Chapter 3
Not What I Expected
Fiona
The first thing I notice is that he’s bleeding all over my clean floor.
The second thing I notice is that his blood is darker than human red, with an almost purplish tint that catches the Christmas tree lights in ways that make my brain hurt.
The third thing I notice is that I’ve just invited a seven-foot alien into my garage, and instead of having a complete psychological breakdown like a sensible person, I’m mentally calculating how much antiseptic I have in my first aid kit.
“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to my battered office chair. “Before you fall down and really mess up my floor. I just mopped this week.”
He moves with surprising grace for someone who’s obviously lost blood, folding his considerable height into the chair with fluid control that makes me think of predators. Big predators. The kind that could absolutely wreck my day if they wanted to.
Up close, he’s even more impossible—pale blue skin that seems to glow faintly, white hair that looks like it belongs in a shampoo commercial, and eyes the color of winter ice that track my every movement like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
It’s unnerving as hell.
“What happened?” I ask, pulling the first aid kit from its cabinet and trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing.
Because if I think about it—really think about the fact that I’m about to provide medical care to something that could probably bench press my truck—I might do something sensible like lock myself in the bathroom until morning.
“Hunters,” he says, his voice carrying that same careful formality from outside. Like he’s translating every word before he speaks. “They have become more... aggressive in their pursuit of what they call Jack Frost.”
“Right. Because you’re Jack Frost.” I grab antiseptic and gauze, hands moving on autopilot. “The monster everyone’s been seeing for three years. Except you’re not actually a monster, you’re just a really tall alien who apparently got shot by paranoid locals.”
Something that might be amusement flickers across his features. “Paranoid locals? I'm just a courier.”
“Well, they did shoot you. I’m assuming you weren’t actually threatening anyone when it happened.”
I gesture at his shoulder. “Take your coat off so I can see the damage.”
He carefully shrugs out of his coat, revealing the full extent of the wound. It’s a clean through-and-through, but the edges look angry and blackened, with dark veins spreading from the entry point like some kind of infection.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “How are you even conscious?”
“Xarian physiology is more resilient than human,” he says, then glances at the spreading darkness beneath his skin. “Usually.”
“Xarian. Right. That’s what you are.” I grab my shop light and angle it toward his shoulder. “So what’s with the black veins? That doesn’t look normal for any species.”
“The ammunition was crude, but effective. Human projectiles cause more tissue damage to my kind than they should.” He goes very still as I examine the wound. “It will heal, but slowly.”
I clean my hands and start laying out supplies. “So you’re saying regular bullets work fine on aliens? Good to know. I’ll file that under ‘things I never thought I’d need to know.’”
“Are you always this... pragmatic when faced with the impossible?”
I pause in opening the antiseptic. “You want the truth? I’m about three seconds away from a complete meltdown.
The only thing keeping me functional right now is the fact that you’re bleeding on my floor and I was raised to help people.
Even if those people happen to be seven-foot-tall blue aliens who show up on Christmas Eve. ”
“I apologize for the timing.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like you could have planned this, right? Getting shot and needing medical attention on Christmas Eve?” I deliberately soak the gauze pad with antiseptic. “This is going to hurt.”
“Do you want something to bite down on? Because I’m about to clean alien gunshot wounds with rubbing alcohol, and I have no idea what that’s going to do to your biology.”
The corner of his mouth quirks upward, revealing those fanged canines. “I will manage.”
“Famous last words.” I start cleaning the wound, and to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. Just sits perfectly still and lets me work, those impossible blue eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my skin feel too warm.
“You said you’re a courier,” I say, trying to distract myself from the way he’s looking at me. “OOPS, right? That’s got to be the most unfortunate acronym in galactic history.”
“The translation was... unintentional. Human languages often produce unexpected results.”
There’s something that might be embarrassment in his voice, and it makes him seem more approachable. More real.
“So you’re what, like a cosmic mailman?”
“Courier,” he corrects, with the quiet dignity of someone who takes their job seriously. “I transport critical supplies and communications between colonies, research stations, and frontier worlds.”
“And you crashed here?”
