Big Book Of Sjips One Shots

The Alien Who Space Loved Me (N)

TW: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Blood, Xenophillia, Spacemen

You're in a battle when you first notice something's up with Orange. He seems-- nervous, skittery, like he can't quite sit still, and though his blasts are sure, there's a weird purple tinge to his yellow face. It almost looks like he's blushing.

He kills the guy, of course, because he's Orange, and he's crouching down to begin the long and long-disgusting process of eating the body when he almost faints. If you thought there was something wrong before, there almost certainly is now: it's like the light goes off in his big eyes for a split second, and he's midway through toppling to the ground when they go back on and he catches himself with catlike alien grace. Then he takes the arm of the guy, yanks back the sleeve, and begins to dig in.

"Uh," you say, because you don't want to interrupt him when he's eating a human, "are you okay?"

He looks down at the body. There's blood all around his mouth and you think it's weird that you are theoretically no longer afraid of him. He has feline eyes and a smooth face and his skin is cool and slick to the touch, made out of a million little scales, like an earth snake. He walks silently and when he kills someone he smiles so intensely it's like a hundred spotlights made of tiny sharp teeth. You are, in all honesties, absolutely terrified of him, but it doesn't mean you can't stick with him.

"Yes," he says, drawing out the syllable in a way that means 'no'.

"What does that mean?" you ask, and you circle around the body to touch him on the shoulder, moon rock crunchy under your feet. "Should we find a space doctor?"

"No," he says, and you swear he's blushing. "Look. It's, it's... an embarrassing alien problem, okay?"

"Jeeze," you mutter, because he has a lot of embarrassing alien problems, like killing almost everyone he meets. You feel lucky, a lot of the time. "Come on. What is it?"

He takes another bite out of the arm and chews for a long time, as if thinking what to tell you. Finally, he swallows and sighs. "Uh. Gods. I'm in alien mating season."

"What," you say, a flat statement.

"If I don't get space love, I'll die."

"What," you say, again.

"Don't "what" me," he says, and his voice is beginning to get frustrated, hysterical. "This is serious! I've been, been hiding it from you, but we're-- light years away from Anna and my wife, I'd never make it back in time, I'm going to die--"

He's panicking. You've never seen him panic before.

"No, no, hey," you say, trying to calm him down, get him focused on you. "We can just, uh, on the next planet we're on, there's gotta be space prostitutes. You'll be fine."

"Oh, gods," he moans, and takes a vicious bite out of the arm. You wince. He busies himself with chewing and then nods. "Okay."

You're on the ship when you realize that this is a real thing. You and Orange saved up a little, bought a dinky flight pod, and it doesn't go so fast, but it's yours. You have your own little bed nook, built into the wall. Orange does most of the flying. He's gotten a little better at the landings.

You've long since given up on ever getting his real name. He's never told it to you, and the name he gives other people is always different. It's probably because he's an outlaw, technically, in many different solar systems, but it's also more fun that way. You call him Orange, in your head. He calls you whatever comes to mind.

Orange is walking across the pod's little kitchen when he passes out, again. You're reading a magazine and you see it from the corner of your eye. He drops his mug and goes down like a sack of bricks, hitting his head on the counter, and you're up in a second and running the four steps to him.