by Ruby Dixon
The crew seems nice enough. I've met all of them. The captain, Kivian, is…not what I expected. Everyone gives him shit about his clothes and his meticulousness, so I imagine him as a bit of a dandy. Fran—his human mate—is the practical one. She's level-headed and clever, and while the pirate crew did fine without her, I think she's kind of the ship mom. She makes sure everyone is taken care of and that everything's in order on the Fool. Tarekh's the big easygoing medic that I'm told is hideously ugly, and Cat is the ferocious and forthright human woman that's his mate. She's a pint-sized, prank-loving dervish, and I love her bold personality even if I can't mimic it.
Other than Alvos, Sentorr's the one I'm closest to, oddly enough. He's polite and reserved and doesn't feel the need to make small talk around me. He's content to sit in silence and let me just be. He doesn’t have to make sure that I'm entertained at all times, like Fran does. Cat's usually attached at the hip to Tarekh, and whenever she gives a throaty little giggle, I worry that they're groping each other a few feet away from me and I can't see it. It makes it a little uncomfortable to be around them, even though I know they mean well.
Sentorr just works. He focuses on the ship and taps away at his controls on the bridge, and if I ask questions, he answers with a crisp response that has zero fluff to it. Maybe I recognize a fellow repressed person in Sentorr. I think he's like me, bottling up everything inside and giving the world a very focused picture of who he is. I'm calm and agreeable. He's efficient.
And the only people we're probably fooling are ourselves.
But still, that makes him easy to be around, unlike Alvos.
Alvos—I still call him that, still waiting to see if he corrects me—is both wonderful and difficult. I trust him implicitly at this point. He's protective and caring, doing his best to make sure that I'm comfortable and feel safe. Whenever I'm in the same room as him—which is often—he stays nearby and quietly offers me his arm in case I need a guide. He doesn't make a big deal out of it and never makes me feel like I'm a burden. Every morning, he ties the ribbon over my eyes because it makes me feel better to hide my scars from the others. And every night, he sleeps in the same bed as me with his arms curled around me. It's my favorite time of day, I think. To just settle into bed and be held tightly and know that I'm safe and cared for. We talk, too, but it's not necessary—I just like being alone with him.
Of course, he's also utterly infuriating. Alvos likes to pick fights, it seems. He's the crew's muscle, and if there's a job that needs heads knocked around or guns blazing, he's their guy. He goes with Kivian and Tarekh when they need to meet up with smugglers and usually comes back smelling faintly like blood. I'm told that it's just his nose or his knuckles, because he'd rather negotiate with his fists than with discussion. I don't mind this—but I do mind that he's sometimes trying to pick a fight with me. He goads me, trying to make me snap back at him. He snarls when I thank him. He does small things all day long to try and prick my temper, to get me to show something other than placidity.
But I learned that lesson already. Placidity is safe. Being as feisty as Cat cost me my eyes, half a pinky, and a toe. I can't do that anymore.
So I just ignore when he growls at me when I'm polite. I ignore the little verbal nudges he gives me in effort to make me lose my temper. I'm calm and unruffled, sweet and polite, even when I don't want to be.
It makes him crazy. I think he'd like it if I was wild and out of control, but I can't do that. I can't be that girl anymore.
The only part of me that's left is the obedient one.
I do my best to help out with the crew, though I can't do much. I don't know how to operate any of the ship's equipment. I can't read alien languages. I have a translation chip thanks to Tarekh's medical wizardry, but it only helps with spoken languages. There's not a lot for a blind girl to do, and it makes me feel guilty. Everyone has a job on ship, it seems. Fran takes inventory regularly and helps Kivian with various duties around the ship. Cat helps Tarekh with maintenance. Sentorr apparently lives at his nav station. Alvos is in charge of weaponry.
I can't really do much with weaponry because I can't see, and I can't leave the ship to help him “muscle” their contacts. I don't want to leave the ship, either. Not when I'm safe here. So I hang out on the bridge with Sentorr and try to stay out of people's way.
