Chapter 18

Lily

After cleaning up after bathing Stormy, I collapse into an overstuffed chair nearby, keeping a watchful eye on my patient. He looks so much better than the gruesome blood-covered zombie lookalike that dragged himself out of the ship's wreckage. For some unknown reason, that sight of Stormy clean and resting peacefully eases some of the tension in my shoulders, allowing me to truly feel the weight of the past day's events. I've been running on adrenalin and am feeling my lack of sleep. I grit my teeth against the pull of sleep and force myself to stay awake. I need to monitor him just in case his condition changes.

However, my eyelids start drooping against my will as fatigue sets in. Stormy has remained stable for hours, and I can't ignore my body's plea for rest anymore. I'm just going to rest my eyes for a minute.

That is the last coherent thought I can remember before I tumble into darkness, despite my intention otherwise – the exhaustion of the past day finally drags me down in a relentless wave.

I'm unsure how much time passes before a hissing noise jolts me awake. My eyes snap open in alarm, immediately focusing on the sight before me. And, of course, it's just Mango causing his own brand of trouble.

There he is, his fluffy golden form perched confidently on the alien's chest, unabashedly getting acquainted with our guest – who is awake. Holy shit! I sit up in shock, watching Mango arch his back and hiss right into Stormy's face. I freeze, my muscles locking in shock and terror as the room seems to constrict around me. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs as I watch the alien's white eyes glow brightly in the dim cabin light. A harsh growl resonates from his throat, escalating into a fearsome snarl as he bares his teeth at Mango. Oh my god, the alien's going to eat my cat.

And, of course, Mango, that fearless idiot, is hissing back. My cat, who has all three of his brain cells plus his sense of preservation off on a cigarette break, is sitting on the massive chest of his ‘enemy' hissing in his face.

I'm out of the chair and across the room before I can think. I scoop Mango off Stormy's chest and rush him out of the room, tossing him into the bedroom and closing the door in his belligerent face before he can charge right back into danger.

I return to the living room, sudden silence hanging heavy in the air. My so-called ‘patient' is exactly where I left him. Laid out on the floor, wrapped up in the blanket I'd tucked around him, trying his best to appear unconscious. He looks almost innocent like this, despite being the size of a Viking warrior on steroids. I think he's trying to appear weak and vulnerable which would be hysterical if I wasn't so frightened.

I stare down at his still, peaceful face. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was still passed out, but I know what I saw.

I tap my foot against his. "Come on, stop faking. I know you're awake," I say, aiming for a light tone with a hint of sternness.

His eyes flash wide open, startling me, their glow bright and haunting. For a moment, I freeze, caught off guard by his intimidating gaze. I feel a prickle at the back of my neck, an instinctual reaction to the predator before me. He looks at me like he's imagining tearing me limb from limb. He looks like a possessed demon with dark skin and glowing white eyes. If he had horns and a tail, I'd be chanting prayers.

For the first time since I pulled Stormy from the wreckage, I realize that I really could die. He could easily kill me. There's no way I could stop him. I had somehow just optimistically assumed that if I helped him, my assistance would count for something.

The alien lifts his lip at me in a silent snarl. I find myself staring, frozen in fear, into the void of glowing white eyes of a malevolent fiend who looks absolutely murderous. He's angry and fierce, but there's something else there too. There's fear in his reaction, a fear that matches my own. It comforts me in the strangest way. I can only imagine what he's feeling – waking up as a stranger in a strange place after a crash, injured and vulnerable.

He continues to stare, his gaze neither wavering nor softening. As if he's waiting for my next move, weighing his odds. I brace for an attack, but he merely watches me, calmly appraising. My heart pounds in my chest, the reality of the situation washing over me.

"Can you understand me? Do you know where you are and what happened? Do you know what I'm saying?" I speak in soft soothing tones, trying to make sure he understands that I am not a threat to be eliminated. I stare expectantly at him, waiting to see what his response is. He stops baring his teeth at me but doesn't respond further to my words.

With each beat of my heart matching the tick of the clock on the fireplace mantle, we're locked in a silent face-off. Unless he's faking, I don't think he can understand my words.

Taking a deep breath, I push my nervous energy aside and meet the angry stare of the alien lying on the cabin's rug. His white eyes gleam in the soft flicker of late afternoon sun. "Are you… hungry?" I mime eating with my hands, praying the sign for food transcends our language barrier.

A pause, and then, to my relief, he dips his head in a single nod. Despite the tension threading the room, I can't help the quick smile that spreads across my face. This is progress. It's the first sliver of common ground we've discovered, and the absurdity of it all strikes me with sudden force.

