he was too busy savoring her gentle touch.
“Not sure I want to wait,” he murmured.
She chuckled.
“Don’t work yourself into a tizzy. I would hate to overload those sugar-circuits.”
“Do I still get to be called sugar-circuits now that I have a lot fewer of them?”
“Of course. You’ll always be sugar-circuits to me. My favorite rough-and-tumble toaster. Sweet, sweet synth. With the nicest eyes in the Commonwealth.”
“And my personality? You still like that?” he said with a grin.
“Oh, it’s the best.”
He laughed and buried his face in her neck. Her hair tickled his ear, but he didn’t care. He breathed in her scent. It had never seemed so complex before; there was something deep about it, comforting and interesting and enticing all at once.
He swayed her side to side, focused on committing everything to memory. The smell of her hair. The warmth of her skin. The soft movement of her ribs beneath his hands. Each element enthralled him; added together, they were utterly mesmeric. He relaxed further into her embrace.
She stumbled back.
“Hey, careful there,” she said. “You may not weigh as much as you used to, but that doesn’t mean I can carry you.”
“Well that’s a disappointment. What did I go through all this for if you can’t carry me bridal-style?”
She stifled a laugh and walked over to the bed, then stretched out and patted her collar.
“Here. I saved a spot for you.”
He climbed in beside her and rested his head on her chest.
“My favorite place to be,” he murmured. “‘Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast.’”
“‘To feel forever its soft swell and fall,’” she quoted, tracing a finger along his back.
A thrill went up his spine.
“‘Awake forever in a sweet unrest,’” he said.
“‘Still, still to hear his tender-taken breath.’”
“‘And so live ever...’”
He paused to yawn.
“Oh, am I boring you?” she chided. “Jeez, Nicky, I’m insulted.”
“Never. If anything, you’re too exciting. Look at me, I’m all worn out.”
He sighed and shifted to find a more comfortable position. She absent-mindedly arranged his hair.
“It’s about time you got some rest,” she whispered. “I love you, Mr. Valentine.”
“Love you too,” he yawned again, “Mrs. Valentine.”
He closed his eyes. He had forgotten how peaceful the moment between sleep and awake could be. He had forgotten how it felt to cry, to laugh until he was sore, to be hungry or weary or sick. To hurt. To heal. To have a heart that raced at another’s touch.
She hummed a familiar tune that he was too tired to remember.
He drifted to sleep, carried by the sound of her voice, the rhythm of her heartbeat, and the feeling of her fingers combing through his hair.