6"He's gonna kill me."
"I think maybe "kill" is going a little far, but this isn't the end of the world."
Terry stopped his pacing long enough to stare at Marc, who had returned to his now-usual spot on the couch, a fresh beer in hand. "'Not the end of the…' Have you not been paying attention to what's been going on all fuckin' day? There's some kinda god-damned thing in Jaime's room, somethin' that we shouldn'a got ourselves mixed up in, and I don't see it wantin' to pick up and move out anytime soon. How is that not fucking ourselves in the ass?" He resumed walking, a little more frantic now.
Two hours. The creature had holed itself up for two hours since they'd dropped off edibles, and they hadn't heard a peep since.
Rick was either going to show up real soon, or he was gone for the next day or two. Terence didn't think he was an especially lucky guy, so the odds were deeply in favor of Ricky opening the front door any second now.
He just wished Marc would take the situation seriously.
"Sit down, you're making me nervous," Marc said from the couch.
"Good!"
"For chrissake, Ter, relax." Marc took a swig of beer, set it on the scarred old side table he'd dragged over. "Rick just has another tenant for this flophouse he's running, it's not a big deal."
Terry stopped so hard he nearly tripped over himself.
"Not a big deal? Holy shit, I wish I lived in whatever fantasy world you're from, Marc, I really do."
Marc's hands came up as if he were either painting or washing a window. "How about it this way; has our friend left his room at all today?"
Terence could tell he was getting talked into seeing things Marc's way, but he was fresh out of fucks to give. "Not since we fed 'im, no."
"And how often does Rick go into peoples' rooms?"
He had to think for a moment about that one. "Uh, never, not unless someone's trying to hide drugs or something. Rick's big on privacy."
The couch groaned a little as Marc leaned back, hands out like he was giving a 'ta-da.' "As long as our friend stays inside, Rick doesn't—and won't—know a thing."
The bastard had a point, but something still wasn't sitting right. Terry took a few seconds to try and puzzle it out.
"I dunno if I could do that to Rick. Lie, y'know."
Marc raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.
"And, like, what if Jaime comes back? Can't just say 'hey, yer room's suddenly occupied' and then go and not tell 'im who's livin' there now."
Marc shrugged, an odd expression on his face. "Fair enough points, but I was under the impression that you didn't especially care about them."
Terence had started walking again, but he spun around so fast he got a little dizzy.
"I may be fuckin' gutter trash, but I don't shit on people who actually give a damn about me! I could care less about Jaime, I was jus' thinkin' practical, but Rick, no, Rick's been good to me. I can't turn 'round and throw this in his face after all he's done!" The living room wasn't existing as much as it had before; all he could see was Marc's idiot face staring back at him. He was vaguely aware that his fists were shaking. "It was a goddamn mistake bringin' that thing here, but I didn't know what else to do…"
Terry wasn't quite ready for what happened next.
Marc laughed.
It wasn't a hearty belly laugh or even a spiteful one, but a soft, sad kind of laugh Terence hadn't heard the likes of for years. All his anger and frustration and shame melted into a sloppy mess that bled together into something that couldn't decide what it wanted to be. He stared, the urge to pace around suddenly gone as if it'd just evaporated.
"You don't give yourself enough credit, kid. You act tough, but you actually care about folks." Marc wasn't looking at Terry as he gave his little speech, but rather into the open tab of the beer can that'd made its way back into his hand. "You don't need to hide it, you know. It's not a weakness."
The amorphous blob of emotions began to solidify as anger.
"I just hate the idea of being in someone's debt, that's all!"
Marc smiled, sipped his beer, brought his arm back down and glanced absently at the blank television screen.
"Then why didn't you just leave that creature to die back there in the warehouse today?"
If there was an answer, Terry couldn't think of one off the top of his head. Come to think of it, it was a good question, but having to find some way to respond still pissed him off.
Luckily, before the silence could get any longer and more uncomfortable, they heard the hall door creak softly open. Terry surprised himself a little by not getting terribly spooked over it; he welcomed the distraction.
They turned, saw the door to Jaime's (former now, Terry supposed) room move slightly ajar, the black line of darkness getting fatter by inches. It stopped for a minute, and everything was quiet.
