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He smiles again, and it's just a hint more menacing as he leans toward me. "No one told me there'd be a carinoux."
I pat his chest. "No one told me I'd have to make my own food. I guess we were both lied to about this situation."
He grunts.
Sleipnir goes still and hisses.
I watch as Jerrok tenses. He looks at me, waiting. "Call off your pet."
"He's probably hungry." I can't resist smirking at him. "Maybe you look edible."
To my surprise, the tops of his cheeks flush, the rest of it hidden by dirt.
Oh god, I hope he doesn't think I'm flirting with him. Immediately, I back away, and Sleipnir tenses, ready to spring. As damage control, I make kissy noises to the carinoux and drop to my knees. "Come here, good baby. Your new friend Jerrok the Jerk is going to make us dinner. Isn't that right, Jerrok?" I keep my voice sugary sweet, and the carinoux pads over to me, his spiked scales flattening. He rubs his big head against my jaw and then licks my cheek with raspy strokes of his tongue.
"I guess I can't say no." Jerrok moves slowly toward the open flame and turns it up a little. He grabs a metal box and sets it over the fire, watching as the top becomes red-hot. As it does, he digs around in a cluster of metal containers, finds something that looks like a pot, and drops it with a hard thump onto the makeshift burner's surface.
He turns and looks at me, giving me the tightest, pissiest smile I've ever seen.
I fight back a laugh of my own, because it's clear he's not thrilled with the situation. I suddenly feel…powerful. A little bit more in control of my situation. With Sleipnir at my side, Jerrok can't run roughshod over me and be an unmitigated prick. He has to be somewhat nice. He has to feed us.
And he can't force himself on me.
That last thought brightens my day. I rub Sleipnir's ears and scratch his jaw happily as Jerrok fills the pan with water from a hidden spigot and tosses noodles in to boil. His movements are that of someone who's very resentful of having to do so, but I don't care. He knows this place and I don't. Eventually I can make my own meals, but it won't kill him to do a little cooking.
With a long-handled spoon that looks like it was made out of welded parts, he stirs the pot. The scent of askri noodles—the tart, extra-salty dish that's a big favorite among the mesakkah—fills the air.
"Sleipnir eats meat," I point out. "Do you have any freeze-dried stock? Or protein cubes? He'll eat that if he has to, but it won't keep him full."
Jerrok shoots me an irritated look. "I'm not going to feed that beast—"
Sleipnir growls, lips curling back again.
"It's okay," I say sweetly, rubbing the carinoux's ears.
The alien male purses his lips, glaring at me, and goes to the containers in the back of the room. He makes a lot of noise, digging through crates and pushing aside junk, and then he pulls out a large, metal-edged container stamped with some sort of writing I can't read. He glares at me, then puts on a big fake smile to make up for it, clearly pandering to my protective cat. "He can eat my emergency supplies," Jerrok says in a fake-charming voice. "Though I'm going to run out of food faster than I anticipated if I have to feed both of you."
"Suck it up," I say sweetly.
"When were you planning on telling me?" he asks, just as sweetly.
"Probably right after you stopped biting my head off for breathing your air." I stroke Sleipnir's heavy brows as he settles down on his haunches.
I could swear that Jerrok's mouth quirks, as if he's fighting back amusement. "Air's a precious commodity on a station."
"Mmm." I want to say that there's plenty of air to go around, but what do I know? Maybe there isn't. "Is it going to be a problem that we're here?"
"Oh, it's already a problem." He continues in that saccharine voice. "I'm going to keffing murder Adiron for springing this on me, though it does answer a few things."
"Answer things?" I echo, curious.
"Not important." He runs his fingers along the edge of the crate, and I notice he wears a glove on one hand but not the other. Something metallic creaks and groans—and I could almost swear it's Jerrok himself—as he pries open the lid, and then a puff of air escapes the container. He picks through the packages, then pulls one out and tosses it to me as Sleipnir tenses at my side. "Here. He can eat this."
I study the tightly wrapped hunk that feels a lot like a football. "What is it?"
"Meat-stock. A rump of some kind. Got it from a buddy that lives on a farm planet. He sent me a few crates because he complained that I eat nothing but 'station trash food.'" His smile becomes tight, wintry. "That rump's supposed to feed a family of four for a week, but I'm guessing it'll feed that thing for about an hour."
