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You're sitting on the bed in your and Albert's bedroom at the end of a long day, leaning back on your palms and listening to the sound of the shower running. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, feeling content as the sounds of domestic bliss wash over you like rain showers in summer.
Your feet ache from being on them all day, running from one end of the facility to another – you are Albert's partner in everything he does and that means occasionally being his errand girl when he's too busy with his work but needs files and samples from labs on the other end of the building. You don't mind, really, since you're not exactly scientifically inclined – art and the humanities are more up your alley – but still want to help him make his vision a reality. Most of the time you just sit quietly in his lab and read a book or listen to music in your headphones, today was just an exception.
You open your eyes lazily when you hear the bathroom door opening and look up to find your husband making his way towards you. You didn't even hear the shower turning off, huh.
“Someone looks comfy,” you comment fondly as you take in Albert's appearance. He's only dressed in his boxers with a towel wrapped around his head to soak up all the wetness in his blonde hair. His chest scars are barely visible anymore, but your eyes trace them as he approaches nonetheless. He doesn't care for them either way, seeing them as just another part of his body, not unlike his yellow eyes or blonde hair, but you love them, love tracing them with your fingers, your eyes, your tongue. You love them because of what they represent: the transformation of a boy who grew up in the sixties and seventies and who was miserable the entire time because he couldn't be who he knew he was. He hasn't had an issue with any of it in decades, but you still remember the angry fire burning in his eyes as he told you of how he was treated as a kid, then as a teenager, for daring to tell people to stop using the wrong name for him and to start treating him like the boy he was.
Well, now he's a grown man in his own right and no one can deny him his reality. Not when he's become so much more already. Not just a man – but a god. At least to you, at any rate, just for now.
“The shower helped loosen my muscles so you can begin,” your husband cuts to the chase neutrally without acknowledging your remark. It makes a fond smile pull at your lips, long used to Albert's fleeting and spontaneous affection. You never doubt he loves you – he would unmake the world in your image if you asked – so you let him pretend he doesn't have feelings like the rest of you mere mortals every once in a while. Besides, he never rejects your affection when aimed at him, he just pretends he's not reciprocating (even though he totally is).
“Alright. Get here, then,” you acquiesce, patting the spot next to you on the bed before you get to your feet and start gathering your supplies. Albert does as you asked without complaint, taking a seat where you indicated and waiting patiently for you to return.
You've done this for him so many times over the years that the steps have become routine by now. But recently you've added an extra step in the beginning because like hell were you going to let Excella go anywhere near your husband with a needle. First, you disinfect a big area on his thigh to give yourself plenty of room to work with. Then, you pick up the first injection: PG67A/W, the stabilising serum Albert and Excella worked on together to regulate his symptoms from the various viruses he's injected himself with over the years. You uncap the injector slowly then very carefully control your aim so you can stab the needle into his muscle exactly where you want it to go. It goes in without a hitch and Albert doesn't even flinch in response to it. A cotton swab is quickly pressed over the injection site as you pull the needle back out to stop any bleeding that might occur, then you dispose of the injector in the bin Albert very helpfully pushes towards you with his free leg.
“Thank you, my love,” you tell him sweetly, to which he only huffs and gestures for you to continue. You bite back a smile at his grumpiness but don't push him.
Once that's done, you disinfect the area again, making sure to avoid the previous injection site, and give the skin a moment to dry out by grabbing the vial of testosterone you would know by feel and shape alone so you can start pulling an appropriate amount into a syringe. You let a small amount dribble out as you eliminate any possible air bubbles with a hum, then, just as carefully as the last time, you stab it into Albert's thigh muscle and push the liquid in.
You repeat the process of stopping any potential bleeding, letting Albert press the cotton swab to the injection spot, and go about getting rid of the used needle and putting everything else back in its proper place.
When you return, Albert has already gotten rid of the swab and is in the process of unravelling the towel on his head so he can remove it.