"Uhm, hola? You want somethin'?" Terence didn't know why he bothered opening his mouth, but he got a response anyway. It wasn't like he was fluent in anything other than bad English.
A single grey eye appeared in the thin light thrown into the room through the door; or, rather, a nose appeared, and then the eye did.
How a long face like that could even get so close to the opening without poking itself out was beyond Terence at the moment.
The face lingered for a moment, shifted around; the eye blinked, looked around briefly before locking onto Terry's. He tried not to squirm, with some success.
"Do'ende est ban-yo?"
The thing's Español was terrible, but it got the jist across. Terence pointed down the hall.
"Bathroom's that way."
The creature bobbed its head, muttered another "Gras-yas" and eased the door open. It half-stumbled out into the hall and hung a left, pacing the ten or so feet to the bathroom slowly, like it expected to fall over.
With feet like that, it was a wonder it could walk at all, Terence thought. Well, maybe that's what the tail was for…
He caught himself staring after the thing, shook his head. It was damn creepy watching something like that, but he had a hard time turning away. He noticed Marc was watching him intently, instead of the creature. Terry felt a flash of annoyance.
"What?" he snapped.
"Nothing," Marc murmured. "Just seems like you're done being so freaked out."
A harsh laugh. "Hardly," Terence spat. "There's a mutant or an alien or somethin' takin' a piss down the hall, in the toilet and not in the sink by the sound of it, thank God, and you think that's somethin' I can get used to? No, this is nowhere near fuckin' normal, and I refuse to act like it is."
"You've calmed down a little, at least."
Terence was about to argue the point, but realized it was sort of true. He certainly didn't feel that paralyzed when the thing stared him down, and, shit, he'd even talked to it without thinking.
"Fine, you're right, I guess. I'm less scared, anyway." It wasn't quite like admitting defeat, but it almost felt that way.
Marc smiled, pulled himself out of his seat. "You're just realizing that there's nothing to be afraid of, 'cause there isn't."
"You keep believing that," Terry began, but stopped as he caught some movement from around the corner.
The creature was standing outside of Jaime's old room, bracing itself on the corner of the hall that turned into the living room. It was swaying a little, eyes half-closed.
Marc, who was standing a couple of feet away, stood very still, but turned toward the thing and spoke in a sweet, smiling kind of voice.
"Va a dormir?"
"Sa," the thing mumbled, tried to balance on its small dog-like hind feet. "Me du-yele," it added, tapping its head gingerly with its free hand. "Dormir." Its long ears drooped sadly through the thick mess of its hair.
It paced across the hall, pushed the door open again. Before it stepped inside, though, it turned slightly toward Marc and Terry. "Dasi eén uldoret-éa ne'ti."
And with that, it vanished into the darkness once more.
The two humans didn't say a word until after the door closed with a soft click. Terence swallowed, turned to Marc.
"So, you're the resident linguist. What'd it say?"
Marc only shook his head, blond locks swaying.
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"Oh. Well, that's great." Terry didn't even try to sound mean about it. "Hey, I'm gonna go to bed. Think it's safe?"
The man who had been a complete stranger less than twelve hours ago rubbed his head. "Yeah, I think so. It's late, we really oughta sleep while we can."
Terence didn't ask what Marc meant, but had already accepted his permission to pass out, and laid his head back down on the couch. He was falling into a dreamless sleep even as he heard Marc pace around the room.
"Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
Terence silently agreed with this estimation, and then was gone.
He'd just put another three eggs in the pan when the creature walked into the living room.
Up until then the morning had been quiet. Terry had slept better than a baby and had gotten off the couch around eight or nine, gone outside for a smoke, and then started making a proper breakfast. Maybe it was the smell of cooking that woke the thing up, but Marc was still presumably passed out wherever he was.
From his spot in front of the stove, Terence could see the creature making its slow way around the television, staring at the crap that Rick kept on the few shelves in the room. It seemed curious enough, studying the collection of novelty beer steins and the one plant that no one had killed yet.
