Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Tim’s parents basically signed his life away to Earth’s last remaining functional space corporation, this was not how he had expected to die. The second he had boarded the spacecraft he lovingly dubbed “RedBird”—thanks to its striking red hull—alongside his four comrades, he knew his life was over. This mission, the farce that it was, was never intended to succeed. No, it was meant to send a message to the human populace, a species teetering ever closer to extinction. It had been the government’s response to months of silence from its most important space station, which had only recently been supplied with fresh astronauts.

Captain Greenway had been oddly optimistic that the mission would go off without a hitch, promising they would return to the dumpster fire that was home in no time. The man had been wrong. His rotting corpse, tightly sealed inside the Storage compartment next to the First Officer’s and the Navigator’s, bore silent testament to that fact.

Breathing out a shuddering breath, Tim willed away the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. His last emergency message to Ground Control played on a loop, his own voice cutting through the Bridge’s empty silence.

Emergency Distress Call #23: Ground Control, this is Chief Engineer Drake. Please come in. Ground Control, do you copy? I, Chief Engineer Drake, am now the last remaining person alive on this vessel. I have been for the last thirty-six hours, and I am in need of immediate extraction. Location is unknown. Please respond. Drake, out.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing had come back from Ground Control. Tim had been screaming into a void for the past two days. His hands were shaky—though no longer tainted with his comrades’ blood. They hadn’t been for the past ten hours, not since he had miraculously found the strength to wash them clean.

For fuck’s sake, he had only turned eighteen three months ago, right before he was forced up into the black. He didn’t want to die. Please, someone rescue him.

Please.

Emergency Distress Call #25: Ground Control, this is Chief Engineer Drake. Do you copy? Please. Do you hear me? Does anybody hear me? Everyone is dead. Please come rescue me. Location is unknown. Drake, out.

Emergency Distress Call #30: Ground Control. Tim Drake here. Please. Help me. Does anybody hear me? They’re all dead. I’m alone. It’s been five days. Eight since last contact. Please, I’m begging. Location is unknown. Drake, out.

Emergency Distress Call #54: Please. Please, please, PLEASE! Get me out! I’m begging! Please… It’s been a week… maybe more. Please.

Emergency Distress Call #91: This is Timothy Jackson Drake, Chief Engineer. It’s been twenty-five days since last contact. Twenty-two since Captain Greenway died, leaving me the last person alive. Ground Control, if you hear this… please rescue me. Please. Drake, out.

Emergency Distress Call #100: WHY IS NOBODY ANSWERING?! PLEASE! I don’t want to starve here alone! I don’t know why I survived… please come get me. Please, I’m begging!

Emergency Distress Call #211: It’s been four months. I think. I’m sorry, Bernard, for leaving you. I—I love you. So much. Food’s been getting low. Hull integrity is at eighty-nine percent. Thrusters are jammed on; unable to shut down. Steering broke a few weeks ago. Artificial gravity’s still working, though. Yeah. That’s it.

Emergency Distress Call #340: I wish I had died too, you know? It would’ve made things much easier. Been hearing weird things lately… I wonder how far away from home I am. It’s been approximately half a year since I’ve just been flying into deeper space uncontrollably. Rationing food’s been going well, although I think I’ve just been starving myself. But, oh well. What can you do.

Emergency Distress Call #342: Gonna go check the outer hull today. Integrity has declined to seventy-one percent over the past few days. Wish me luck.

Emergency Distress Call #343: I almost lost my grip during the EVA and floated away from RedBird. I don’t think I would’ve minded.

Emergency Distress Call #346: I want to die. I’m so lonely. Sometimes I think I’m starting to go insane… I haven’t slept a full night in months. Maybe if I lay down with the others’ bodies I’ll catch it and die too. Gruesome, but kinda fitting, I guess. Anyway…

Emergency Distress Call #389: Still alive. Hi. I’ve been hearing weird things again, though. It’s not the hull. I don’t think the noises are coming from RedBird…

Emergency Distress Call #397: The sound keeps getting louder. What is this?

Running a hand through his hair, Tim sighed. His maintenance rounds had been thoroughly uneventful again. Then again, what else had he expected? He was the only living soul left on the vessel. But still, at this point, he was craving any excitement life could throw at him.

As he came to a halt in front of the Storage bay—now a makeshift tomb for his three deceased comrades—Tim carefully unlatched the metal cover protecting the tiny observation window on the sealed bulkhead door. The harsh light flooding into the room illuminated the corpses, surrounded by long-dried pools of blood. The bodies had stopped decomposing at some point, freezing in time with their grotesque injuries fully preserved. Captain Greenway’s eye sockets would remain an empty, sanguine mess for the foreseeable future, Tim guessed. So would Navigator McAldee’s stumps that had once been hands, and First Officer Kim’s cracked-open ribcage, immortalized as a horrific container with the heart ripped out.

They didn’t look peaceful. Tim wished they did. It would have made the direct aftermath of the incident a little easier to swallow—or so he speculated. Not that it mattered now. They were dead, and he was still alive. Somehow.

