Alien Desire by Hannah Haze
Chapter four - Emma
Imust doze off because I start awake suddenly, the body I’m lying against now warm, the chest rising and falling with more force.
For the first time, I notice the smell of him. Beneath soot and smoke, it is a strongly masculine scent, deep and dark, and I think of the black of space.
Carefully, I draw away from him and once again my eyes present images I cannot compute. The flesh against which I laid is no longer that pale white. It swims and pulsates with a myriad of colours that shimmer and sparkle and burst, dispersing across his abdomen and fading away.
I reach out a finger to trace over the colours but my movement has disturbed him and his eyelids begin to open. I scuttle back.
His eyes are the colour of amber, liquid gold melting into black pupils. The colour in his irises dance like the colours on his skin, swirling as he blinks and focuses on his surroundings. I can see the confusion, as he tries to understand where he is. He groans, his hand discovering his wound, making his eyes swivel more quickly in their sockets as the memory of what’s happened returns to him.
His gaze skims over the ceiling and the walls, floats over the space around him and lands on me. He jolts violently. Then blinks. Then stares at me, his mouth falling open.
I don’t know what to say. Words fail me utterly. Everything seems so mundane, so ordinary. We are two species from different galaxies, the first to meet. My words should be momentous, symbolic. Worthy of recording in history books.
But all I manage is a squeak. “Hello?”
He opens his mouth as if to reply but then his face scrunches up as he winces and shudders. And that smell of his, intense before, fades away. His eyes drift shut and he disappears into unconsciousness.
I rock onto my behind and let out a long exhale. I hadn’t been aware I’d been holding my breath, and I am light headed. The moment of our meeting, the embrace of another living thing’s eyes, over all too quickly.
I busy myself with inspecting his wound and cleaning it again, noticing that the warmth and colours of his skin have already dissipated. Then I dribble water between his lips unsure if he even needs it, but amazed to find him swallowing it down in his sleep.
When I’m done, I curl up against him again hoping to warm him. My stomach growls with hunger but I daren’t go to fetch food. I have this strange need to stay with him. I’m frightened that if I leave, he will die. Foreboding lurks in the shadows.
I lie on his uninjured side, my head resting on his chest, and I whisper to him. I tell him my name. Where I was born. My age. I tell him of my family and my home and my journey across the universe. I tell him of the crash and how the others died. I tell him how I came to find him.
When I run out of things to say, we lie in silence and eventually sleep overtakes me.
* * *I see the shimmering, dancing colours of his skin through the lids of my eyes before I open them. It is like distant memories of fireworks, exploding in the night as I tip my head back and watch them. His skin is warm against my cheek, and his arm has come to rest around me, wrapping me closer.
Sighing, I lean back to look at him.
He is staring down at me with those amber eyes, curiosity swimming in their depths.
“Oh,” I say, scuttling away. “I … I …” His gaze is unblinking and his face expressionless. There is no way to decode what he’s thinking.
Does he think? Do thoughts circle in his mind in the way they do mine?
Those golden eyes continue to stare as if he is waiting for me to say or do something and heat creeps up my face. I scratch at my neck, uncomfortable, and his eyes move ever so slightly to the right observing this motion.
I cough. “I’m Emma,” I say finally, remembering that a name is usually the place to start when meeting a new person.
Although he’s not a person, is he.
His response: nothing.
Placing my palm over my chest, I try again. “Em- Emma,” I stutter. “I’m Emma.”
I motion with my chin, followed by a gesture towards him with my hand when he doesn’t answer. “You? What’s your name?”
Still nothing.
“Emma,” I say, pointing at myself with exaggeration and then I point at him, nodding my head.
His face remains frozen but he opens his mouth and a word falls out. I screw up my face. It was too quick. I didn’t catch it.
“Errr.”
“Tor,” he says more slowly, and I see a tongue working behind rows of sharp teeth. The inside of his mouth is colourless like the rest of him.
I repress a smile. “Thor?” I repeat. Like the Nordic god. Like the chiseled superhero. How very apt.
He holds a hand to his chest in imitation of me. “Tor,” he corrects.
“Tor,” I say, smiling wildly, “Tor. Nice to meet you, Tor.” I laugh, a noise that is more excitement and nerves bubbling from my lips than amusement. His eyes drop to my mouth as if this noise and this expression are foreign.
He considers me for several long minutes, then struggles up onto his elbows. “Emma,” he says in that deep melodic tone, grimacing and reaching for his side.
“You’re injured,” I tell him despite knowing he can’t understand. I point to his side. “You were hurt it in the crash. I tried my best to patch you up but I’m not a medic.” I shrug.
He examines the injury for several minutes, poking it gingerly with one long finger. Then he rolls back down and closes his eyes.
I rack my brains, searching through the hours and hours of training. How can I help him? He needs strength to heal. I need to feed him.
Kneeling back by his head, I offer him the water. “Are you thirsty?”
His eyelids creak open. Up close the beauty of his eyes is breathtaking. They draw me closer and for a moment I am hypnotised by the dancing swirl of gold.
Then he breaks the spell by parting his lips in compliance and I pour the water between them. Some trickles down his chin and I hesitate, then wipe it away with the pads of my fingers. His eyes widen at my touch and the rainbow of colours reappears where I’ve touched him, shimmering for a split second before fading. I can’t help but repeat the action, stroking my finger over his cheek and watching the colours swirl in response.
