just give us a touch and let me down slow (just let me know if this is some kind of life, or something else) (слэш)

Jon’s skin did not feel like his skin.
It hadn’t for some time. A month or more (he couldn’t tell; the storeroom had had no windows, and without a day/night cycle he’d lost track of things quickly) in a refrigerated warehouse with only the thin tee shirt he’d been wearing when they took him had left him feeling cold and numb, as inert as all the silent waxworks that had watched him for the length of his captivity.
He’d grown so used to the cold he hardly felt it until it was gone. It was only when Helen Richardson (if it was still Helen Richardson – her predecessor certainly hadn’t been Michael Shelley, anymore) had deposited him on the floor of his office that he realized how desperately cold he’d been for weeks.
He went to hug himself – from cold, from fear, from a general and overwhelming unhappiness – but found that he recoiled at his own touch. He couldn’t recognize himself in any part of the interaction. His fingers brushed the skin of his arm and felt only the inhuman chill of wax, and his arm received the touch of his hand and felt only the dead press of plastic.