Today was a good day. Though nothing much was accomplished, nothing went wrong. No one betrayed us, no one was cut down. And so it is only he and I that lie in this bed, without the anger or the shame or the fear; merely he and I and what we become when we are together, and then he and I once more.
Now he lies nestled against my side, fine hair spread like a fan across my shoulder. My eyes are closed, but still I cannot help but See him, pale and lovely. One of his legs is between my own, no longer as chill as it was when we lay down, but heated by my own warmth, and there is a measure of satisfaction in that something of me remains in him, even if it is not truly him. There was a time when this would have terrified me, but it seems ages ago now.
Likewise, my fingers absently trace along a forearm smoother and harder than flesh, caressing. I know he cannot really feel my touch, but he is made aware of it, and it is as soothing for me to touch him as it might have been for him to be touched. Even so, Looking upon what is left of him, it is not difficult to imagine a softer shoulder in the crook of my arm, and a graceful hand, fine-boned, that I rest my fingertips upon instead of this stiff metal. It is foolish to say such a thing, but after such a day, a little folly does not seem so terrible a thing, and I allow myself to say it; "I wish that I could have seen you when you were whole."
He stirs slightly at the murmur, half-asleep before I spoke, but he never fails to be coherent enough to give a quiet rebuke. "Whole, John? I am as whole now as I have ever been."
He has shifted a bit, and his other leg is now cold against my thigh, but I say nothing more. Never has he told me exactly how he came to be as he is, only that it was for the gods. If I take his meaning correctly, I imagine that he is now likely more whole than I have been in my entire life.