Sometimes he wonders why he – his future self – made her the way she is. How he could think his fifteen year old self wouldn't be attracted to her, and how disturbing it would feel to like her – to like a bunch of wires and Coltrane hidden beneath chemically-made skin. He wonders how she can be so beautiful to him, even when he can see the silver gleam of her metallic skull through the wound on her temple – wound that gets him so worried even when he perfectly well knows she won't be killed by a mere bullet through her head. He wonders why her skin is so smooth and why she smells so good. Why it's strangely alluring when she throws someone effortlessly through a wall – why a killing machine is so damn hot.
He wonders what she thinks about during those long sleepless nights – wonders if she even thinks or simply process. He wonders why he can't see her for what she really is when his mother has obviously not problem with throwing her through a window and down a building. One hundred and twenty seconds to reboot – yet he's still anxious when he looks at her lifeless face, waiting for the system to restart.
There are things he doesn't understand, can't understand. He doesn't understand why all those shivers run through his body when she brushes her fingers along his neck, scanning him. He can't understand how she manages to be so human. Doesn't understand why he feels the instant need to reassure he when that confused look crosses her features. Can't understand why he feels the instant need to kiss her when she smiles.
There are these things he knows, and those he doesn't. He knows it will never happen, or at least he knows it's not supposed to happen because she's not programmed for that. He doesn't know what his mother would do to him – and especially to her – if she ever found out. He knows her hands on his skin are softer than he'd imagined for her iron strength. He knows his hands on her skin are softer still. He knows her lips don't taste like steel, though sometimes he can't help but wonder if is tongue would get stuck to hers if it ever froze, like when his mother used to explain why he couldn't lick a pole in winter – never before now had he thought he'd ever want to be that close to a metal frame. He doesn't know why she keeps her eyes open when he kisses her and why she closes them when he pulls away. He doesn't know where she learned to be so seductive and can't help but be jealous when he wonders if his future self got a taste of her first. He knows she doesn't quite understand what's happening to her, though she's supposed to know everything, and when he feels her body pressed to his he can't help but believe she's more than a cyborg sent from the future to protect him. He knows that to him she feels human though she isn't – and if it's only his imagination messing around with him, he decides she feels better than a human.
He wonders why he's so fascinated by her features when he's on top of her – perfect lips, perfect neck, perfect curves – and why he always tries so hard to please her when he's not even sure she can be pleased. He wonders if her fast breathing, warm on his neck, is real or rehearsed. He wonders if the shine of her skin is real sweat or a mind trick from his own brain. And when a soft moan escapes her lips, he wonders if it's only because she read somewhere that it's supposed to be that way. He knows there's no heart in her stainless steel ribcage, yet he sometimes wonders if the soft sound her hears when he presses his head to her chest could be something else than a mechanism.
He wonders if the reason why she's so different from the others is that, aside from being made to protect, she was also made to feel.
He wonders if he really shouldn't care about how wrong it all is – because in fact it just feels right. He wonders if that piercing flash in her eyes when he tells her they can never truly be together is, in fact, pain. He wonders if she knows what love is – wonders if she can understand it. But that's the one thing he doesn't really mind.
Because he's willing to show her.