Closing the latch, Tim turned away, his fingers lingering on the cold metal for a few seconds. In the beginning, he thought it would never get easier. But it did. Miraculously and heartbreakingly so. What kind of monster didn’t immediately heave at the gruesome scene behind that door? A person who had looked at it hundreds of times, apparently.

Tim swiftly shook the thoughts from his head and sauntered toward the Bridge, the main compartment where he had spent nearly all of his time over the past few months. The Common Room, small as it was, brought back an onslaught of bad memories filled with details better forgotten. The Crew Bunks were an absolute no-go; blood still stained the walls, entirely impossible to scrub out of the sheets. That left him with few comfortable options, the Bridge being the best. Its massive, panoramic viewport peeked out into the never-ending dark abyss of deep space, acting as a strange soothing mechanism. More importantly, it allowed him to keep an eye on all the ship’s vital stats and internal cameras, placating a paranoia that had grown suffocating.

With the pneumatic doors closing and sealing automatically behind him, Tim made his way to the lone Captain’s chair centered before the monitoring array. Scattered around the pedestal lay dozens of empty ration bags and crinkled water bottles—the instant coffee had run out a month prior, much to Tim’s profound despair. On the chair itself lay a few blankets, strategically organized into a small nest where he took his much-needed, yet entirely inadequate, naps.

He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks, his body only allowing for rest when it completely crashed. Today felt like one of those days; he could feel it in his bones, and even more acutely in the agonizing throb of a pounding headache. Sinking down into the blankets, he cast one last look at the monitors. Everything looked good—good enough, at least. He curled into a tight ball, ignoring the fact that the awkward angle would make him regret the crick in his neck once he woke up (if he woke up—shhh, yes you will, you traitorous voice), and let his eyelids slip shut.

Sleep washed over him in uneven tides, sometimes steady, sometimes rocky. Tim’s dreams were empty and soulless, matching the space around him. Thank God. He didn’t need to see the bloodbath replayed again while trying to rest.

All was peaceful, quiet, and almost blissful. Until—

Until the collision alarms suddenly started blaring, ripping Tim from his sleep. He bolted upright, hair askew and vision spotty. His heart rate skyrocketed in a matter of milliseconds, his eyes immediately fixating on the flashing monitors. The alarm was shrill, and the red-and-white strobe of the emergency lights threatened to completely overwhelm his senses.

With blood pounding heavily in his throat, his worst fear—whatever that even meant anymore; anything out of the ordinary, he supposed—was coming true. But how? How? How?

A massive bang echoed through the deck plating. Outside the sealed Bridge door, muffled, alien voices were barely audible. The security system had automatically locked the doors, trapping Tim inside. How could this be happening?

Hands shaking, frozen to his chair, Tim watched the external security camera. A humanoid alien made direct eye contact with the lens right outside the Bridge. What in the…

Tim’s breathing fractured. Was he even breathing anymore? Did this still count as hyperventilating, or had his lungs just stopped functioning entirely? Was he dead? Maybe he should wish to be.

Suddenly, the paralysis broke. His brain—his best weapon—jumped into overdrive. On the camera feed, he identified two more humanoid creatures moving into position, seemingly responding to the first one’s call. The banging on the heavy blast door grew louder, more desperate.

Okay. Think, Tim. Think.

The main flight controls had long since frozen in place. The weapons that were supposed to be secured in the bridge locker had been removed by his own hands months ago, when the mere sight of them triggered panic attacks. The cameras and the environmental controls were all he had left. Truly.

He had nothing to defend himself with. He was dead. Or as good as.

What was the use in fighting a futile battle? What was the point in delaying the inevitable? He was supposed to have died six months ago. With his crew.

Blinking away a sudden surge of tears, he took a shaky breath and forced his finger down onto the comms console. He threw one final glance at the monitors, watching the aliens connect a strange, foreign control board directly to the wires they had ripped out of the door's external keypad. The door that led straight to him.

Tim cleared his throat, his voice cracking and rough from disuse.

Emergency Distress Call #402: Chief Engineer Timothy Jackson Drake here. This will be the last time you hear from me. Aliens are real. I repeat, extraterrestrials exist. Drake, out.

The exact second he hit the button to terminate the recording, the heavy whir of the automatic doors releasing filled the room. Swiveling his chair around—just like a movie villain, a traitorous, childish part of his mind whispered—Tim clutched the metal armrests until his knuckles turned white. Trying his absolute best not to sob, he came face-to-face with something humankind had fantasized about, revered, and feared for centuries.

The silence was deafening, the tension in the room thick enough to strangle him. Six pairs of eyes stared into his. They looked almost incredulous, as if Tim wasn’t at all what they had anticipated finding aboard the derelict craft.

Now that he could see them clearly, Tim fought the shivers racing up his spine. All three aliens stood a head or two taller than the average human male. The middle one—the one who had breached the door first—was the shortest of the trio by a small margin. His skin possessed a distinct bluish hue, with patches of what looked like blue feathers interspersed across his cheeks and down his neck. His limbs were disproportionately long compared to his torso—slender, yet visibly muscled beneath the form-fitting flight suit. Strangely, his most normal features were a mop of messy black hair and a pair of strikingly bright blue eyes.