"I'll be right back then. Don't move," I say, holding up what I hope is the universal sign for ‘hold for a minute'. Judging by what seems like understanding lighting his eyes, it seems to work, and with that, I head towards the kitchen.

I spoon cold chicken noodle soup into a bowl and put it in the microwave. The appliance's familiar hum is a comforting lullaby against the cabin's eerie silence.

As the bowl rotates inside the microwave, my gaze keeps straying back to the living room, where the alien remains spread out on the floor. His head is turned in my direction, and he watches my every move, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm that belies the wary look on his alien features.

The warmth from the soup wafts out as I open the microwave door. Grabbing a spoon and paper towels, I return to my patient.

Gingerly balancing a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, I head back to Stormy. I can hear Mango loudly complaining from where I still have him locked up in my bedroom, but I ignore his caterwauling. I can't risk his safety until I figure out if this alien being is dangerous.

"All right, mister, it's chow time," I call out cautiously, the scent of broth wafting in the air, making me slightly hungry.

The alien's gleaming white eyes dart towards the bowl. Curiosity and… interest start to replace the anger and fear on his face. Maybe? A spark of hope flickers in me. After all, a healing person is usually a hungry person. And often a grumpy one.

Setting the bowl on the coffee table, I turn my attention back to the alien. His lustrous eyes never leave the soup, proving that he is indeed hungry. Turning back towards him, I lower my gaze, assessing his form.

"All right, you can't eat lying down," I declare softly. I look over at the decorative pillows scattered on the sofa. I grab all the pillows and drop them at the alien's side.

Stormy watches me the whole time, confusion painted across his strange features. I then tilt my head questioningly towards him. I point at the pile of pillows and then mime the act of sitting up. Oh god, I suck at charades. It's a stretch, but to my surprise, he dips his chin in a distinctly human nod. How does he understand a nod but not my words? Maybe nodding is a gesture that the entire universe uses?

Despite the undeniable wave of terror coursing through my veins, I force myself to kneel at his side. "Okay, Stormy, I'm going to help you sit up," I whisper to him. His eyes flick between my eyes and my lips as if he's trying to figure out my words.

With trembling hands, I carefully lift one of the alien's arms. He doesn't flinch, but I get the impression that he is steeling himself against my touch as if waiting for a blow. I keep my movements slow and steady as I lift his arm and place it over my shoulder. Then, I do the same with the other, draping them around my neck. Talk about putting my life in his hands. Stark terror is licking flames up my throat. I've put him in the perfect position to kill me. He could easily squeeze his arms and choke me out or rip my throat out with his teeth. I have survival instincts no better than a moth drawn to a bug zapper.

"Please don't kill me," I plea quietly as I thread my arms under his armpits, hooking my hands around his muscular back. With his help, I slowly lift his bulky, alien form until I manage to stuff some pillows behind him.

He doesn't make a single noise of complaint or pain. And I know for a fact that moving must hurt like hell. It seems I've got a hard case on my hands.

With every second, I'm terrified that I'm about to feel his teeth suddenly rip into my throat or his arms will coil around me like a boa constrictor's, suffocating the life out of me. But nothing of that sort happens, he remains eerily tranquil and silent. I slowly lower him onto the pillows with his assistance until he is reclined.

I lean back and check him over. "Are you okay? Anywhere hurt?"

I carefully examine the two bullet wounds, making sure that I haven't reopened the injuries, but there is no new blood wetting the bandages. I blow out a relieved breath.

I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, my voice shaky but loud in the room's silence. "I think you're going to be just fine."

Thankfully, Mango has stopped his squalling and is probably sleeping on my pillow.

"Okay, let's get you fed," I say, my voice vibrating with a mix of trepidation and relief. I present the bowl of soup to him. He studies the steam rising from the broth, his luminescent eyes reflecting its swirls, before shifting his gaze back to me. His features soften slightly, giving me hope.

Slowly, the tension coiled up in my muscles begins to unravel. I scoop up a spoonful of the warm soup, watching him cautiously as I bring it towards his mouth.

His eyes linger on the spoon, an expression of curiosity mixed with wariness on his face. A second passes, then two, every tick of the clock punctuating the silence in the cabin like an orchestra crescendo.

Then, painstakingly slow, he opens his mouth just a touch, accepting the offering. His eyes find mine and I hold his otherworldly stare as he takes his first bite. Every bit of the cold dread gnawing at me washes away at this gesture, replaced by a feeling of accomplishment – a small victory in this strange dance of trust we're both partaking in.

A soft sound, something between a hum and an otherworldly purr, escapes from him, reminding me so much of Mango that I can't help but crack a small smile at the unexpected familiarity. "It's good, right? I hope you're not a vegetarian. Although, based on your teeth, I'm thinking not," I coo, mirth dancing in my voice as I serve him another spoonful.

