by Ruby Dixon
I know he wants more from me because I think he wants me as his mate. I'm not that clueless or naïve. There's an electric sort of attraction between us, and he wouldn't care if I answered him blandly if he didn't want more.
Truth is…I might want something like that, too. I lean in closer to him and breathe deep of his scent. He smells so good, and I'm addicted to touching him. I love how safe he makes me feel, and how strong he is. I love his personality, even when he's being prickly or pushing me too hard.
But I'm scared, and I'm worried to make that leap. I don't know if my head's in the right place just yet to be looking at a relationship, especially one with an alien. I don't trust myself, so I need to take things slow.
It doesn't mean I'm not tempted, too. But I don't trust myself yet.
15
Weeks Later
ALYVOS
Iris and I have fallen into a good routine, I think.
At least, it's good for me. I'm pretty sure she likes it, too. We sleep together every night. She's a surprisingly calm sleeper. I thought for sure she'd have nightmares—I know I did for years after the war—but as long as she can hold on to me, she sleeps well.
I love that she holds on to me, so I don't mind in the slightest. It means we wake up most mornings twined around each other, and when her clothes are pushed up and expose her oddly-colored skin, I have to fight back the urge to fling her down on the bed and kef the daylights out of her.
I don't, of course. I want her to feel safe.
This morning, she gets out of bed and stretches, the tunic pulling taut over her breasts, and I furtively palm my cock. It doesn't matter that she can't see me doing it—it still feels wrong to touch myself with her standing right there, unaware. Iris rubs her hair absently and then heads toward the water closet, one hand out in front of her. “Coming?” she asks me sleepily.
I wish. I know that's not what she's asking, though, and so I fight back my urges. “Coming.”
She showers and then wraps herself in towels, heading to the main part of my chamber while I jump in and take a quick shower myself. There's time enough to jerk my cock to a silent, brutal completion, and then I soap up and rinse off speedily before heading out to dress.
Iris is waiting, dressed in a jumper, and holds the comb out to me when I approach. “If you don't mind,” she murmurs.
I never mind. This is part of our routine, and I love brushing out her silky hair for her. I take my time, carefully detangling wet strands. After everything is combed and neat, I'll put it in a braid for her. I tie it with another ribbon borrowed from Cat, though it's looking a little sad and worn at the use it's gotten. I finish her braid and then stroke it lightly before laying it on her shoulder. “You need more ribbons and hair clasps. I'll get you some when we dock at the station later today.”
“Thank you,” she says evenly.
I wish she'd have more of a response than a mild platitude. But Iris is always sweet and easygoing. She never minds anything. She's never upset. She never asks for anything at all—not extra hot water for the shower, or a larger towel, or a bigger pillow. She never asks for a single thing.
It makes me crazy.
I toy with the end of her braid as she sits calmly in front of me. “Can I ask you something?” I know I'm probably picking a fight, but I can't help myself. I want a response out of her. Something. Anything.
“Of course.”
“One of the first things both Cat and Fran asked for when they got on the Fool was to go home. Back to Earth. You've never even brought it up. How come?” She opens her mouth to speak, and before she can, I interrupt. “And don't tell me it's because you don't feel like going home. I know that's not true.”
Iris struggles for a moment with her answer, and when she speaks, her voice is thick with emotion. “I haven't asked, no. I guess after…things happened, I knew I'd never go home again.” She swallows hard and toys with her fingers—rubbing over the amputated one, I notice. “Has that changed?”
“No,” I say harshly. And then I feel like a keffing asshole because I'm the one that brought it up and made her sad. “There's no going back to Earth.”
I'm frustrated by her small, accepting nod. It makes me feel worse than ever. How can I love her and want to shake her at the same time? But I do.
She's so calm. I want her to be a thunderstorm. A flurry of anger. I'd rather that she was chaos and rage and tears, because those I could understand.
This unnatural placidity? I don't understand that at all.