Tim’s gaze flicked to the left. This creature was built like an absolute tank, its bulging muscles practically straining against the fabric of its uniform. He had curly black hair, juxtaposed sharply by a single, prominent strand of white. It was an appearance that would have looked heartachingly human, if not for the radioactive green glowing in its eyes and the heavy multitude of scars marring its face.

The final alien, however, was the most terrifying. It emanated a cold, unreadable aura, dominated by the massive, hulking black wings folded against its back. Huge, leathery bat wings. What the actual fuck. Its ears were sharply pointed and tinged a dark charcoal black, matching the wings and its dark hair, which was graying slightly at the temples. The only pop of color on the creature was a pair of icy, piercing blue eyes that felt like they were staring directly into Tim's soul.

The stalemate lasted for a few agonizing seconds as the aliens evaluated Tim’s frail form just as intensely as he did theirs. When the feathery one, whose black and grey flight suit had blue accents, stepped forward, Tim bolted from his chair, scrambling to put the heavy piece of furniture between himself and the intruders. He refused to make his death easy. He had survived this long; he could fight for a little while longer.

His explosive reaction caught the creatures off guard. The middle one froze mid-stride. The heavily scarred, green-eyed alien barked something to the other two in a sharp, guttural language Tim couldn’t understand. The command was met with a low, rough "Hn" from the bat-winged leader.

Then, all three began to move in perfect synchronization, stepping forward slowly, closing the distance around the empty Captain’s chair.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He had nowhere left to run.

As the circle tightened, Tim desperately calculated a trajectory to dart past them, but his body was too weak. He knew he couldn’t outrun them—not one of them, let alone all three. He had been starving himself for too long to make the rations last, and his muscles were entirely atrophied.

The second a heavy, gloved hand clamped down firmly onto his forearm, a terrified, raw screech ripped from Tim's throat. It was the bat-alien. This was it. He was going to die.

But instead of a weapon, Tim suddenly found himself hauled forward, yanked tightly against the creature's broad chest. The massive arms wrapped around him, locking him into an unyielding, protective hold. The last of his resolve shattered. Tim began to sob pitifully into the fabric of the alien's flight suit, his voice breaking as he incoherently begged for his life.

As rapidly as the intrusion had begun, the world began to slip away. One of the aliens—he couldn’t tell which one anymore—vibrated with a low, rumbling purr that echoed right against his ear.

The comforting, rhythmic sound was the last thing Tim registered before his vision went completely black, and his body sagged entirely weightless into the alien’s arms.

Chapter Text

When Tim finally started freeing himself from the unexpectedly firm bonds of sleep, his eyes fluttered for a few seconds, trying to accustom to a light that was dim, yet still bright enough to make his head throb. Fuck, he’d slept so well. Maybe this could even qualify as one of—if not the—best naps he’d had in a long time. Maybe ever.

Stretching out his limbs, he hummed contentedly as his joints popped in a satisfying chain reaction, before blissfully sinking back into the mattress and blankets. If he closed his eyes for just a little longer, nobody would mind, right? It wasn't as if anybody was alive enough to notice anyway. Tim pressed his face deep into the pillow—

Wait. Pillow? Tim hadn’t used a pillow in months.

With his heart instantly leaping into his throat, Tim practically flew out of the cot. Memories from yesterday—had it even been a day? Or had he been out for much longer?—flooded back to the forefront of his mind in a violent rush.

The alarm. The breach. Oh my god, the aliens. Actual, extraterrestrial aliens. He had been kidnapped by fucking aliens. Drugged, or sedated, or something.

His mind raced uncontrollably while his body retreated into a corner on pure autopilot, curling into a protective ball. Okay, Tim. Calm down. Breathe.

Slowly, his vision started to sharpen and his initial bout of blinding panic ebbed away—at least enough for his brain to override his survival instincts. The room he was in, presumably a compartment on the creatures' spacecraft, was fairly plain and simple. It was furnished with only a single standard cot, a desk with a chair, and a built-in closet.

Tim’s eyes flicked toward the door. It had to be locked. And even if it wasn’t, there was no way in hell he was wandering out there by himself—not until he had some sort of plan, and preferably a weapon to defend himself. Though, that latter part of his half-baked strategy immediately fell apart. Standing up on terribly wobbling legs, he rifled through the closet and its drawers to absolutely no avail. The storage space was merely filled with a few spare, standard-looking flight suits, towels, extra blankets, and more pillows. Nothing that even remotely resembled a sharp object.

Crap.

Another second ticked by before Tim’s eyes widened. How could he have been so stupid? (He could probably blame the months of severe sleep deprivation.) He always carried a fork around in one of his flight suit's lower leg pockets—it saved him the trip of having to retrieve one from the kitchen every single time he actually forced himself to eat his meager rations.

As his hand reached down toward his thigh, Tim was swiftly startled out of his newfound euphoria. Those bastards had changed him.