Terry tried to focus on his cooking, realized that he'd let the eggs get a little burnt. He cussed a little, decided they were salvageable. The toast he'd save for later, and hash browns were out of the picture, for now. As much as he wanted to keep busy—and cooking kept him plenty busy—he had second thoughts about the thing walking in on him with a knife in his hand.
Of course he wanted one handy, but there was a drawer full of them less than a foot away.
In any case, the thing was ignoring him for now, and that was more than fine.
There wasn't much else to be done to the eggs, so Terence fished out some plates from the cabinet and started to dish everything out. He'd have to get everything washed later—they were almost out of clean plates.
Had they ever gotten the dishes out of Jaime's old room?
Whatever, he'd get them after breakfast.
Conveniently enough there were three plates left, and Terry began distributing the still-warm bacon and a few eggs onto each. He'd thought about making omelets or pancakes, just to mix things up a bit, but the creature's eating habits were still a mystery. If it could handle French toast, well, Terry hadn't made that one in a while so he wouldn't complain.
He carried the plates into the part of the living room designated as a dining area, and laid all three plates onto the worn, gouged table. He went back to the kitchen to start the toast and for the forks and some hot sauce; the salt and pepper were still there. He understandably forgot to put them up last night.
Terry sat down and dug in. Halfway through his bacon, he felt eyes lock onto his back. He suppressed a shiver and turned around. Sure enough, the creature was leaning on one of the arms of the couch, staring with those damn eerie grey eyes. It licked its chops pointedly.
Terry frowned. "Hey, comidas. One of those is yours." He nodded in the direction of the other two plates at the far end of the table. "It'll get cold soon."
He turned back to his own plate, and before he even had a chance to start on his eggs, he heard the slight patter of feet crossing the floor. Terry tried to ignore the thing as it made its way over, mostly keeping against the wall in what was probably an effort to avoid getting too close to him.
Terry could respect that. It made for an awkward breakfast, though, and he got the impression that the creature felt the same way.
It ended up hovering between the two plates, looking curiously at both, but not making any moves to sit down. It glanced up at Terry.
He glanced back, paused to swallow, and nodded toward the farthest plate. "Just grab one. If Marc—the other guy—doesn't show up for chow, you can eat his, too."
How much of what he said the thing understood, Terry didn't care. Saying anything at all seemed to help his nerves, and the creature even sat down as though it actually caught the gist of it.
Of course, the whole situation was still weird as hell, but Terry found he was more able to live with it when he could almost imagine it was a real person.
The thing seemed familiar with silverware, and picked up the slightly bent fork without any trouble. Soon it was shoveling food into its toothy maw; luckily, Terry was almost done with his own meal, so it didn't bother him as much as it could. He wondered how much it'd eaten last night, though.
Just as he was carrying his mostly clean plate back to the sink, Terry heard the front door open.
Shit! He stiffened, and out of the corner of his eye saw the creature do the same. Was it Rick, or—
Marc walked in, and seemed surprised to find Terry standing with a plate half-over his head like he was about to slam it down on him. "Oh, you're awake."
Terry felt himself relax just enough to bring the plate down to chest level. "Yeah I'm fuckin' awake, where the hell were you?"
"Out. Took the car for a spin."
Terence hadn't heard any motors or slamming doors all morning, but if the guy didn't want to tell the truth, well, that was his problem.
"Fine. Got breakfast ready for you on the table."
Marc lit up like a god damn lamp. "Breakfast! Oh man, I'm starving." He promptly made his way to the table, and then promptly came to a halt when he saw the creature still in its seat, ears back and hair mostly on end like some kind of weird overgrown cat-horse-dog monster.
"By the way," Terry said, "your 'guest' is awake, too."
"So I see," Marc replied a little too slowly. "But isn't he your guest?"
Terry actually gave it some thought. "Maybe he's Rick's, I dunno. But yeah, he don't bite, just sit down or somethin'."
"Good to know," Marc said, dragging one chair out and taking a seat. The creature seemed mildly perturbed and shrank away, but went back to eating after a moment. Marc looked impressed.
"He knows what a fork is, huh?"
"And glasses, and plates, yeah. We got ourselves a fancy fuckin' alien," Terry replied from the kitchen. He returned with a slice of buttered toast. "Want any?"
"Please."