It's a busy week, it seems. Kivian and the others are meeting with smugglers at a space station and setting up a series of recurring shipments of something called “darkmatter.” It seems that the Fool's crew finds buyers, goes to dangerous locations on the outer reaches of the planetary system and bargain/steal the stuff they need, and then mark it up for a ridiculous price to sell back. I get the impression that they lie, steal and cheat if necessary, but they're a tight crew and they're good people at heart, so it actually doesn't bother me that they're breaking the law. I've listened to how Tarekh and Kivian take care of their women and there's no evil in these people's hearts.
I'm not much help to a pirate crew, though. Eventually, Sentorr gets tired of me sitting quietly on the bridge with my hands folded in my lap and doing nothing. He moves to the station I'm sitting at and starts to tap at buttons on the panel in front of me—a panel that I don't dare touch because I don't know what it does. While the others are at the cantina wheeling and dealing, he shows me how to work the comm panels without sight, how many taps of this button get me to the menu I need, and then he gives me a strangely shaped earpiece that just barely manages to go into my ear.
“Listen for the authorities,” he tells me. “These are the local comm channels that the police and militia in this system use to communicate. If you hear that they're mobilizing, let me know. If you hear anything out of the ordinary, you tell me. Don't be afraid to speak up.”
“All right,” I tell him in a timid voice, and listen to the radio frequencies and messages.
At first, it's just boring. There's a lot of chatter about setting up at routine stops and switching out of guardsmen at established hours. After a while, though, I start to enjoy it. I flip through several of the comm bands, and I find that the hours fly past. I enjoy listening in because it tells me where the police are that particular day. If they're doing routine checks on the station or if they've hit their quota for the month and are easing back. I hear the militia griping about unregistered vehicles in their territory and we know not to steer the Fool toward one particular planet because they're cracking down.
After about two days of flipping through channels, I overhear news of a freighter in a nearby shipping lane that's been abandoned, the crew jettisoning in life pods toward the closest station. I share this with Alvos and the others, and the next thing I know, we're setting a course for it. Hours later, the cargo—guns, it seems—has been offloaded into the Fool's berth and we're speeding away. Kivian and others pat my back and tell me that I've just earned the Fool money. Fran comments how helpful it is to have me listening to the radio, since it's gotten them into trouble before.
I feel good. Useful. Like I can do something other than be a victim. I hope it's enough to earn me a place here.
Because I'm not sure I have a place anywhere else.
13
ALYVOS
Iris's unflappable calm is driving me insane.
I glare at my drink in the mess hall as the others celebrate. We're all together—even Sentorr has abandoned his post on the bridge to come and join in the merrymaking for a time. He sits next to Iris, watching with amusement as Cat needles Tarekh, her arms around the big male's neck and leaning over his shoulder as he drinks a sip of her beverage and then makes a face.
“It tastes like piss,” he declares. “Humans drink this voluntarily?”
“It's beer, and yes they do.” Cat licks his earlobe, grinning. “And you have to down the whole thing.”
He gives me a mock-pained look. I just glare at my own beer. We found a crate of these on the abandoned freighter, along with packaged snacks from another Class D world that look like bugs
of some kind. Fran suspects there's some kind of upsell on the black market for these sorts of things. We decided to keep the beer and celebrate, since that freighter's cargo will now buy us a month's fuel as well as some other things. Kivian and Fran are beaming at Iris for being clever enough to pick up the alert. Even Sentorr's giving her a proud look.
And Iris just sits there with her hands clasped in her lap, as cool and unruffled as ever, the red ribbon covering her eyes, the unflappable hint of a smile on her mouth.
The last week has been both bliss and hell. Having Iris in my life makes everything better. I love waking up in the morning and seeing her lying there next to me. I love the scent of her. I love the feel of her body in my arms and the way she burrows against me. I love her rare chuckles and her rarer true smiles.
This day should be a day of celebration as she finds her spot with us. As she gets comfortable and the question of whether or not she should stay turns into a formal welcome into the Fool's ranks. Instead, the others celebrate around her, not noticing that her expression is as carefully blank as ever.
