Chapter 9 #2
Getting attached to the alien warrior who would leave in seventy-three days, who belonged to worlds and cultures she couldn't begin to understand, was dangerous. But watching Theo smile—really smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes—made it hard to maintain that emotional distance.
When Theo scraped the last bit of stew from his bowl, she stood to collect the dishes. Klaus rose immediately.
"I will assist with the cleaning process."
"You don't have to—"
"You prepared the meal. Equitable distribution of labor suggests I contribute to its aftermath."
Theo snickered. "He talks so funny."
"Theo." But she was fighting a smile too. "Fine. You can help with dishes. Theo, go get ready for bed."
"But it's early."
"It's dark outside. That means bedtime."
"Can Klaus tell me a story?"
The request caught him in the process of reaching for her bowl. He froze, his expression shifting to something that might have been panic on a less controlled face. His gaze swung to her with open helplessness.
"I... do not possess narratives suitable for juvenile audiences."
"Please?" Theo deployed his most effective weapon—wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. "Just a short one? About space? Or your planet? Or aliens? You're an alien so you must know lots of alien stories."
Klaus looked at her like a drowning man spotting a rope, and she took pity on him.
"How about this—Klaus and I will both come tuck you in, and I'll tell the story. Deal?"
Theo deflated slightly but nodded. "Deal. But Klaus has to be there too."
"I will... attend." He still looked uncertain. "Though my contribution will likely be minimal."
"You just have to sit there. It's easy." Theo darted toward his room, calling back over his shoulder. "Don't take forever with the dishes."
She started heating water for washing dishes, and Klaus stood beside her, studying the process with focused attention.
"The child is significantly more animated than before."
"He likes you." She poured hot water into the basin. "You're probably the most interesting thing that's happened to him since his parents died."
"Interest based solely on novelty is inherently unstable."
"Maybe. Or maybe he just needed something—someone—who isn't wrapped up in grief and pity." She handed him a clean cloth. "You dry, I'll wash. And try not to analyze everything to death. Theo likes you because you're patient with his questions and you don't treat him like he's broken."
He accepted the cloth, examining it briefly before positioning himself beside her. "Is he broken?"
"No. He's hurt. There's a difference."
They worked in silence for a few minutes, quickly developing an efficient rhythm.
She washed and he dried with his usual meticulous care.
His size made the small kitchen feel even smaller, his presence a warm solidity at her elbow.
Don't think about how close he is. But her body was acutely aware—of the heat radiating from him, of the subtle scent that clung to him, something clean and almost metallic but not unpleasant.
She wanted more. She wanted to close the distance between them and discover if his lips were as cool as his skin or whether they'd warm under contact.
Stop that. He was staying for seventy-three days out of necessity, not desire. Developing feelings for him would only lead to heartbreak.
"You are troubled."
She nearly dropped the bowl she was washing. "What?"
"Your respiratory rate increased. Your movements became less efficient. These are indicators of emotional distress among many species."
Of course he's analyzing my breathing. "I'm fine. Just thinking about market day. Lots to prepare."
He accepted this obvious deflection without comment, though his gaze lingered on her face a moment longer than necessary.
They finished the dishes and she hung up the damp cloths to dry. He stood in the middle of her small kitchen, looking simultaneously out of place and utterly at home, and she had no idea what to do with that contradiction.
"Aunt Talia! I'm ready!"
Theo's voice carried from the bedroom, and she tried to calm the sudden flutter of nerves. Going into Theo's room together, sitting beside his bed—it felt oddly intimate. Like they were playacting at being a family.
It's just a bedtime story. People told children bedtime stories all the time. It didn't mean anything.
He followed her silently up the narrow stairs.
Theo's room was barely large enough for the small bed and dresser, but he'd made it his own.
His drawings were tacked to the walls, including one of Glimmerhorn that he'd done after Klaus fixed the toy.
His parents smiled from a small frame on the dresser.
Theo was already under the covers, Glimmerhorn clutched to his chest. He'd changed into his nightshirt, his hair sticking up in damp spikes from a hasty washing.
"You came!" He beamed at Klaus. "You can sit there." He pointed to the floor beside the bed.
Klaus lowered himself with controlled grace, folding his considerable height into a seated position that couldn't possibly be comfortable, but his expression remained completely neutral as he settled against the wall.
She perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing the quilt. "What story do you want tonight?"
"The one about the star shepherd." Theo snuggled deeper into his pillow. "That's my favorite."
It was another story she used to tell Sarah, back when the two of them had been left alone again. Her throat tightened but she forced herself to begin.
"Once, long ago, before the colony ships came, there was a shepherd who lived in the highest mountains where the air was thin and the stars hung so close you could almost touch them..."
Klaus listened with the same focused attention he'd given Theo's chatter at dinner. His eyes tracked her face as she spoke, occasionally flicking to Theo, then back. Watching, learning, cataloging.
But something in his expression softened as the story progressed. The rigid control relaxed incrementally, his shoulders settling, his breathing evening out. By the time she reached the part where the shepherd caught a falling star and learned its name, he looked almost peaceful.
Theo's eyes drifted shut halfway through, his breathing slowing into the deep rhythm of sleep. But she continued to the end anyway, her voice soft in the quiet room.
"And so the shepherd kept the star's secret name, and in return, it guided him home whenever he was lost. Even on the darkest nights, he could look up and know he wasn't alone. That someone was watching over him. The end."
Silence settled over the small room. Talia carefully extracted Glimmerhorn from Theo's loose grip and set the toy beside his pillow. Klaus remained motionless, his gaze distant.
"That was quite adequate," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Adequate?"
"I lack the framework to properly assess narrative quality. However, the child's response suggests effectiveness." He paused. "The story contains logical inconsistencies. Stars are gaseous spheres of fusing hydrogen, incapable of conscious thought or communication."
"It's a fairy tale. It's not supposed to be scientifically accurate."
"Yet the child finds comfort in the impossibility." He stood with his usual fluid grace, careful not to disturb Theo. "Curious."
They moved back to the main room, and her nervousness returned in full force. This was it—her chance to propose the idea that had been forming all day. The idea that might solve her market day problem. If Klaus agreed. If she hadn't completely misread his willingness to help.
"I need to show you something." The words came out rushed and anxious. "It's probably stupid. You might think it's a waste of time or resources or whatever. But I've been thinking about what I could make for market day, and I had this idea—"
"Talia." He said her name with such calm authority that she stopped mid-ramble. "Show me."