As Marc began to dig in, their 'guest' was just finishing his own plate. Terrence kept watch from the corner of his eye as it stood up. The thing glanced down at its mostly-clean plate, and looked up at Terry, standing at the head of the kitchen. He felt like it was waiting for something, but whatever that something was, the creature seemed tired of waiting, and padded off to its room.
Marc caught Terry's eye, but Terry shrugged.
Just then, the footsteps returned, and so did the creature, now carrying a small stack of plates—the remains from last night's dinner.
The thing walked slowly back to the table, mostly concerning itself with keeping the tower stable; the bowl and the glass were balanced on top, too.
Marc and Terry watched as it set everything down on top of its breakfast plate, and dragged the whole mess close to the edge of the table. Then it suddenly looked up, frozen, as though not sure what to do next. It ended up shuffling self-consciously back a few feet, still keeping its eyes on Terry.
"Uh, thanks, I guess," he managed, and took a few steps back to the table. "I was gonna do that myself, but, okay." As he picked up the stack, the creature relaxed, and took a few more steps back and into the living area, still eyeing him the whole time. Terry looked down at the plate; a soggy—and slightly smelly—pile of the uncooked pork, steak, and chicken had been dumped into the bowl. He wasn't sure what'd happened to the water, but everything else he'd whipped up must've been eaten.
"Looks like we should teach him how to do the dishes," Marc said from his seat. He sounded much more like himself this morning, the smile back in his voice, as corny as that was.
Well, he sounded as much like the Marc that Terry knew, but he'd only met the guy yesterday, so maybe the cheer was fake or not normal.
Into the trash went the leftovers. "He seems pretty well-trained already," Terry mused, half to himself and half to Marc. "He's toilet-trained, anyway. I'm sure working a sink shouldn't be too hard to learn, 'less he knows that already."
Marc appeared in the kitchen, handed his now-empty plate to Terry, who put it in the sink to soak. It looked licked clean more than the creature's was.
Terry finished scrubbing off the dishes and set them on a towel to dry, and made his way back to the living room, where Marc and the thing had apparently set up shop. Marc was back at home on the couch, the end table still present but lacking a beer. The creature looked like it'd dragged one of the chairs from the table over in front of the television in its own little corner.
The two of them watched Terry walk in, looking for all the world like they were in the middle of a conversation. Terry took a seat at the opposite end of the worn couch.
A moment passed in silence. Then, of everyone, the creature coughed.
"You know, we've never made a proper introduction," Marc said, smiling at the thing like you'd smile at a dumb child. He pointed toward his chest. "Me llamo Marc, y mi amigo se llama Terence."
Ter gave a half-hearted wave in the thing's direction. It seemed attentive so far.
"¿Cómo se llama?"
One ear twitched, and the creature looked between the two of them, licked its chops, and spoke.
"Ilam. Me yamo Ilam."
Marc's grin widened even more than the first time he talked to it. Even Ter nodded a little.
The thing had a name now, even if it was a weird one.
Marc was looking back at Terry now, practically vibrating with excitement. "We're talking to him again! What should we say?"
Terry frowned. "Ask him what the hell he is, where he's from."
Marc thought for a moment, and gave a small shrug of agreement. "That's probably a good place to start."
"Yeah," Ter continued, looking directly at this Ilam character, "find out why he's here and what he wants. We don't know if we can trust him yet, so don't you go volunteering too much information 'bout us jus' yet."
Marc frowned now, but nodded grimly. "That's a good—if paranoid—point. Fine, uh, let's get started." He turned to face Ilam.
The creature had him beat, though.
"¿Do-ende es-ta?" it said quietly, eyeing the pair on the couch. It looked attentive, but hunched, tired. Marc, apparently caught off guard, glanced back at Terry as though he expected the kid to talk him through it.
Terry shrugged. "City and state prob'bly don't matter much."
Marc nodded, turned back toward the alien sitting in its corner.
"Está en Earth, Terra, en la patria se llama Los Estados Unidos."
The creature nodded, but Ter couldn't get a feel for any other reaction. Ilam took the news in stride.
The conversation—if you could call it that—went on for a long time. After having its question answered, the thing didn't hesitate to answer Marc's questions in whatever broken or crooked Spanish it could manage.