But I notice. I notice everything about her.
I also notice Sentorr is sitting right next to her and that she's been spending more and more time on the bridge with him.
I shouldn't care. He knows she's mine. He's not indicated to me any interest other than friendship.
Doesn't mean I like it when he smiles in her direction. Or when Fran mentions that Iris should spend even more time on the bridge picking through comms to find us other abandoned freighters. I'm jealous. It's not logical, but nothing about how I feel for Iris is logical.
I want her smiles to be for me.
More than that, I want her smiles to be real. Then I'll know she's no longer living in fear. Until then, I hate every apology she makes, every gracious gesture. Every quiet moment. They all make me crazy with frustration.
I know it's only been a week, but I'm desperate to see changes in her. To know that someday she'll be happy and comfortable. To be less broken than she is now. I want her to realize that this is her home.
That I am, too.
I'm an impatient bastard, though. I know it's early. I know she needs time. I just want her to reach for me when she's struggling. Maybe that's selfish of me, but I'm already crazy with need for her.
And all I get are the same patient, distant smiles that the others get.
I scowl at my beer, beyond frustrated.
“You feeling all right today?” Fran asks me, curious. She's caught my surly expression and is looking at me with concern.
I shrug, wondering if Iris will notice, and then I decide I'm being childish. Pouting to see if the girl pays attention to me? I'm a keffing fool. “Just distracted.”
“Someone wasn't his usual self on the ship,” Cat comments, reaching over Tarekh's shoulder to grab his beer and take a sip. “You didn't even look sad that there wasn't anyone to punch out.”
I shrug again. She's not wrong. Normally my bloodthirst rages the moment we board another ship. Doesn't matter if there's not anyone there. I go into “battle mode,” ready to fight at a second's notice. Today, I wasn't in the mood, though. I kept wondering if Iris was all right, if she was worried that I wasn't at her side.
I mostly just wanted to get back to her.
I could still take down anyone that came after us, of course. I just wasn't as hungry for it today as I normally am. It seems my lust for violence has been replaced by a different kind of lust.
I glance over at Iris. She's turned towards me, but that passive, fake smile's on her lips, and it just makes my mood worse. I get to my feet. “I'm just not feeling it today.” I leave the room before anyone else can comment. I know I'm being a jerk, but I'm not in the right mindset this night for light-hearted joking and I don't want to bring everyone else down.
I wish I was more patient. I'm not like Tarekh, who gave Cat all the space she needed and waited months and months for her to come to him. If it takes Iris years to come to me…I might go mad first. It'll be worth it, but I'll still be crazed until then. I hope this ship is ready to have a cranky member on board, I think to myself rather sourly as I head into the quarters I share with Iris.
Being there alone feels strange, though. I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my chin, contemplating “my” room. Our room, really. Ever since that first night, she hasn't asked me not to sleep with her. In fact, every night just before bed, she crawls under the covers and reaches for me, like it's implied that we're going to sleep together that night. And of course I want that. Holding my female against me for hours and hours? Keeping her in my arms and knowing that she feels safe there? There's no feeling in the world quite like it. I've never tried to touch her or to push her for the kisses the humans love so much. It doesn't seem right.
Maybe my impatience isn't that I want to make Iris mine—kisses and mating and all—so much as that I want her real personality to spark. I want the real Iris to show up. When someone makes a shitty comment, I want her to reach over and smack them in the mouth like Fran or Cat would.
I might be asking too much from her, though. She's a broken thing, like me. Survival is still first and foremost on her mind, and this is how Iris has chosen to survive.
I rub the plates on my brow and wish that I was a better male for her, a more understanding one. I understand her broken parts, but that doesn't mean that I know how to handle them.
The door to my room chimes. “Iris,” it calls out, and a moment later the object of my desires enters the room, her hand on the wall. Her head moves back and forth, as if searching the room for me. “Alvos?”
“I'm here.” I gaze at her achingly lovely face and feel need gnawing at me. “You should rejoin the others. I'm foul company tonight.”