Instead of his grease-stained, heavy-duty uniform, they had dressed him in what looked to be soft white sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. The pants fit perfectly, but the shirt’s sleeves were way too long for his—in his opinion, very normal-sized—arms, thank you very much. The garment must have belonged to one of the aliens. Maybe the blue, feathery one? The skunk-striped tank's shirts would probably be twice this size, and the bat-alien's tops would not only resemble a mini-dress on his frame, but would also (probably?) have giant slits cut into the back for those freaky wings.

And unless these creatures just kept a clothing boutique of random sizes onboard, the pants he was currently wearing meant there was a fourth unknown alien on this ship who was roughly his size. Great. His survival odds had just worsened considerably.

Okay, Tim. Plan time.

First, he needed to find something sharp-ish. If not, he’d have to get creative with the towels and flight suits in the closet.

Second, he needed to escape this prison cell—never mind that it didn't look like one. He had been abducted, so the semantics didn't matter: this nicely furnished room was a cell.

Third, he had to get out of here quietly, preferably without using brute force or causing a massive ruckus.

Fourth, he needed to find a way off this craft ASAP.

Fifth—

Just as his mind formulated the next step of his grandiose and very much infallible plan—sarcasm fully intended; Tim wasn’t a naive fool—the door to his deceptively cozy cell slid open, and a new alien stepped inside. This one looked entirely different from the first three, for the sole, terrifying reason that it possessed four pairs of arms. Eight limbs. Otherwise, it looked remarkably humanoid, bearing the uncanny expression of a neighborhood grandfather who was happy to engage in polite, civil conversation.

Their eyes met, holding unbroken contact as Tim stood rooted to his spot next to the desk, watching the multi-limbed creature wander in. Only now did he notice the metal tray it was carrying. Perched on top was a sealed bottle of what he assumed was water, and a plate of food that was indiscernible from his current vantage point.

The creature carefully placed the tray onto the desk under Tim’s watchful, deeply distrusting glare, and warbled something in a language he couldn’t identify. When Tim didn't offer a response, the alien gently gestured toward the tray and backed away a few paces. Still, Tim remained frozen against the wall, not moving a single muscle.

Sighing, the alien stepped back toward the desk, causing Tim to instinctively flinch and press harder into the corner. His heart pounded wildly as the humanoid picked up a fork—so aliens used forks, too?—and took a small bite of the food.

Now that Tim was forced to look closely, he could see the meal looked like a bizarre attempt at pasta bolognese. However, the noodles were wonky and misshapen, and the meat sauce had a distinctly greener hue than any sauce he had ever seen on Earth. Nevertheless, Tim noted how easily the creature swallowed it down. So, it wasn’t poisoned. And unless aliens just happened to share a culinary love for Italian cuisine, they had actively attempted to replicate a human dish just for him...

With a polite nod and another incomprehensible word spoken aloud, the grandfatherly alien backed away entirely, slipping through the automatic door and leaving Tim alone. Again.

Steam rose from the plate of pasta, and Tim stared down at it, debating. It looked safe to eat, but looks could be deceiving. Captain Greenway had looked healthy too, right up until he succumbed just like the rest of the crew. On the other hand, what did he really have to lose? He was already half-starved, weak, and trapped in the hands of goddamn aliens—aliens whose intentions remained completely unclear and yet to be understood.

Ultimately, his hands shook as he lifted the plate and placed it on the cot, sitting down cross-legged in front of it. His parents would have had his head for this kind of barbaric, uncivilized behavior, and yet Tim couldn’t bring himself to care. He had survived more than six months entirely alone in the void. Good manners hadn’t gotten him anywhere in life except for this rotten situation.

Fork in hand, Tim carefully dug into the pasta and brought a small bundle to his lips, gently blowing away the steam before shoving it into his mouth as unceremoniously as possible. It tasted… weirdly familiar, yet totally unfamiliar at the exact same time. The sauce’s flavor was indescribably off, and the noodles were far too chewy, stretching out instead of breaking off cleanly like they should. But it was edible. It was so edible, in fact, that the speed with which Tim shoveled the food into his mouth rapidly increased. His panic-ridden brain completely took over, hoarding the plate and its contents like a little goblin terrified it might be stolen away at any minute.

This desperate strategy worked… until Tim’s stomach violently revolted, entirely unaccustomed to such a heavy influx of solid food at such high speeds.

With eyes widening like saucers and terror crawling up his spine alongside hot, sudden tears, he sprung off the cot. He frantically searched the room for a trash bin, a container—anything, really—to catch the inevitable. Unable to find a thing, Tim’s body heaved, throwing up his meal right where he stood, just a few paces from the bulkhead door.

Clutching his midsection, Tim collapsed to his knees as his stomach painfully emptied itself onto the deck plating, a bitter, acidic taste filling his mouth. Without his even noticing, loud, pathetic sobs began to rip from his throat. It was too much. Everything—the collision alarms, the kidnapping, the food—everything was just too much.

