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Summary
The suit stood quietly corpselike where he had left it. The first day he'd watched it half-warily for a long stretch, almost expecting to blink and be back inside it, and then he'd been swept into a mess of blood tests and immunology panels and press conferences and he didn't see the inside of his own room for a full 18 hours, and when he'd come back it had been a shock of horror and longing to see it still standing there. Unmoving, trapped inside this office, a thought which almost made him laugh except for how it almost made him sick. That night he dreamed that he could reach a hand inside himself and pull away globs of muscle and fat like wet handfuls of snow.
White Knight has an unusual relationship with the exosuit he wore for the better part of a year straight. (He has sex with it.)