Her fingers touch his mask and for once he's not shying away, doesn't command her to stop or make any motion at all to hint displeasure. She's curious, he's wary, but the mask yields anyway. Up, up, up. Alien skin, faint inhuman luminescent lines trenched into flesh. Proof of what he isn't, of what he is.

With a gentle care she had only reserved for Deathtrap, she pushes the hard shell that much further, reveals millimeters more of his face. His neck, his jaw, his chin, his mouth. That is where she stops, metal fingers straying over what might have been his lips, touching with innocent curiosity.

It's enough. She smiles at him, slots the faceplate back into place, and backs away. No kisses, no sloppy displays of affection.

Even beneath the visor his skin feels cold from where the metal of her fingers had touched him.