With his eyes locked on mine, he catches my wrist, and I jolt. His grip is firm, although not painful, and the heat has returned to his skin. He brings my hand back to his face and draws a deep breath through his nose, his eyes closing.
When he opens them again, the gold of his eyes have vanished, consumed by the jet black of his pupils and suddenly I am afraid. He says a word I don’t understand and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I tug back my hand and he lets it go.
“I’ll fetch you some food,” I say, scrabbling to my feet and hurrying away.
In the store room, I sink down to sit on one of the crates and catch my breath. My heart is hammering in my chest and my legs shake. I am afraid. This creature is an alien. I do not know his nature or his motive. He may wish to kill and eat me! And once he’s had a taste for human flesh, he may go seeking other humans. Have I unwittingly put my race in danger? Revealed the secret of our existence to a hostile species?
I bury my face in my hands and tell myself to calm down.
My mum used to laugh at what she called my active imagination, but she’d indulge my request to search beneath the bed for monsters anyway, or sit and listen to my fantastical stories. Perhaps in another life, I’d have been a story teller.
Remembering her for just a fleeting moment drowns me in a grief that sweeps away the fear and grounds me. I stand up. I know how to fight. I know how to kill. I may look small but I’m tough. I was the only one to survive that crash. I’ll survive this alien too if it comes to that.
But hopefully it won’t. Hopefully we can help each other.
I search through the supplies for a variety of different foods, having no idea what he might like. I choose a combination of soft and solid, sweet and savoury, all tinned, and I carry them back to him with a bowl and a spoon.
He’s sitting when I return, the blankets bunched around his waist, his hand holding his injury, and he watches me unblinking, his face devoid of emotion as I approach.
“Emma,” he says, as I sit cross legged before him and arrange the tins in a line.
“I brought you food.” He tilts his head as if trying to understand me, but I continue anyway.
It is how my mother used to speak to our pet cat, how I’ve been chatting to Fluffy these past months. Talking to him, even though he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I point to the first tin. “Pureed pear,” I explain, “very sweet and easy to eat. It’s what they give babies.”
I remember this from a young couple on the first space station I stayed on. “This is ravioli - it’s meat so good for protein, although, I guess, I don’t know if you eat meat. This is baked beans. I used to love these as a kid. I didn’t know you could still get them.”
I pick up the tin, examine the label and smile. When I place the tin back down and look up to him, he is scrutinising my face. I laugh and heat rises to my cheeks. “I’m guessing you don’t have a problem with staring in your culture.”
He says nothing but points at the final tin.
“Ahh, now this is custard and it is probably the most delicious thing that exists in all the universe. My mum used to make it for me on special occasions. It tastes amazing with stewed apples but I haven’t had one of those in years. I checked the store and unfortunately no tins of apples.” I sigh, and he mimics the noise. “Oh, that’s not a word … it’s a … nevermind. What would you like to try?” I hold my palm out to the food.
He picks up the tin of baked beans, the one I’d examined, and brings it to his face. He sniffs it, then shakes it, then places it back down. He repeats the process with each can and I can tell he is unsure what these are or what he should do with them. I smother a smile beneath my fingers, but then he shudders and I remember he is sick and I need to feed him.
“Let’s go for the custard,” I tell him, snapping the tag and peeling off the lid. A sweet aroma curls from the yellow liquid within and he leans a little closer to see. I dip the spoon inside, scooping up the thick liquid and offer it to him. He takes the spoon like someone who has used similar implements before and raises it to his lips. They are softer looking than his skin and smooth and they part to accept the food.
He makes a noise that signals his pleasure, a deep purr similar to that of a cat, and my shoulders loosen and my spine relax. Dragging the tin closer to himself, he rolls carefully back down, tilting a little to one side and scoops out spoonful after spoonful of the stuff.
Opening the ravioli, I rest it on my lap and eat with him. I haven’t eaten myself for a day. The urgency of rescuing this creature, of caring for him, has made me forget my own hunger, but now it hits me. I have to force myself to eat slowly in front of my guest and not gulp the whole thing down like a starving dog.
When he’s done, he pushes the empty container aside and lies out flat on his back. Then he lifts his arm and stares at me.
“Emma,” he says, followed by that strange word in his own language. The one he’d said earlier that I don’t understand.
“Yes?” I say.
“Emma,” he repeats, patting the ground beside him.
“Oh … no,” I say, suddenly understanding what he’s asking. “That was just to …”
His skin has returned to that pale translucent hue and he tries his best to disguise the fact he’s shivering.
“If you’re cold, I can get you more blankets.” Although we both know I’m a far more effective source of heat.
He pats the ground. “Emma.” Despite his obvious weakness, his tone is stern and commanding. It must be my cadet training because automatically I’m gearing up to obey. But I shake my head. It doesn’t seem right now he’s awake — far too intimate.
His expression is that same serious, stern one and he continues to stare at me unblinking until my cheeks colour and I can’t help but relent. I crawl towards him and curl up against his side. He wraps his large arm around me and purrs. The noise makes his chest vibrate beneath me, and my reservations, my tension melts away.
How very strange to be lying in the embrace of an alien and feeling no fear.
How very strange to be lying in the embrace of an alien and enjoying the feel of his strong arms.
I have been alone for too long.