“Emergency landing. My ship was damaged, and this was the nearest habitable world.” He pauses, watching me work with focused attention. “The timing was... unfortunate.”
“So what changed? Why approach me now instead of just calling for rescue?”
“I misjudged my fuel reserves and was forced to make an emergency landing. The crash may have compromised my ship’s cloaking system—I’m not certain how long it will hold.
” His jaw tightens. “The hunters found me when I was checking the perimeter. And now my cargo cannot wait for standard rescue protocols.”
“What kind of cargo?”
“Medical supplies. Critical medications for a research colony in the Outer Rim.” The careful formality slips, revealing genuine urgency underneath. “Without them, hundreds will die.”
The weight of that settles over me like a lead blanket. “No pressure.”
“I would not ask if there were another option. But you are the most skilled mechanic in the region, and my ship...” He pauses. “It will require improvisation with Earth materials. If anyone can find a way to make different technologies work together, it would be you.”
The confidence in his voice does something warm and dangerous to my insides. When was the last time someone looked at my work and saw mastery instead of oddity?
“I’d have to see the damage first,” I hear myself saying. “Assess what we’re working with.”
“Of course.”
I continue working on the bandage, trying to ignore how warm his skin feels under my hands. “You know, this is definitely not how I planned to spend Christmas Eve.”
“How did you plan to spend it?”
I glance up at him, surprised by the genuine curiosity in his voice. “Honestly? Probably would have worked on Mrs. Gracey’s Ford, drunk too much coffee, and fallen asleep watching old movies. Very exciting stuff.”
“That sounds... peaceful.”
There’s something wistful in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. “What about you? Do Xarian's celebrate anything like Christmas?”
“We have... observances. Times when families gather, share warmth during the cold seasons.” He pauses. “I have not participated in years.”
“The solitary courier life?”
“Yes.”
I finish securing the bandage and step back to examine my work. “There. That should keep you from bleeding out on my Christmas Eve. Though I have to say, if you were going to crash-land on Earth, you picked a hell of a night for it.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience.”
I almost laugh at his formal tone. “Inconvenience? I’ve gone from ‘lonely Christmas Eve with takeout’ to ‘treating gunshot wounds on an alien courier carrying life-saving medications.’ This is either the best or worst Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.”
“Which do you think it is?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at him—really look at him—taking in the careful way he holds himself, the quiet dignity despite being wounded and stranded, the way those winter-blue eyes seem to see right through me.
“Ask me tomorrow,” I say finally. “After I’ve seen this ship of yours.”
“Thank you.” The gratitude in his voice is so genuine it makes my chest tight. “I am in your debt.”
“Let’s call it professional courtesy.” I start cleaning up supplies. “So where’s this ship of yours?”
“Hidden in the forest, approximately fifteen kilometers north. Cloaked from your detection systems.”
“And you think I can fix alien technology with whatever’s lying around my garage?”
“I have heard about your work. Your reputation for solving impossible problems.” Those blue eyes meet mine. “If anyone can repair what others would consider hopeless, it is you.”
The words hit something deep in my chest, in places I’ve kept carefully protected. There’s something devastating about the quiet faith in his voice.
“We’ll see. But it’s going to have to wait until this storm clears.” I glance toward the window where snow is still pelting the glass sideways. “I’m not hiking through a blizzard, even for cosmic medical emergencies. We’ll be lucky if this lets up by tomorrow night.”
“The weather should improve by tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow’s Christmas.” I pause, realizing something. “You know, I just patched up a seven-foot alien in my garage, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Ja’war Frixt.”
“Fiona Davis.” I pause. “Though I guess introductions are kind of pointless when you’re bleeding all over someone’s garage.”
“Perhaps. But I prefer to know the name of someone who is saving my life.”
“Saving your life might be a bit dramatic. I’m just really good with antiseptic.
” I head toward the small kitchen area. “Try not to bleed on anything else while I’m cooking.
This is my good furniture.” I gesture at his battered office chair.
“And by good, I mean it’s the only furniture that doesn’t have oil stains. ”
Behind me, I hear what might be laughter—rich, warm, genuinely amused. It transforms his careful formality into something much more appealing.
“I will do my best, Fiona Davis.”