The first patch went on the inside of her bicep. The second went next to it. He held her arm steady the whole time, one big hand nearly swallowing it whole, and her stomach did a slow roll. Down, girl.
"That's it?" she asked in surprise.
"That is it. Your body will absorb both within minutes.”
"I — okay. Fine. Whatever." She wasn't going to argue with how alien medicine worked with an actual alien. Tugging the borrowed sleeve back down, she slid off the bed and slung Barnaby over her shoulder like a baby as Thyaar turned for the door. "Where are we going?"
"Bridge."
She followed him out into the warm corridor, padding along on bare feet on the impossibly soft carpet. She had questions. A lot of questions.
"Hey." She caught up to his elbow. He was so much taller than her she had to half-jog to stay with him. Barnaby protested the gait with a wounded mrrrp in her ear. "If you have translators, then why did I need one? I can understand you fine. I've been understanding you fine since you came through my door."
He didn't slow down.
“Hey! I'm talking to you. Why?—"
He looked down at her and said something.
It wasn't English.
It wasn't anything. Not Spanish or French or any of the smatterings she'd picked up at the shelter, not even the snatches of Mandarin from the factory floor… hell, it wasn’t even something she could map onto a language. No snatches of words she recognized. It sounded different… moved differently.
“What did you say?”
He grinned, switching to Terran. “You understood me because I have been speaking your language since I walked through your door.”
She stopped walking. Well, shit.
He took two more strides before he noticed and turned.
"You—" she said. The word came out flat. "You've been speaking Terran? The whole time?”
"Yes."
"Why?”
He tilted his head, his red hair falling and sliding over the leather shoulder of his jacket.
"Because it is harder to be afraid of someone you can argue with," he said.
Well, shit. That was a low blow. She'd been calling him an asshole for an hour, and he'd just let her, because it stopped her being scared. Her chest went tight.
Barnaby chose that moment to attempt a leap from her shoulder to a passing wall panel. She tightened her arms around him before he could wriggle free. The cat, indignant, settled against her chest and started purring louder than necessary, the smug little bastard.
She looked at the too-handsome-for-his-own-good alien standing in his too-warm corridor, in his ridiculous black leathers, on his stupid ship…
"Bridge then,” she said with a sigh. “Since you’re not going to let us go.”
5
The bridge of the Vett'an wrapped around the pilot's chair in a sweep of dark composite and sleek displays. Thyaar dropped into the seat, ran through the pre-flight sequence from memory, and tried very hard not to think about the medical scan results still glowing on the panel he'd left open in medical.
He failed. Completely and utterly failed.
Behind him, Amelia was curled up in the co-pilot's chair with Barnaby draped across her lap like a furry blanket. Thyaar slid them a sidelong glance. The cat had gone boneless again, purring like a generator with a fault, and she was stroking him with one hand while the other picked at the hem of his borrowed shirt.
His shirt. On her. A fuzzy warmth spread out from the center of his chest.