16
IRIS
“All right, someone give me a verb.” I hear Fran's fingers tapping on her tablet.
“Dicking,” Cat says with a giggle.
I snicker a bit at that, too, lifting my mug to my lips. The hot tea that they prefer on this ship isn't quite coffee, but it suits the need easily enough. I'm pretty sure the others are drinking more of the beer, but I'm like the mesakkah—I don't have the taste for it.
“Everything's dick to you,” Fran teases her.
“God, yeah,” Cat replies dreamily. “I love me some dick.”
This time they both giggle, and I'm smiling, too. The Fool is docked at a station for refueling, and Kivian is off playing a gambling game called “sticks.” Part of the pirate crew's plans is to show up at different stations, toss money around like they're careless high rollers, and then reel them in the next time they show up. Part of the game is playing people, and that's the part Kivian's fantastic at. Alvos and Tarekh hang out at a nearby table and run interference.
Since there's no one on the ship but us ladies and Sentorr, we decide to have a game night. Of course, I can't see to play sticks, which involves careful placement of colors and game pieces. The girls also have playing cards and dominos, but I can't play cards and my memory's not good enough for dominos. So we started with crosswords and drinking, and now we've progressed to a mesakkah game called Choices, which is pretty much just the alien version of Mad Libs. It's apparently huge on Homeworld, Fran says. At any rate, it's fun.
And it's really funny when you get a few beers into Cat. She makes every word completely filthy. At least half of them every time are “dick.” Or some form of “dick.”
“We need a noun,” Fran says.
“Diiiiick,” Cat calls out. “All the dick!”
“Girl, lay off the beer. Let Iris play a little.”
“Dick, Iris,” Cat whispers, leaning toward me. Her breath fans over my cheek and it definitely smells like beer. “Tell her dick.”
“How about tea?” I take another sip of mine and lift my cup to indicate.
Cat groans. “God, you are no fun. Sentorr has better words than you. We should ask him to do the next one.”
“Good idea,” Fran says, and I hear her click on the comm. “Hey, Sentorr. Are you busy?” Cat giggles drunkenly and I'm totally amused by what a lightweight she is. I wasn't sure about playing games with the others—I'm still cautious and reserved around them—but I have to admit that this is a lot of fun.
“What can I help you with, Fran?” Sentorr asks, oh so polite. His voice is tinny over the comm.
“Can you give me an adjective? A describing word? Like ‘fast’ or ‘blue’ or something.”
“Are you playing Choices?” Is that amusement I hear in his voice?
“We are. Adjective, please?”
“Mm, let me think. I'm quite good at this game, you know.” Cat gives a little snort, but Sentorr must not hear it. A moment later, he answers. “How about ‘stiff’?”
“Thank you,” Fran chokes out. I hear the comm click off, and then a moment later, both women are howling with laughter.
“Stiff!” Cat shrieks, giggling. “Oh my god! This is amazing.”
I smile into my tea. “He did say he was good at this game.”
They just erupt into more laughter. “This is the filthiest story ever,” Fran says, wheezing and laughing. “I love it. We totally have to share this with the guys when they get back.” She sighs
happily and then taps on her tablet again. “Okay, where were we? It's your turn, Cat.”
“Hit me,” Cat says loudly. “I'm ready for it!”
“Noun.”
“Dick.” Cat erupts into giggles.
Fran sighs. “You've already used ‘dick’ this time, nerd. Pick something else. Iris, you want to take this one?”
“Oh, I'm good,” I tell her and just smile. I'd much rather listen to their banter than offer up much of my own. I'm still not comfortable enough to laugh and joke and drink with them, but I do enjoy being around it. I wish Alvos was here, though. I wonder what he'd pick for a noun. Maybe “braid”? Just this morning he braided my hair for me again. Usually he comments on how soft it is and how he likes to touch it. I get a little flushed thinking about it, and then I remember that this morning we talked about Earth and I got the impression that he was frustrated with me.
It makes me sad, but I don’t know what to do. I want him to like me.
