The first thing she remembers is that her blood was a dark green—a stark contrast against the lighter shade of her skin. She supposes she was careless, or maybe she just wanted to see what he would do—to see if he would keep up their charade—but she finds her wrist carefully wrapped in those claws of his, his lips skimming the cut on her finger.
She should have expected it, now that she thinks back on it, but she didn't, and she is too stunned to pull away from his touch. It is not erotic, or at least she thinks he doesn't mean it to be (but then again, maybe he does)—merely a curious exploration. The strong line of his jaw is pressed up against the inside of her wrist, and she can feel the smooth texture of his skin, cold and hard and metallic.
He had never made any indication that he had any intention of pursuing this relationship any further than their alliance in order to reconstruct Mainframe—had never really shown any outward attraction—and yet the act was so bold, even in it's simplicity. And when his tongue darts out of his mouth briefly to lick at the bead nestled on her finger, she does resist, but his grip is firm. It is not the fact that she is uncomfortable with his actions that makes her want to pull away—no, he has been touching her for a while now in subtle ways; fingers brushing against her wrist here, a hand resting lightly on her waist there—but because he feels alien. Sprites are warm and soft, rounded corners and flawless skin. He is all hard edges and sharp corners. She at least expected this muscle to be warm, but even that is cool and surprisingly smooth.
Her hand is frozen from the repeated exhalations of his breath, beads of condensation dampening her skin from the difference in their body temperatures, and when he wraps his lips around the tip of her index finger, it feels as if she has been showered with ice water. And yet, there is a lazy heat curling in pit of her stomach. It is not an unpleasant feeling. She swears she can feel three sets of teeth, and that fact alone should unnerve her—and it does, somewhat—yet she is instead held within a thrall of wonder. His teeth are sharp and serrated, and she should be afraid that he will purposely tear the wound further just so he can watch her bleed to death from bloody stumps of fingers, yet he does not, and he seems careful to avoid any injury.
And when she finally finds her voice and asks why, he uncurls his tongue from around her finger, withdrawing with a feather light kiss to the tip and looks at her from under hooded lids, eyes alight as he replies:
"Because viruses don't bleed."