From what they could gather, which was what Ilam chose to supply, he'd come from a place he'd called "Dice" or "Dicey" or something along those lines. (Unless "hur fahn" was where he was from; Ilam wasn't that clear, and the words didn't mean much to Marc or Terry anyway.)
More importantly, though, was why he was here in the first place. Ilam shifted around uncomfortably when he figured out what Marc was asking, glancing around like he didn't want to give a straight answer. Finally, he mumbled about a mistake, or being early or seasons or something, Marc wasn't sure. (He seemed to be doing a decent job translating and talking, but Terry couldn't tell since even the alien spoke more Spanish than he did.)
How did Ilam know Spanish? He'd learned some a long time ago, he said. How? From a book.
How did he get here in the first place? Something about that mistake, and salt. None of it made much sense.
What was he? A people, he claimed, snorting as if it was obvious.
What was his favorite color? That one just got Marc a blank look and a kick from Terry.
How did he hurt his head? Turns out Ilam knew as much about that as either Terry or Marc.
Why was he in the abandoned warehouse? A mystery.
Did he come in peace? Another kick and an affirmative.
Around this time, Ilam interrupted their interview slash interrogation and asked for some water. "Tee-eno sed," he said, and Marc was quick to fetch another glass of water, since the creature was apparently too good to drink from anything else. Terry was left sitting alone with Ilam, who looked like he was pretending not to notice him. Terry could feel the weight of his attention, though.
It was watching him from the corner of its eye.
Marc returned in almost no time, glass in hand. A brief standoff happened, when neither Marc nor the alien could decide who wanted to get closer to the other. They compromised by both reaching out, arms outstretched, and passing the glass that way.
Ilam's arms were really fuckin' long.
Turns out he did have webbed fingers. Terry thought about taking a gander at his feet to see if they were webbed, too, but decided against it.
After Ilam's needs were attended to, Marc sat down to resume his questioning. He turned to Terrence. "Anything else you want to ask him?"
If Terry were a particularly imaginative person, he might be able to come up with all sorts of creative or insightful questions: What was his planet like? Were there other people—humans—there, and why were they there in the first place? What were Ilam's hopes and dreams?
However, Terry didn't consider himself especially creative or insightful. He shrugged.
"I dunno. When's he goin' home?"
Marc startled a little, as though he'd never considered the possibility, and Terry felt himself get a little angry that his newest human roommate might have considered keeping the alien on as a tenant. This was a temporary arrangement—he hoped.
"Uh, alright, how about this…" Marc turned back toward Ilam, who was waiting patiently, if not eagerly. "¿Qué hará luego?"
The creature took a moment to translate.
"Me ir-eh a casa."
"So he is going home?" Terry asked. He thought he recognized a word or two.
"Yeah," and to Ilam, "¿Cuándo?"
This time, instead of answering right away, Ilam took a moment to study his hands. Finally, he held out his thumb and first finger in an "l" shape.
"Two? Two what? Days?" Marc asked, and Terry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Now Ilam's middle finger joined the first two.
"Deeas, sa. Yo no se."
"Jesus," Terry said, "I dunno if we can keep 'im around for two or three days."
Marc pulled himself out of the couch again. "Do we have a choice?"
"Why, though? What's keepin' 'im?"
The creature, who'd been watching with some level of comprehension, tapped at the side of his head, just like he did the night before. "Me du-yele," it explained.
Terry caught himself staring. "So?"
"He probably means he's in no condition to travel, however he's going to go about it," Marc said, apparently returned from the kitchen judging by a pair of beers in his hands. He walked over to the couch and offered one of the beers to Ilam. "Want one?"
The alien must have trusted Marc enough to reach for the proffered drink, though he flinched when he touched it, probably from the cold. Marc flopped down in his usual spot and cracked his open. Ilam seemed content to cradle his can in both hands, in spite of a clear interest in how the giant worked the tab to open it.
"What, I don't get one?" Terry asked.
"You're a kid."
Terry harrumphed. "Whatever. Whadda we do next?"
"The only thing we can do," Marc said. "Sit back and wait."
Terry stood up and got his own damn beer.