He was acutely aware of the pitiful picture he must present the second the pneumatic doors slid open. The alien with the skunk-striped hair rushed in, its glowing green eyes immediately zeroing in on Tim and the puddle of bile before him. Without a second of hesitation, the massive creature stepped forward, unceremoniously scooped Tim up under his armpits, and gently set him back down onto the safety of the cot.

Embarrassingly, the gentle touch only made Tim sob harder. He watched through blurred vision as the alien swiftly crossed the room, grabbed the water bottle still perched on the tray, and cracked the seal before marching back over. With a soft yet calloused hand bracing the back of his neck, the creature tilted Tim’s head back slightly to pour a small stream of water into his mouth.

With his cheek ballooned out and filled with water, Tim watched—tears still streaming down his face as shuddering breaths rattled his chest—as the alien skillfully grabbed the now-empty pasta plate. Murmuring low placations, or at least what Tim guessed were placations based on the soft tone and soothing, rumbling undercurrent, the skunk-striped tank held the curved plate underneath Tim’s chin and gestured for him to spit. Tim obeyed, having absolutely no other option. Aside from being severely overwhelmed by everything happening around him, the alien’s genuine desire to help was completely stumping his brain.

Setting the soiled plate aside, the alien held the bottle to his lips once more. This time, Tim drank from it eagerly, satisfying a deep, burning thirst he hadn’t even realized he had. He almost pouted when the bottle was pulled away. Seeing this, the creature cracked a small smile, revealing a set of incredibly sharp-looking, pearly-white teeth.

Suddenly, a heavy hand ran gently through Tim’s hair. Tim flinched violently at the initial contact before absolutely melting, leaning into the palm like a stray street cat experiencing its very first pets. Fuck, was he really this touch-starved?

The alien let out a low rumble that sounded oddly like a chuckle, carefully sinking onto the edge of the mattress next to Tim, its massive form completely hulking over the human. Tim had to fight with every single cell in his body not to lean his entire weight against the creature, especially now that he could feel literal waves of warmth radiating off the alien's skin. But he persevered. Somehow.

After a few minutes of this—allowing Tim’s terror and racing heartbeat to quiet, and giving his tears time to stop flowing and dry against his skin—the alien finally removed its hand. Instead, it made deliberate eye contact with Tim, lifted his hand, and pointed it firmly toward his own chest. At the same time, it slowly articulated a single word.

Unsure what to make of it at first, Tim just stared. The alien didn’t seem to mind, visibly patient as it chose to repeat the word again and again while gesturing to itself. It took an embarrassingly long time for it to click.

That was its name. It was trying to teach Tim its name.

Concentrating harder than before, Tim’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to find the phonetic sounds in his human vocal tract that corresponded to the heavy rumble the creature was making. The skunk-striped tank never grew annoyed; rather, it seemed deeply amused, especially once Tim actually started trying to mimic the sounds.

“Jason?”

“Jason,” the creature confirmed triumphantly after the dozenth attempt, its, well, his toxic green eyes gleaming with visible happiness.

Then the alien—Jason—directed his pointed finger away from his chest and aimed it toward Tim. The human tilted his head before letting out a silent oh. Jason was asking for his name now. Debating the pros and cons for a brief fraction of a second, Tim found no real reason to withhold it from the alien in front of him.

And so, Tim pointed a trembling finger at his own chest before slowly saying, “Tim.”

Jason needed a few tries to get the exact pronunciation right, but he managed it decidedly faster than Tim had. And Tim… Tim couldn’t help but start crying all over again. It had been so damn long since someone had actually said his name, much less with a semblance of genuine warmth and friendliness.

Eyes widening, Jason’s face instantly filled with panic, clearly not understanding why the human in front of him was weeping yet again. Hesitation was clear in his bulky frame before the alien carefully reached out, pulling Tim’s face directly into his broad chest. He began shushing him—or at least, making a sound that felt like a shush—while rocking their bodies slowly from side to side. So, aliens did that too.

Tim didn’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point between his fading tears, his increasing yawns, and the steady, vibrating hum of Jason’s voice, darkness claimed him once more. His last conscious thought was a strict reminder that he still needed to maintain his utmost vigilance the second he woke up. One—well, technically two—signs of kindness didn’t have to mean anything in the long run.

But that was awake-Tim’s problem. Sleepy-Tim decided to catch up on some of the absurd amount of sleep he had lost over the past half year, securely held in Jason’s—secretly very comfortable—arms.

Chapter Text

The next (and hopefully last) time Tim crawled out of the dregs of involuntary darkness because his stupid body had passed out again, he rubbed his eyes blearily before cracking one open. That task was not as easy as it sounded, since he found himself expertly wrapped in a blanket burrito—presumably by that alien, Jason, his mind supplied.

Oh my goodness, Jason.

Tim’s eyes shot open as he remembered what the fuck happened… yesterday? Earlier? It all came rushing back to him: his embarrassing and doomed-from-the-start plan, the space pasta, the vomit… and Jason. Well, that bastard was damn good at trapping people in blankets, Tim swore, because that shit was tightened securely. Wiggling around like a worm, he tried to escape his predicament, almost falling off the cot in the process. Almost.