“Here, let me,” you intervene and your dear husband lets his arms fall away and come down to rest on the mattress on either side of his thighs without a word. You very gently rub the towel into his damp hair, just to fluff it up more than anything since it's already absorbed all the moisture it could, then run your fingers through it so it lays back in a more or less orderly fashion. You know he hates it getting in his eyes, which is why he always sweeps it away and forces it to stay in place with gel or hairspray, but you also know that sweeping it back when it's in its natural state and soft as silk won't do much in reality.
Personally, you like his hair all fluffy and messed up, getting in his eyes and framing his forehead. It makes him look softer, more like the Albert you know he really is under all the bluster and posturing.
“There, all done. Now you can finally cuddle your wife in peace until you fall asleep,” you declare in a teasing tone. Your eyes crinkle at the corners when you smile at him as you step away from his sitting form to take him in in all his glory and Albert's mouth twists in response to your words but there's nothing but comfort and exhaustion clinging to his slumped shoulders, no real annoyance.
“I still need to put some clothes on.”
“No, leave it. I turned the heat up and God knows you burn like a furnace anyway. You can sleep in your boxers.”
Albert raises an eyebrow at you but he doesn't fight you on it. He knows that when you make suggestions like this it's because you're craving the skin to skin contact, his body pressed up against yours as intimately and as closely as humanly possible. When you were younger, you used to find him wherever he was and just crawl under his shirt until he got the memo. He urged you to just tell him when you wanted to be held like that so you could stop ruining his shirts and you've been giving him subtle hints like this ever since.
He gets under the covers while you putter around the bedroom a bit more, leaving a bottle of chilled water on each of your nightstands in case you get thirsty in the night, then slipping into an old shirt softened by age and turning out the lights. Your body finds Albert's as soon as you slide in bed next to him and he doesn't hesitate to wrap you in his arms and tuck your head under his chin. You really love how tall he is, especially in moments like this.
“Thank you, dear heart,” he murmurs quietly in the dark bedroom before you feel a soft pressure against the crown of your head. You rub your feet together in happiness and snuggle closer into his impossibly warm chest. He's always run warmer than normal people but his various infections have really upped the temperature in the intervening years.
“Always, my love,” you whisper in return. He doesn't need to clarify what he's thanking you for – the hair drying, the injections, the ability to read him like an open book and never get mad at him for not meeting your affection levels every time – because you'd do a thousand harder things for him and still not expect any gratitude in return. You love him more than words can say and there are so very few things in this world that you wouldn't do for him. “Now get some rest. Sweet dreams.”
He tightens his arms around you as a drawn out, heavy sigh leaves him in one go, then he gets more comfortable on the pillow under his head and allows himself to sink into the mattress, letting the day's stresses leak out of him and leave his body sleepy and relaxed.
“As long as you're there, I'm sure they will be.”
The romantic statement makes you smile brightly, feeling indescribably happy, and you let your eyes fall closed, too, as you deliberately slow down your breathing so it matches Albert's then slowly start slipping off into dreamland yourself. He doesn't tell you if he dreamed of you in the morning, but you make sure to tell him all about how he was your physics teacher at the circus and kept failing you for not being able to juggle apples correctly. He listens to you attentively as you pour him coffee and talk, and while he doesn't do more than hum or tell you that none of what you're saying is making any sense whatsoever, you can see his lips twitching up into small smiles here and there every time you look at him.
And when breakfast is done, he pulls you into his chest without warning and licks hungrily into your mouth until he can taste your pancakes on his tongue and you can taste his coffee, and it makes your morning even brighter as you dance around your bedroom like a teenager ten minutes later, getting ready for another day helping out your husband in the labs while he messes with his hair in the mirror of your ensuite bathroom.
You never thought you could be this happy when you were young and naive and lost in a world that didn't seem to make much sense to you. But now, you have everything you could have asked for: a peaceful life, a nice, comfortable home, and the best husband in the world who loves you more than there are stars in the sky. What else could a girl want, really?