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.