Just as he’d freed himself and sat up, he was met with two very much glowing eyes in the corner of his room—no, cell. It’s a cell because he was a prisoner—sitting leisurely on the chair by the desk.

The scream that escaped Tim’s mouth did absolutely not sound like that of a teenage girl. With his heart in his throat and panic coursing through his veins, Tim made use of the oldest tactic in the book. One he’d employed countless times when he was young and unwilling to be found by his nanny. Yes. He crawled under the fucking bed. (Why hadn’t he thought of that before?)

With fearful eyes, Tim could just about make out the alien’s shoes—it was the bat-creature, judging by the size and the brief glimpse he’d gotten. Thankfully, it stayed seated, unmoving in response to Tim’s ongoing freak-out.

Deafening silence spread throughout the room, with Tim secretly wishing that Jason would appear to save him. No! Silly voice in his head. Jason was an alien, one with very comfortable arms that felt very safe, but with unknown motives. He was absolutely not to be trusted. Stupid touch starvation.

The stalemate lasted for what felt like a lifetime, with neither party moving a muscle (did aliens have muscles? No, now was not the time for these questions, stupid brain!). That was until the alien warbled something Tim couldn’t understand. Silence filled the room again, with Tim gnawing on his lip, unwilling to respond with a noise of his own yet.

“S-safe? Safe,” the bat-creature suddenly rumbled, its pronunciation barely intelligible.

Tim froze. Point blank. Surely he was hallucinating. This was probably just the isolation he’d imposed on himself playing horrible tricks on him. Although, that one rational part of his brain whispered, Jason had tried to teach him his name, tried to have a means of communication. Maybe the bat-alien wanted that too? But how would he know Earth English?

No, he must be dreaming shit up again. Maybe he misheard.

When Tim didn’t move a muscle, the alien warbled again in a strange attempt at a human language, “Come. Food. Safe.”

Okay, he definitely didn’t misheard that. What the fuck.

Shuffling closer toward the edge of the cot, he peeked up at the hulking figure still sitting on the chair, unmoving. This was a trap. Well, it’d be the perfect setup for one. Kidnap a poor human from his spaceship, lock him in a nicely furnished room, then try and gain his trust by giving him food and speaking his language. This could probably be found step-by-step in Kidnapping Humans 101.

Oh goodness. What if they were going to traffic him? No way in hell that wouldn’t be somewhere in the handbook. Shit.

Only now did Tim realize how badly his hands were shaking. He was screwed. Absolutely and utterly screwed. And hungry. Very fucking hungry, as his stomach started making its need for sustenance known.

The bat-alien made a grunt-like noise, presumably at the sound of Tim’s stomach rumbling. Was it displeased? Tim didn’t have a clue and also didn’t have any longing to find out. And yet…

And yet he was really hungry. He’d vomited up anything his stomach had contained and now it was empty—painfully so.

The sound of a sigh reached his ears as the creature suddenly placed a tray with food—soup and crackers, if he'd identified them correctly—on the floor between the cot and the desk. Then it went to sit back down, keeping its distance.

“Safe. Food,” the alien rumbled again.

Hesitantly, Tim reached out with one hand from under the bed and pulled the tray toward himself, almost expecting the alien to speak up or at least move. It didn’t, though. Instead, it probably accepted that its plan to get Tim from under the bed had spectacularly failed.

Looking at the contents again, Tim realized that they definitely must’ve done some kind of research on his species, because this was the exact meal everyone recommended for patients who experienced starvation or whose stomachs might be upset—both criteria that Tim ticked. Did aliens just randomly have information about humans? And if so, where in the world had they gotten it from? Sure, the current government on Earth was far from trustworthy and corrupt to hell and back, but surely it wouldn’t have hidden first contact with extraterrestrial life, right? Nor would the myriad of governments before Earth went to shit and everyone started getting violently ill—even if a so-called Area 51 had alluded to such contact.

The thought of his home planet made Tim sniffle with a pout before rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist and sighing. He really, really wanted to go home right about now. Even if that meant dying to the virus-thingy like everyone else. Or maybe the scientists had finally found the cure. Tim had spent the past nine months—if his calculations and the clock on board the RedBird had been correct—in space alone. That would’ve been enough time to do so. Humanity had done more impressive things quicker.

“Tim sad? Why? Food bad?” suddenly came from the bat-creature, startling Tim out of his musings and causing him to painfully hit his head on the bed frame.

That response, right after it had probably heard Tim sniffle, did nothing to calm the alien's worry. It instead started almost vibrating in its chair as if it were being electrocuted, probably trying not to approach Tim. So the alien knew human behavioral patterns when it came to emotions. It must’ve thought Tim found something wrong with the food—the exact same food he hadn’t even touched yet…

Swallowing to try and wet his dry throat with the little spit he had, Tim took a breath and responded, “Sad, but food good.”

He hoped the bat-alien would understand what he meant. (And ignore the little lie, because Tim had, in fact, no way to know if the food was good or not since he hadn’t tried it yet. But he would.)

