Page 28 of Invasive Species
There are no open wounds, just a smear of red blood dribbling down his mossy scales from what looks like an old scar. I swallow hard. It must have hurt a lot.
My voice is squeaky when I say, “It’s healed up, so there's no open wound, but I still want to get you clean.”
Gara looks away while I wet a tea towel and wring it out.
“Tell me if this hurts, okay?”
He grunts.
I dab at his broad back, the sweep of his wide shoulder muscles narrowing to a trim waist. His side abs have a little blood on them too, which I wipe off, but as I go I notice more and more places where his scales are cut through in straight lines. I lose count at thirty-five, forgetting whether I've already counted some through my teary eyes.
No wonder he's grumpy. He's been through hell.
Tossing the towel in the washing machine, I wipe my face so he won't see my tears. “I'm sorry.”
“What for?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“For… what you've been through.” I sit next to him, dragging my mug closer to me like a shield.
“You’ve done nothing to apologize for in that regard. It is I who…” He holds out the damp and battered cylinder of my drawings. “I should not have dismissed your ideas.”
My breath catches. He held onto these while he was being punished.
Taking them out of habit, I turn the papers over and over in a crocodile death roll. “It's fine, I'm used to it.”
“It… it's not fine,” Gara states.
Does he think I'm going to punish him? “Apology accepted, if you prefer.”
His hand takes the edge of the papers firmly but gently, smoothing them out with firm strokes. He's clearly agitated, but as he tugs out the creases, I notice his fingers sparkle like ice in the light. They have very small scales on them, so tiny I never noticed that detail before, but this close they make an interweaving pattern. Do they continue all the way to his palms?
“I don't prefer,” he blurts, bringing me back to the present. “What do you mean, you're used to such treatment?”
“You’ve seen what I do. Starting stuff, not finishing it. Always coming up with ideas with no follow through. That makes people think my thoughts are… throw-away things.”
“And are they?”
My fingers slow over the pencil marks. “No. But when I have a million of them, they don't all get the attention they deserve.”
I wait for his response. Somehow, the quiet with Gara isn't as bad as normal quiet. I can stand his silence, because I know he's taking what I'm saying absolutely seriously.
He gestures to the crumpled roll. “Your ideas. They aren’t… bad.”
“Yeah, they’re good. I got some… inspiration.” Hm. Because now I'm thinking, where did that inspiration come from? Could it be big, green and grumpy?
“But you just said they were to be thrown away.” Gara huffs out a breath, nostrils flaring, and I almost imagine he's like a scaly dragon breathing fire. “I'll never understand… never mind.”
He's gone all stiff again. Slowly he reaches out for the papers, watching me from the corners of his eyes like I'll pounce. He unrolls them, studying them, jaw working.
The heat shimmers off him, like he's a mirage. An illusion not just of an alien in my best friend's kitchen, but someone taking my ideas seriously.
“They're good,” he says, so quietly I almost don't catch it. “They shouldn't be discarded or discounted.”
Oh, man.
I fold my arms. “I don't want my ideas to be tossed aside,” I admit. “People just think they are because I have a million a day, but that doesn't mean I don't love each and every one of them.”
He smooths out the paper in his huge hands. “I can help.”