I want him to like me a lot.
As the days pass, I find myself more and more drawn toward him. It's not just that he's protective and caring. He seems to understand what I'm going through, and if he pushes me sometimes, it's because he wants me to stop being so afraid. I get that. I want to stop being so afraid, too. I'm just not sure I can.
No one's ever made me feel so safe and cared for, though. The others talk about how hot-tempered Alvos is, but all I know is that he's utterly kind and patient. He's got a wry sense of humor and a stubborn streak a mile long. He holds me tenderly every night and never tries to force me into anything. Sometimes I wish he'd say something about his nightly erection that we both know he sports, but he never does. It's like my needs supersede his, and while that's sweet…sometimes I wonder what it'd be like if he threw me down on the bed and passionately kissed the heck out of me.
Okay, I wonder about the kissing a lot. Like daily. Every time he touches me. Every time his breath fans over my skin while we sleep. If I was bold like Cat, or confident like Fran, I'd grab him by the collar and show him how humans kiss. But…I just can't. Something in me locks up at the thought and then I'm frozen in place. That I'm going to encourage him and he'll change on me.
That I'll end up back in a cage, and it'll be my fault when they start taking pieces of me again.
Alvos seems to understand my hesitation. There have been a few times that we've brushed against each other in the tight quarters of his room when things felt…charged between us. When his touches might linger a little longer than they should. Maybe if I had my sight I wouldn't notice it, but when I'm down a sense, all the touches become that much more meaningful.
And yet he's still the perfect gentleman. He holds me close and helps me when I need eyes. He talks for hours when I wake up from a nightmare, simply so I can hear another person's voice and know that I'm not caged. He's a good man.
A man I could love, if I'd let myself.
“For real,” Fran says, her words slightly slurred. “Give me a noun. And not ‘dick.’”
“Spur,” Cat replies.
They both snicker.
“Spur?” I ask absently, stirring my tea with a small spoon. “What’s that?”
Both women howl with laughter.
I wait for the laughter to finish, wondering what it is I missed. I feel left out of the joke, and that sucks.
Of course, any hurt I feel disappears when the giggles just keeps going on and on. Cat starts wheezing and gasping, and Fran's little bubbles of laughter turn into breathless protests of “I can't, I can't, I can't.”
Whatever it is, they're having a great time. They're also drunk as skunks, which is funny, too. I like hearing their light-hearted amusement. It almost feels like having friends again…which is ironic, because even now I hold myself apart from the others. I'm not drinking. I'm not sharing in the fun with abandon. I'm here but…I'm not.
Story of my life lately.
I get to my feet and take my teacup to the sink. The cups here are foreign feeling in my hands, and the sink is an odd shape, but some things don't change no matter the technology. It feels comfortable to press my hand against the cool metal counter, and then I turn and smile at the others, hiding my feelings. “I think I'll check in on Sentorr and see how he's doing. I hate that he's all alone on the bridge.”
Cat snort-giggles. “That's how he likes it.”
She's probably not wrong, but there's something comfortable about his silence. I like sitting with him. “Maybe I'll see if he wants some tea.” I feel around until I find one of the mugs, then place it under the dispenser. I let my fingers wander over the buttons, feeling for the one that's been pressed so many times that it's been worn through and feels a little rougher against my fingertip. That's the one for the tea. I hit the button and then wait for the dispenser to make the tiny little click that tells me it's done, and then I pick it up and cradle it in my hands. I'm getting better at finding my way around, but it's still a process. I wave to the others and head for the bridge.
“All right, give me another noun,” Fran says between chuckles as I slip out of the room.
I count steps carefully, heading toward the bridge. I keep one hand out in front of me as I walk, and I move very slowly. After over a week of learning the Fool, I know how many steps there are to the bridge, how many to med-bay, how many to Alvos's quarters, and every other path I go on regularly. It's a lot of memorizing, and I have to concentrate because if I get distracted or lose track, I can quickly end up running into a wall. When Alvos is here, he offers me an arm or acts as my guide, and while I like the attention—and his company—I also want to be more independent. It's crucial that I learn to get around without relying on someone.