The creature made a weird purring sound, the same freaky one it made when it caught and captured Tim.

“No sad. Sad… bad. Eat, eat.” The bat-alien cut its purring off to speak. Its voice was deeper and rougher than Jason’s and had a very soothing feeling to it, if Tim were honest.

With a small sigh escaping his chapped lips, Tim reluctantly dug into his food. The crackers were snappy, if a bit too dry, but the soup—some kind of broth—was hearty and gave Tim a homely kind of feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Before he could really start inhaling any of the food—because his stomach was a hungry monster that had just had a taste of heaven again—the alien scooched off its chair and sat cross-legged on the floor, its wings intricately folded against its back.

“Slow. Tim eat slow. Tim not sick,” it almost sputtered out in a panicky fashion.

Still very much uncomfortable curled up underneath the bed, Tim peeked out to meet the alien’s eyes. Its face was anything but expressive, which, combined with its hulking figure, was admittedly terrifying. But a slightly shaky motion caught Tim’s eye. The alien’s bat wings were vibrating, almost as if it were anxious—which, given the circumstances, it probably was. Did it fear Tim? No. It wouldn’t sit on the floor if it did. So why was it nervous then? Maybe… no. Definitely not. Why would it be concerned about Tim?

Holy shit, the alien was concerned about him. (Why the fuck was an extraterrestrial being more concerned about Tim’s well-being after kidnapping him approximately two to four days ago than Tim’s own parents had been for the past, give or take, decade of his life?) Crazy.

Okay. What he was going to do next didn’t have to mean anything. He absolutely didn’t feel any empathy toward the bat-creature, nor did he remotely trust it. This was… tactical manipulation. Nothing more.

Pushing the half-empty tray from under the bed—and ignoring the almost frantic noise the alien made at the gesture—Tim slowly dragged himself from under the cot and sat up against it. The space between him and the alien felt simultaneously near and far.

The silence resulting from his action was thick. Both Tim and the alien stared at each other until Tim carefully grabbed another cracker from the tray and brought it to his mouth. At that gesture, the tension in the alien’s wings loosened, looking much more at ease than before. It kind of reminded Tim of the birds he’d watch when he was younger, specifically the mother birds with their little chicks and how they would fret around until the babies were all fed and cleaned. Huh. That little analogy did kind of fit the being in front of him, funnily enough.

Tim used the wonky spoon—the handle was too long for his taste and the top part too round and a little too deep—to shovel more brothy soup into his mouth, all the while the alien looked very content to watch him eat in further silence.

Only when Tim slowly put down the utensils after eating every last drop and crumb—at an acceptable pace, mind you—did the alien scooch forward to grab the tray and put it back onto the desk. Then it sat back down and looked at Tim deliberately and without hurry—something many people would’ve definitely considered rude or at the very least creepy (and Tim would too, if he hadn't been touch-starved and lonely for such a long time).

“Bruce,” the creature spoke, like Jason the day before, pointing at itself.

Furrowing his brows, Tim moved his lips to try and mimic the movement the alien in front of him was making.

“Bruce.” The name was repeated again for him.

Clearing his throat to prevent any roughness or embarrassing voice cracks, Tim opened his mouth in an attempt to parrot the name. “B-Buce? Bruise?”

Fuck, it was a hard one. The alien’s vocal sounds were just so different, and trying to approximate them to his human ones was easier said than done.

The bat-creature stayed perfectly calm, though—at least that’s what Tim thought he could tell from the stillness of its wings—and patiently repeated its name again and again to help Tim correct his enunciation.

“Bruce?”

“Bruce.” The alien, Bruce, nodded proudly, his arm twitching as if he wanted to reach out and pat Tim on the shoulder or head like a proud father.

That thought and image alone made Tim's throat close up with emotion. Jack Drake was a shit dad, but Tim really, really missed him. A stray tear traveled its way down his face before splattering onto the ground. He missed Earth. He really missed Earth.

Tim knew he should be stronger, less quick to cry. For fuck’s sake, he’d had enough time to deal with all this emotional crap while aimlessly drifting in space, slowly starving—or going insane. And yet, the second he got confronted with another living being, his dumb brain couldn’t help but celebrate, throwing a crying-and-grieving party the second a kind-seeming gesture was made his way.

It was embarrassing and mortifying in the worst way. And yet, he didn't protest when he was carefully and gently pulled into the bat-alien, Bruce’s, lap and lovingly cocooned against the alien’s chest by his wings. He felt so small. So fragile. And it felt traitorously good. It felt as if someone had finally rescued him and decided he was worth being taken care of.

Comfortable and cozy was how Tim would describe the position he was in. And when he slowly looked up at Bruce’s face, his usually—or as Tim had experienced it until now—stony expression was more relaxed, just like his wings. His eyes held a small twinkle only seen when people—because humans were his only reference point, surprise, surprise—saw something they liked, loved, or thought was cute.

Carefully, Bruce pulled something out of his pants pocket and held it in his big palm in front of Tim. The wings blocking most of the light inside their little cocoon made it a little hard to see what exactly it was. The object looked like a watch of some sort, the band being about a centimeter wide and rounded. Where the watch face would be was a little panel with buttons on a touchscreen.

