"Makes sense," he murmurs.

He's glad at least some pain input will stick around. It wouldn't be right to feel everything except pain. Living thirty-five years with pain being the signal to fix what's broken -- he still needs that.

Curtis slides his fingers to her wrists. Then higher, to her forearms, tracing the tattoos like he traced the one on her face; like she traced the light racing along his new arm. The pressure deepens, lightens, deepens again.

Ostensibly it's to calibrate his arm better. Ostensibly.