Life is good.
"Honey, can you grab that mixing bowl?" Standing on her tippy-toes, Zasha eagerly motions to a cabinet just out of her reach. Cooking has been her passion for the last month despite the limited confines of our kitchen. It's small, but our own, and I have to press against her backside to reach the aforementioned shelf. Now I'm stretching as hard as I can just to reach the bowl's rim; she giggles like a child.
"Yes, yes, laugh it up, little lady." It's my fault for putting it that high in the first place, a decision I come to regret as an acute pain drives into my side; old nerve damage.
Usually I'd curse but Zasha wants a less of that language in our home, so the obscenity is stifled but a sharp exhale slips between clenched teeth.
Ever perceptive, my wife catches the reflexive grimace and softens her laughter into a more concerned expression. "Everything alright," delicate fingers dance along the space beneath my ribcage, "another flare up?"
"It's nothing; I can barely feel it." A reassuring smirk is all I can provide, though Zasha reads me like a book; she knows the scars of war just as well as I.
We're both veterans of the Lunar War of Independence, serving on the side of the Terran Militaria during its brutal campaign to crush dissent on its orbital colonies; time has greatly changed us both.
I was a grunt, seeing heavy conflict in the populated urban centers, and Zasha a designated 'hunter-killer' gynoid. Though we fought on the same side, the role of an infantryman was much different than that of an extremely expensive piece of military hardware.
Externally, Zasha resembles a human woman in their entirety, save a few robotic components that visually set her apart; the faint whirl of internal servos, alternating iris colors, etc.
During the war, Zasha was not 'Zasha', rather a serial designation. A prepackaged assassin. In those dark times, my wife and the gynoid models that she served alongside were cerebral killing machines, devoid of personality or mercy. She was an unflinching butcher, nothing like the doting and caring woman I know her to be presently; love saved us from that nightmarish reality.
Now, we are veterans, scrapping together a life of our own in one of the many habitation centers that crowd Earth's surface; she's preoccupied now, examining the litany of scars that decorate my skin like it's the first time.
"Tell me if it hurts, honey." A soft palm presses against my lower abdomen.
I smile, "I'm fine."
We give cooking a pause, allowing Zasha to further investigate the same old scars she occasionally tends to comment on. Her chassis isn't a porcelain doll itself, synthetic flesh dotted with a few battle-worn blemishes; we take our time admiring the imperfections of our bodies.
Mid caress, her right hand seizes in place, followed by the rest of her body; trembling lips part just enough to speak. "H-Honey, it-it's happening a-again." There is no concern in her eyes, nor wavering in her tone, but I can tell Zasha is frightened by the sudden immobilization. These little malfunctions have been increasing in frequency for the past year and strike at the most inopportune times. Few are those with the proficiency or desire to work with a ex-'hunter-killer' unit, so all I can provide is my support if no one else can; I have to remain strong for my wife.
Zasha usually regains motor functions a few minutes after her episodes' onset, so in the meantime I hold her tightly and nuzzle into the softness of her crown; we'll get through this.