When he looked back up at Bruce, the alien merely pointed at his own wrist, which also had one of the devices, before pointing to one of Tim’s. So he wanted Tim to have one, too? It couldn’t be anything malevolent since Bruce’s looked almost identical…

Ultimately shrugging, Tim held up his left wrist for Bruce to put the device on. It sat comfortably, with no pinching and very little weight. The metal was a bit cool on his skin, but not uncomfortable.

With a gentle hand—which had striking black nails, Tim only noted now—Bruce held Tim’s wrist and pressed the bottom-right button on the control panel. A small hologram screen popped up from the watch-thingy, making Tim jump in shock and bump into the wings around him.

“Sorry—I’m sorry,” the words poured out of his mouth as he met the alien's eyes with his own widened ones in fright, before glancing back down to the hologram.

Hologram screens were something straight out of sci-fi movies. And now he was seeing one in real fucking life. This was insane. He wanted to touch it really badly, but his hindbrain screamed at him not to, at least until Bruce did. Tim really wasn’t fond of the idea of losing a finger today.

His bated anticipation was cut short as the alien pointed at the screen and what it showed. It looked funny. The name of the program was presumably written at the top—something he couldn’t verify since the symbols were none he recognized. Then there were two boxes. 

Tim’s brows rose as he spotted “English (Human)” written in one of the boxes, with the other being filled by a word he couldn’t read. Under each box was another, bigger one, which was empty with a button-like symbol in the middle. Was this… a translation software?

Tim’s mouth was slightly agape when he moved his eyes back up to look at Bruce. The corners of the alien’s eyes crinkled at the human’s fascination before he tapped on the button-like symbol in the middle of the hologram.

The speech coming out of Bruce’s mouth wasn’t understandable to Tim, but the device rapidly transcribed every word before translating it into English. Once Bruce stopped speaking, a robotic female voice rang out from the device on his wrist.

“Hopefully this works. This is a monitoring bracelet with a translator function. We tried to program the language data from your ship to have it translate what we say into English.”

It worked. They had a way to communicate now…

And it answered one of his questions. Aliens didn’t have prior access to or knowledge of human languages. What they knew had come from Tim’s ship’s computers. So, it was almost safe to say Tim was most likely the first human Bruce, Jason, and the others had ever seen.

Looking at Bruce, Tim couldn’t hold back the grin on his face. The alien’s mouth corners twitched as he pressed the lower-right button on his own bracelet, causing the same hologram screen to pop up, and clicked the translation button before nodding at Tim.

With a deep breath, Tim hesitantly started talking with a surprisingly steady voice (because he was a little emotional, okay? Sue him for being an emotional mess). “Hi, Bruce. It works. I think it translated everything you said correctly.” After a second, he added in a quieter voice, almost as if he were shyly confessing a secret, “This is really cool.”

Bruce’s bracelet rapidly translated what Tim said, the alien fondly looking down at the human in his lap all the while. A little purry sound escaped his mouth, making his chest vibrate.

“I’m glad you think so, Tim. It’s not perfect yet, but good enough for now,” the alien responded calmly through the device.

Tim nodded, then scratched an itch forming behind his ear.

“Please keep it on,” Bruce spoke, tracing over the device. “It helps us see if your body is okay.”

Once again, he nodded, filing the information away in his brain. Bruce was seemingly happy with that response and slowly brought his wings back behind his back into their folded position.

“If you want to, I can show you the washroom and give you new clothes?” Bruce offered, as Tim, reluctantly, pushed himself off his lap and into a standing position.

“My own?” Tim responded without thinking.

A small smile quirked the alien’s lips. “If you want, I can have Dick fetch them,” he answered back, rumblier than usual, almost as if he expressed fondness by purring or rumbling. Which… now that Tim thought about it, he probably did.

Tim also filed the new name away for later questioning, but first, a shower sounded amazing—especially after the vomit incident. Responding with a grateful affirmative, Tim watched as Bruce walked to the door and opened it.

So it was open the whole time…? Not that Tim had needed to escape but… he could’ve this whole time…

Anyways. He steered his brain back on track.

The hallway they stepped out into was curved and looked identical to those in most other spaceships Tim had seen. They didn’t go far, only halting at a door further down on the left. Bruce opened it with his bracelet—so to go into rooms he presumably needed the bracelet, but he could always get out without it—revealing a bathroom with a sink, mirror, cabinets, and two other doors, each leading to the toilet and the shower, he guessed.

“You can go shower. Everything is in the cabinets, use whatever you need. I will put your clothes here,” he pointed at the empty shelf on a rack, “and someone will be waiting for you outside. Take as long as you need, okay?”

When Tim nodded and thanked him, the alien turned around and left the bathroom, leaving Tim alone. Finding some soap and a towel was easy, and so was turning on the shower and adjusting the water temperature.

Just as heavenly warm water ran down his back, it dawned on Tim. He’d just cuddled with a strange alien. Again.

Goddamnit.