Thirty-seven steps, a right turn, and then another twenty-two steps and I wave my hand in front of the wall panel that leads to the bridge. “Iris,” the computer announces as the door opens, and I step inside.
I wait a moment, getting my bearings. The bridge is silent, and I mentally map things out. Ten steps to the right is Alvos's terminal, and a few steps beyond that is Sentorr's navigation terminal. There's a big screen at the front, and Kivian—or Fran—sits there from time to time. There's another booth for comm and miscellaneous tasks, and that's “unofficially” Tarekh's spot, though Cat tells me he doesn't do much on the bridge except heckle Sentorr.
The navigator grunts, acknowledging my presence.
I lift the tea. “Brought you a drink.”
“Not that beer, I hope,” he says. He doesn't get up to take it from my hands, which I appreciate in a roundabout sort of way. It'd be easier for me if he did, but I need to stop thinking about what's easy and start thinking about long-term independence. So I count steps and move forward, and when my hand falls on the edge of the desk at his station, I feel a sense of accomplishment.
I hold the tea out. “Not beer. I don't think there'll be much left when Cat and Fran get done.” I offer him an easy smile. “Just tea.”
There's a tug on the mug in my hand, and I wait until I'm positive that he has it before I let go. “Drunk, are they?”
“More silly than drunk, I think, but give it a few more hours.” I turn and move toward Alvos's station, trying to touch as few things as possible. I don't want to accidentally hit an “eject” button or something terrible like that. Alvos reassures me that there's no such thing, but I still worry about that. I find Alvos's chair and sit down at the station. There's a small listening device I can unplug from the panel and attach to my ear, and as I do, I flick on the comm. Lately it's been soothing and kind of fun to listen through all of the conversations going on in deep space and to try and find one that might lead to something the crew can pirate. There's a couple of comm bands used by shipping lane enforcement near certain stations or planets, and I flip through those regularly. Some of the arguments go over my head despite the translator in my ear, because I don't know some of the things discussed. I don't know ship parts, or certain items that are being towed, but I do know to listen fo
r engine trouble, or cargo issues, or stolen vehicles. Some things are universal.
I flick on the band and settle in comfortably, listening to the alien chatter. This one sounds like a warning for a traffic stop of some kind, and it amuses me how much things stay the same even in deep space and alien cultures. I think for a moment of the conversation with the girls earlier, and then pull the ear piece out. “Hey, Sentorr?”
“What?” He's abrupt, but not in a rude way, I don't think. He sounds distracted. Like I'm breaking his concentration.
“What's a spur?”
It's utterly quiet on the bridge. So quiet, I wonder if I've said something offensive. Then I hear Sentorr take in a deep, deep breath, so loud I can hear him suck in air. “I am not going to answer that,” he says in the stiffest voice I've ever heard.
I can feel my cheeks heat. Yeah, it's dirty, just like I suspected. “Sorry. Someone mentioned it and…never mind.”
He makes a strangled sound. “Ask Alyvos if you must.”
“I'll do that,” I murmur and put the earpiece back in. Like heck I will. Things are awkward enough between us without me asking what a spur is. I'm sure it's some sort of sex thing based off of how Fran and Cat howled with laughter. I'm also pretty sure Alvos would answer me as best he could without making things weird. But things are already…tense between us.
No, I think to myself as I turn the comms up and listen absently to the chatter. “Tense” isn't the right way to describe it. Maybe “fraught.” Or…“anticipation.” Something along those lines. “Tense” makes it sound like things are bad, and things are actually really, really good. I'm attracted to him in all kinds of ways that I probably shouldn't be. I think about him and his mouth when we sleep in bed together, and wonder what it'd be like to kiss him. I wonder if he thinks about touching me like I constantly think about touching him.