Bite by bite, I get the entire bowl of soup into him. I'm intrigued by his calmness and his cooperation, by the steady clarity of his luminous eyes. They are no longer filled with anger or rage but calm assessment. I am captivated by Stormy's eyes. I've never seen anything like them. They glow white but within their depths dance minute twinkling specks like countless little stars swirling within the Milky Way. His eyes cast an ethereal luminescence in the dimly lit cabin. The dazzling stardust swirling within his gaze is as captivating as it is unnerving.

I catch my breath as I find myself entranced. His gaze is serene and strong and holds an unflinching boldness that sends an unexpected flutter dancing through my chest. I realize that the alien does have an actual pupil – a small, paler sphere centered in a glittering whirlpool of mica.

He is clearly exhausted, but equally famished, making the occasional purring sound after a bite. Once the soup is done, I rise, leaving him settled against the nest of pillows and move to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water.

"Okay, Stormy. Water now." I say softly when I return, holding the glass to his lips. I watch carefully as he sips it wanting to make sure I don't give him too much. One of his hands rises to cup mine around the cup. I know he's just trying to ensure I don't pour too quickly, but it feels strangely intimate.

It's also a good sign that he's healing. So, I decide to focus on that instead of the weird squirmy sensation in my stomach. My gut's an idiot, anyway. I distinctly remember getting butterflies in there on my first date with Marcus, so the trust in my gut is gone.

The day is unraveling in a surreal way I don't think I'll ever be capable of comprehending. An alien, alone with me in the forest. His purring sounds… his glowing eyes. I sigh deeply, shaking off the lingering surrealism.

He nudges my hand away letting me know he's done drinking, so I set the cup on the coffee table and turn back to my patient.

I have no idea where we'll end up on this strange journey, but at this moment, I know I'm where I need to be, helping him and caring for him as I would any patient.

I stare at Stormy for a moment, observing him and trying to determine his mood. He seems to be doing the same with me.

With slow movements, I reach my hands toward one of his injuries. The alien narrows his eyes at me and his lip lifts in silent warning, but he doesn't move away as I reach for him. When my fingers meet his skin, I see his jaw flex and clench. I can tell that Stormy wants to pull away from my touch, but he holds still. I glance up at his face and see him baring his teeth, whether from discomfort or as a warning to me, I'm unsure. My heart is galloping in my chest, knowing that one wrong move might provoke him into attacking me.

I peel the bandage away from the wound on his side. I'm pleased and amazed at how quickly it appears to be healing. I glance up at Stormy's face to see how he's taking my examination but he's just staring at me with a wary expression. Next, I check the wound on his shoulder. I wince slightly at the injury. This wound isn't healing as well as the rest of them. I let out a long exhale and sit back on my heels to take in the full sight.

The alien sits propped against the pillows; his expression is wild, angry, and wary as we stare at one another. His demeanor is eerily reminiscent of Diesel, a malnourished husky who got dumped at the dog rescue facility I volunteered at as a teenager. Diesel was all tooth and fury when he first arrived. His eyes had mirrored his abuse and his reluctance to trust humans again. He growled and lunged at anyone that came near him. I remember the dedication of one of the behavioral therapists who devoted months to showing Diesel that not all humans were evil, that love and gentleness still existed. The day Diesel wagged his tail for the first time, nuzzling against the hand of his new owner, was one of the most victorious memories from my tumultuous teenage years. Looking at my alien patient now, I can't help but feel the same surge of determination. I know what it's like to be lost, alone, and afraid, encountering an unfamiliar world. "Trust me," I whisper to him, holding my hand up reassuringly. "I'm here to help, not harm."

I place my hand over my heart, feeling the erratic rhythm of my pulse. I clear my throat, breaking the silence as I point to myself, "Lily," I state clearly. He cocks his head to the side, the wrinkles on his forehead pulling together in confusion.

"Lily," I repeat, more firmly this time, tapping on my chest. His white eyes dart between my face and my hand, his confusion apparent.

Again, and yet again, I say my name with the motion until the puzzled look fades from his face. Finally, he seems to understand as some recognition sparks in his gaze.

Slowly, he brings a hand up to his chest mimicking my gesture. He growls something out in a harsh raspy voice. My nose scrunches at the unfamiliar alien language, struggling to comprehend it.

"Again," I request, gesturing for him to repeat it. He repeats it, the same guttural sound leaving his lips. I make him do it several times, until I feel confident enough to attempt.

I point at him and mimic the sound, "Ravok." I can't swallow the k like he does, but I try my best. He nods and then repeats his name, a hint of satisfaction creeping up on his alien features.

"Ravok," I repeat, smiling gently at him.