She had never been able to look into his eyes before. This was new. No, will be new, was new, is very old. An old feeling, old, old, centuries of recognition by touch and feel condensed into light and dark input to human eyes, so very very flawed and unable to see what she usually saw. The sight was new, but the feeling was ancient and warm. Warm in the pit of the body's stomach, bubbling into a little jolt of the heart. How, then, to greet a friend she'd never really met, a lover she'd never kissed (and biting doesn't count, or does it; she was not at all sure of these things)?

All she knew of him was the result of the marks he left on her. There were the prods and pokes of daily activity, the shiny, well-worn places his fingers often wandered, the opening of the door (always pushing, not pulling!), the feel of feet on her floors. Her understanding of him was based solely on these things, and so to see the body that made those footsteps was even stranger than seven hundred years of new worlds and near-death.

Strange, but good.