CHAPTER 18

 

TAC’MOT

 

She must rush through her morning needs.  She opens the door far sooner than I expect—I didn’t even hear the cleansing unit running.  Instead of letting me take her out of the B.C.U., she cautiously beckons me forward.

Curious, I follow.

She grabs my upper arm, pulling down.  I humor her and lower my torso, wondering what she has planned.  She peels back the collar of my—

My, this princess likes taking off my shirts.

She touches near the laser burn on my shoulder.  I start to twist to stop her—she has to be careful when she handles my skin if it comes to a point I feel an increase in pain—but she shoves me down hard with her hands.  Hoping it unlikely that she’ll flag a threat response with whatever she has planned, I resolve to see where this goes.

A cool damp cloth drags over the wound and I groan.  I hadn’t realized how hot it had gotten.  Because it would have cauterized instantly, I didn’t have to worry about infection, but still.  It hurts.

When she’s satisfied, she places the cloth in the sink, washing it out before she washes her hands.

I stay just where she left me, until she pats my back.

I rise, taking her small hand between my own.  “Thank you.  That was kind of you to tend to me.”

She glances away shyly, but leaves her hand in place.

I don’t know what makes me do it.

I kiss her fingers.

She’s quick to pull her hand free now, and—shaking my head at myself—I move past her to show her where the nanocleanser station is.  First, I point to the round, clear porthole into the machine.  Looking interested but uncertain, she glances from where I’m pointing, then to my face, and back again.

I strip my shirt off the rest of the way, crumple it up, and toss it in.  Leaving the porthole open, I move to the drawer set into the wall and pull out two fresh tops.  I hand one to her, and dress myself in the other.  It is long enough it will fall at least to her thighs.  I give her my back so that she can have some privacy.

I turn when I feel a light tap on my undamaged shoulder.

I like that she is wearing my shirt.

I chatter my teeth at myself for the thought, and try to concentrate on accepting the clothes she is handing me.  Her skirt and blouse are wrinkled, stained, and as I peer at her clothing, the fibers don’t appear to be cloaked in nanocoating.

I look up at her sharply, only to see her watching me with consternation, like she can’t imagine why I would find her odd fabric… well… odd.

I thought Gryfala loved technology.  I thought they pioneered most all tech.  Lem is right: this cannot possibly be clothing designed by Gryfala.  Yet the pirates have all the latest or greatest in everything: they steal it.  This Grfyala standing before me is living proof of that.  So how… where did this archaic, seemingly custom fitted-to-her-attractively-curvy-form formed garment come from?

Dismissing what I will likely never satisfy and don’t technically need to know, I place her items into the washer also, pointing to the buttons she will need to push in order to run it every rotation.

While we wait for them to cleanse, I return to the drawer that has my neatly folded selection of pants.  Unlike her, it isn’t imperative that my dirtied laundry be washed immediately because I have alternates to change into, thus I didn’t wait to change the bottom half of my wardrobe in order to get her clothing cycling.  Mine will sit fine waiting for tomorrow’s load.

I feel her eyes on me as I shake out the legs of my pants.  At the thought of her watching me while I struggle out of the clothing I’m wearing, then struggle again to get into the clean set, I feel all of my ears heat.

I wonder if she would grant me the same courtesy I did her, and avert herself so that I can change.

When I dart a glance in her direction, it’s to see that she’s ducking her face already.  I swallow a chirp of relief.

As quickly as I can manage, I start the challenging process of changing the bottom half of my clothes, and as I do, I realize she doesn’t smell freshly bathed.  She doesn’t smell bad, and the ‘Brax’ is fading, it’s only that…

Aren’t Gryfalas very particular about bathing?

After my shift ended last night, I’d bathed quickly, rushing to my quarters, intending to offer her the chance to do the same, when I’d found her asleep.

My shift will be starting soon, but I will delay in order to give her time to wash.  I step forward and chirp to gain her attention, then wave to the cleansing stall.  Her eyes follow my motion, then return back to me, before she shakes her head.

How… odd.

I’m completely distracted when the bell chime pleasantly signals that our clothes are clean, and the high velocity spin dryer has done its work.  This seems to be of great interest to her, which I find curious in itself.

“Eye neeed wonn off theeeese!” she exclaims as we pull her items out.

Having no idea what she said, but enjoying the happily excited lilt to her words, I smile at her and once again give her privacy so she can change before we make our way to the galley.

Once there, I push through the door, then carefully set her on her feet.  I am about to start towards the cupboards to agonize yet again over what to offer her to eat, when she shocks the hells out me.

She drops into a curtsey in front of Lem.

Lem almost falls off the stool he’d just seated himself at.

She looks back at me, little lines forming at her brow.  “Whot?  Eeetz weeerd eef eye doo eet?”

“Yeah.  We have no idea what you’re saying,” Lem tells her.

She huffs a long, sad breath and puts her hands on her hips, her head drooping down like a wilting flower.