She hesitates. Part of me hopes that she tosses her hair and sits down next to me anyhow. At least that'd be defiance. But she remains in the doorway, as if even that small act is too much for her. “Is everything all right?”
I want to say yes just so she'll let it go, but I never want to lie to her. “It's a long story.”
“I like stories,” Iris says in a soft voice. “And I'm a good listener.”
I grunt but don't offer more than that.
Her head tilts. “Is it me? Are you mad at me?”
“I'm not real happy with you right now, no. But that's my problem.”
I watch as she sucks in a breath. “What did I do to offend you?” Her words are stated like a problem to be solved. “Can you tell me so I won't do it again?”
For a moment, I want to tell her that she's fine. That it's me that's the problem. But my frustration bubbles up and I get up from the bed, approaching her where she stands in the doorway. I'm glad to see that she doesn't flinch back, but I still need more from her. “You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“I need you to show me something. Anything. I need emotion from you.”
She's very still. “Emotion?”
“Anything,” I snarl, leaning in. I'm taking it out on her, I know. I just hate that she's so keffing calm. “Anger. Frustration. Pissiness. Something more than just smiling like everything in the world is all right with you when it's not. Being mad when someone cuts your keffing eyes out—”
She slaps me. Her hand darts out so fast and quick that I'm surprised she even moved. Of course, she's smaller than I am so her hand smacks my chin more than my cheek.
We're both stunned into silence. The air hangs heavy between us for a long moment.
I laugh, the sound rumbling up from my belly. I'm thrilled.
Iris has a different reaction. She begins to tremble all over, her body quaking. Her face has gone utterly pale and she looks ready to collapse. “I'm sorry,” she says quickly, and her voice is shaky. “I'm so sorry—”
“It's all right,” I begin, but her trembling continues. “Shhh,” I whisper, cupping her face in my hands. I'm immediately full of chagrin. I hate that she's so terrified. I wanted the response, but not if
it costs her this fear. “I'm the one that should apologize. I've picked fights for too long looking for it to settle something inside me. You're not the one I should be picking a fight with.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispers again, her shivering unstoppable. “I just…I can't. I'm scared. Being blank like that…it's safe.”
“I don't want you to be safe with me, Iris,” I murmur. Her mouth is so lovely and so close that I want to brush my thumb over it. I want to lean over and put my lips over hers to try one of those human kisses that look so strange but seem so enjoyable for both parties. “I want you to be who you truly are with me. Not who you think I want. Not the person you feel is least objectionable.”
“I'm not there yet,” she whispers, and her hands go to cover mine. She clings to me. “Please don't hate me for it.”
I groan low in my throat. “I could never hate you, Iris. Never. Don't even let the thought cross your mind.” I stroke my thumbs over her cheeks. “You're not ready yet, but when you are, I'll be waiting here for my punch to the face.”
She chuckles, just a little. It's not quite enough, but it'll do.
14
IRIS
That night, I slide closer to Alvos in the bed we share. After he left the little party, the mood changed and it was hard for me to stay with the others. They went on celebrating and didn't seem to be surprised that Alvos picked a fight—that's apparently his thing—but my mind stayed with him even when my body didn't.
It's funny how no matter how hard I pretend, he still sees right through me. He knows I'm not this calm, docile person I pretend to be. How much I'm burying underneath. But I'm also terrified of being the person I used to be. The one that would sass without a thought to how it'd be received. That if you didn't like it, that was your problem.
That woman had her eyes, though. I'm not the same and never will be.
And yet, I want to be who Alvos wants me to be. I want to be unafraid. God, I want that more than anything. I put my hand on his chest and feel bare skin and the bony plates on his breast. Sometime in the last week, he's stopped wearing a shirt to bed. He still wears his pants, and even though he gives me space, I can sometimes feel the prodding heat of his cock against my backside. It doesn't scare me, because he never touches me inappropriately. Every time his hands are on me, they are tender and respectful. He's never grabbed my breasts or between my thighs like the other aliens did.