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33SOPHIEIt's not long after Jerrok wipes the last of the noodles from my messy face when I realize that I smell. Not only am I wearing half of my breakfast—it's rough being fed a soup by someone else—but my hair is greasy and lank, and I stink of old sweat. As Jerrok clears the dishes away, I surreptitiously lift an arm and smell one of my pits…and cringe. Oh yeah, that's bad.
"You think we can take these off?" I ask Jerrok, gesturing at my arms. "See how they look?"
He frowns over at me but moves to my side. "Do they hurt?"
"Not much."
"That could be the numbing gel. I'd be surprised if it healed that fast. They were bad burns." But he sits down at my side and unwraps the bandages anyhow, his gaze flicking to me. "We should probably change these out, anyhow."
I say nothing, because I want my hands to be better…and I don't. I want that shower, and I want to get clean…but I also am shamelessly loving being babied. I love that Jerrok is being so tender with me, so attentive. It makes me want all kinds of things and makes my brain fire up. I imagine us as Claire and Jamie for a moment, tending to one another and letting the sexual tension build and build…
Except there's no sexual tension. We're just friends. He barely tolerates me. I hate aliens. We're getting along right now out of boredom, that's all.
A small hiss escapes me as the bandages peel away, sticking to my wounds. My palms are red and the blisters are still terrible looking, but Jerrok seems pleased. "It's coming along nicely."
"It is?" Looks frightful to me, and I'm disappointed because this means another day of being useless.
Are you really that disappointed? my brain silently asks. You like being cosseted.
I do…and I don't. My last owner thought he spoiled me. He made me eat “treats” from his hand and dressed me in fine clothing and had me sit at his feet on a pillow. I hated him so much I wanted to murder him, too, because he never acted like I was a real person, with feelings. I was a thing to him, a pet monkey with a fuckable vagina.
No wonder monkeys rip people's faces off.
But with Jerrok, it's different. He's never demeaning when he tends to me, and that makes all the difference in the world. He feeds me, sure, but it's different. It's all different.
I think about how different it is as Jerrok slathers a fresh round of numbing cream on my burns and carefully re-wraps them in fresh bandages. "You look sad," Jerrok comments.
I shrug. "I wanted to be able to get clean."
"I'll help you with that. I did before."
"I know…but I keep imposing on you." I bite my lip. "You're probably getting sick of seeing my face."
"Only a little."
I glance up at him, not sure how to take that. Is he joking or serious? It's hard to tell with him sometimes, and I worry he's going to be more than ready to pitch me out the door when the va Sithai brothers return. The thought makes me a little sad. I like it here. I wouldn't mind visiting again the next time we're through this area. Just hang out for a few days and spend some downtime with Jerrok, scrapping things and tearing ships apart while Sleipnir gnaws on the metal carcasses.
Except…Sleipnir isn't mine to keep, and Jerrok hates company.
I bite back a sigh. "You sure you don't mind?"
"Even if I did, it's not like you have a choice." His answer is cagey, and he won't look me in the eye, which makes me think he does mind, a lot. That makes me feel worse. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you washed up."
"All right."
He offers me his hand, and even though I can't take it, I smile. I press my elbow into his grip instead and use his weight to maneuver myself up. I hear his joints creak, but he doesn't complain. He doesn't let go of me, either, even when I'm on my feet. He just keeps holding onto me, guiding me to the lavatory as if I'm a princess on his arm instead of a smelly human slave with bad hands. He doesn't look at me, though, and I wonder if he finds human bodies hideous. I'm not all neat, elegant lines like mesakkah females. My hips are too wide, my butt too jiggly, and I unfortunately have larger than average breasts, something I've always lamented. Not because it's cute to coyly suggest that they're too big. It's that they're prominent and noticeable and catch the attention of alien perverts, and so I hate them. If I could, I'd chop them off just so no one looks at me twice ever again. It's sad—once upon a time, I loved my body, but now I just want to be left alone.
