Second Self (caption) - part 2 (Patreon)

I lie on my back in the dark, tracing the unfamiliar crest of my hip bone. Chloe breathes steadily beside me.

It's been three months since the hospital. Three months since I woke up in the body I built the protocol for. I spend my days recalibrating, closing my hand on air six inches above whatever I meant to pick up.

I turn my head on the pillow. Chloe faces away from me. She wears an oversized t-shirt that's slipped off one shoulder. She smells like vanilla and sharp sweat.

Before the procedure, Chloe and I were friends. We used to sit in my office drinking burnt coffee while she sketched building elevations on the backs of my grant proposals. When the aneurysm destroyed Veronica's higher brain functions, she signed the authorization allowing me to map myself into her partner's surviving body. My appreciation for Chloe used to be strictly intellectual.

Now the vanilla in her hair makes my chest ache. I want to pull her against me and bury my face in her neck.

This is the side effect the primate models couldn't predict. The mapping protocol was supposed to overwrite Veronica's consciousness and run me on her hardware. But the brain isn't a hard drive. The synaptic pathways Veronica built over thirty-two years, the emotional associations wired into her amygdala, weren't erased. They were paved over, and the pavement is cracking.

I call it the bleed. Two weeks ago, standing in the kitchen, I reached for a mug on the top shelf. I went past the clean ceramic cups at the front and felt around blindly for a chipped yellow one in the back. I poured my coffee, took a sip, and a phantom memory dropped me onto a fire escape in Brooklyn, freezing, hands wrapped around this exact mug. I've never lived in Brooklyn. I've never owned a yellow mug. Veronica did.

I remain alone in my head, the same scientist who authorized an illegal procedure to save his own research. But my preferences are warping.

I used to drink my coffee black. Now the bitterness turns my stomach and I crave oat milk. I used to run cold and analytical. Now my emotional baseline sits somewhere higher, and I can't get it back down. I'm falling in love with Chloe through Veronica's ghost.

Chloe shifts, rolling onto her back. I carefully lift my left arm. My forearm brushes the cotton of her shirt. I freeze, waiting for her to pull away. She bathed me, dressed me, fed me. She calls me Veronica in public because it's easier for the neighbors. She knows I'm David. She just doesn't know David is slipping.

Chloe's eyes open. They're dark in the dim light. She blinks, focusing on my face.

"You're awake," she whispers. Her voice is rough with sleep.

"I'm awake," I say. My voice still catches me off guard, vibrating in my chest cavity rather than my throat.

She reaches out. Her fingers brush my forehead. "Can't sleep?"

"My mind is racing."

Her hand slides down, cupping my cheek. When I was a man, a touch was localized. Now warmth pools in my collarbones, radiating outward.

I press my cheek into her palm. She shifts her weight, closing the distance until our bodies touch.

"Veronica," she whispers.

I lean in. Our lips meet.

The softness of her mouth yielding against mine is nothing like the mechanics of kissing I remember. The vasocongestion begins almost immediately, a heavy warmth spreading low.

I part my lips and she deepens the kiss. My heart rate climbs.

Then her tongue brushes mine, and I remember.

I'm standing in a narrow, sunlit kitchen. I hold a dripping wooden spoon. Chloe is laughing, leaning against the counter, flour dusted across her nose. She pulls me by the apron strings and kisses me.

I let out a soft whimper. It's Veronica's memory, but I'm feeling the echo.

Chloe breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at me. "Are you okay?" she asks. "Is this okay?"

"It's okay," I whisper. "Please."

I reach for her. My arms lack the dense musculature I spent a lifetime building, but the fine motor control is sharp. I slide my hands under the hem of her t-shirt, pressing them flat against her warm waist. Her pulse moves under my palms.

She sits up on her knees. She pulls the shirt over her head and tosses it onto the floor.

I push myself up and trace the slope of her breast, the soft weight of it in my palm.

I lean forward, pressing my mouth to her collarbone. My tongue traces the hollow of her throat. She arches her neck, hands tangling in my hair. Her scent fills my lungs. I drag a hand down her stomach; the taut muscles jump beneath my palm.

"Veronica," she gasps.

I shift my weight, crawling down the mattress. The mechanics of this body moving across the sheets still require conscious thought. I have to account for the wider flare of my hips, the softer yield of my knees. I settle between her legs.

My face presses against the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Heat radiates from her flushed skin into the cool air of the bedroom. I part my lips and taste her. The scent and taste stop my breath: salt and copper.

Every time my tongue flicks over her clitoris, a phantom spark mirrors the contact directly in my own pelvis. She tangles her hands in my hair, pulling me closer. Her hips buck upward to meet my mouth. Tracing the folds, I draw her in, drinking the slickness. The sound of her breath hitching becomes the rhythm of my own heart. I work with my tongue and lips, finding the pressure, the rhythm she needs.

When she finally breaks, her thighs clamping around my ears, the sheer force of her release sends a wave of heavy, pooling heat crashing through me.

She collapses back onto the pillows, slick with sweat. I crawl up beside her. We breathe together in the dark.

Then she reaches for the straps of Veronica's silk nightgown.

Chloe pulls it down to my waist. Cool air hits my bare chest. My breasts sit heavy against my ribs. My nipples tighten, sending a hard contraction downward.

She leans over me, pressing her lips to my neck. She traces the swell of my breast, her mouth closing over the tightened peak.

My spine arches off the mattress as I grip the sheets. I let out a ragged gasp. It's my voice, but a sound I've never made in my life.

"Chloe," I gasp. My hips roll forward, seeking friction.

She pushes the tangled silk down past my hips, dragging it over my thighs. I am naked. I press my knees together.

She nudges my knees apart, sliding her hand down the inside of my thigh. I let my legs fall open.

She settles between my legs and presses her mouth against the tissue between my thighs.

I cry out. The damp heat of her tongue strikes with a violence that shatters my conscious thought.

She knows the exact rhythm. She learned it on this body, with someone else.

Tremors run through my thighs. My hips buck upward.

Tension coils tight deep in my pelvis. The rush of blood reaches its peak. Tissue engorged, pulsing.

I'm on a beach. The wind is howling. Chloe is holding my face, shouting over the surf, "I love you, I love you."

Tears stream down my temples.

I cry out.

My back bows off the mattress as involuntary contractions rip through me, tight spasms milking the pleasure from every nerve ending. Waves of heat wash over me.

I can't breathe.

Slowly, the waves recede, leaving me gasping on the bed.

Chloe crawls up my body and collapses onto my chest. I wrap my arms around her back, my limbs heavy as lead.

My heart rate stutters, slowing.

"Veronica," she whispers against my skin.

I stroke her back. I press the warmth of her into my hippocampus, building grooves that are mine.

"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm right here."