Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 Shiro meets the ship before he meets the alien.

“What do you make of it?” Iverson asks.

The ship is in a hangar well removed from the main campus: a bunker, deep underground. The cranes had lowered the ship in through an access shaft. Shiro’s heard of this bunker’s existence, sure, but stepping into it is an experience unto itself.

“It’s remarkable,” Shiro breathes. The ship in question sits squarely in the middle of the hangar, towering at least two stories above Shiro’s head. It’s an odd shape for a space vessel: triangular, with three huge pieces forming more of an open framework than a solid structure. The entire ship is made of a beautiful silver-and-blue material that gleams in the fluorescent overheads of the bunker. It’s utterly unlike any metal Shiro’s ever seen.

There’s no visible engines. The center-back of the ship is wide open - at least part of it is, shorn open and raw.

“We couldn’t get into it,” Iverson explains. A piece of torn sheet metal matching the hole in the ship lies on the floor nearby. “You ready?

A set of standard metal rolling stairs ascends upwards to the ship’s interior, a simple staircase guarded by a bright yellow rail. Something in Shiro’s stomach twists in anticipation: excitement, shivering down his spine.

“Yes,” Shiro says, and follows Iverson to the stairs.

Iverson gestures with a tilt of his head. Shiro grips both sides of the yellow rails; hurries up the stairs. The space carved out for access is not large. Shiro ducks his head to clear the opening - bracing his hand against the overhead edge, just to be sure - and steps fully into the alien ship.

There’s surprisingly little to see. Work lamps have been rigged in all three corners of the cockpit, casting sharp shadows on the floor where the beams don’t quite overlap. None of the illumination from the outside hangar shines through the strange metal of the ship’s outer walls. It’s a bit like being in the simulator when the machine is off, especially with the forward window dull and inactive. At least, Shiro’s assuming that’s a window: the distinctive panel along the far wall of the alien ship is dark and lifeless. Empty.

That’s it. There’s nothing here but an empty cockpit. If there’s hidden panels containing equipment, Shiro can’t see them. The only object of interest is the single pedestal directly in front of the darkened window. A wide, flat surface extends at the top of the pedestal to either side, vaguely hexagonal. It’s as inactive as everything else here.

“Where’s the pilot’s seat?” Shiro asks.

“It didn’t come with one,” Iverson says. Shiro steps forwards, half-listening. The pedestal is tall; he has to stretch his hands up to shoulder height to reach. “Retracted into the floor? The ship’s deep enough.”

Gingerly Shiro touches his fingertips to the panels; rests his full palms upon either side. Nothing happens.

“They fly standing,” he murmurs.

“Another thing we haven’t been able to figure out,” Iverson says, gruffly impressed. Shiro runs his hands over the wide surfaces to the pedestal itself, smooth metal under his fingertips. “We were hoping you’d be able to.”

Shiro blinks, turning. “Me?”

“Youngest pilot to fly to the edge of the solar system and back in how many years?” Iverson asks. Amusement curls at his lip. “You teach the course now, Shirogane. Have you forgotten?”

The job is so new Shiro isn’t comfortable bragging about it, especially not when he’s well aware some of the senior instructors are still grumbling. “Sir -”

“Shirogane, don’t be modest,” Iverson says. “The brass agree with me. If you can’t figure out this alien ship and how to turn her on - or fly her - no one can.”

Shiro’s right hand still rests atop the panel. His fingers curl over the smooth not-metal, cool to the touch.

“I’ll need a team,” he says.

“I’ve already cleared Holt’s schedule,” Iverson says, dismissively. “But don’t bring Kogane in here. He isn’t authorized.”

“He doesn’t -”

“Don’t tell me what you don’t want me to know,” Iverson says. Shiro closes his mouth obediently. “Any questions?”

Shiro casts a look over the ship’s interior. Over the cockpit, bare and empty but for that pedestal.

“Too many, sir,” he says, honestly.

“Fantastic,” Iverson says, sarcasm dripping from the word. “You start now. Your schedule is cleared indefinitely, pending reassignment or completion of this project. I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you the urgency and severity of this situation.”

“The fate of our universe,” Shiro murmurs, almost to himself.

“Just our planet,” Iverson corrects, raising a critical eyebrow. “Don’t get sentimental on me. I’ve had enough of that today from other enthusiasts.”

“Didn’t know an alien ship could make you sentimental, sir,” Shiro quips, already rolling up his sleeves.

“Does when it lands in my backyard,” Iverson grumbles. “I’ll send any details we have to your tablet.”

Shiro blinks, holding up his empty hands. “Sir?”

Iverson curses. “I’ll have one brought to you. Holt’ll be down within the hour. Anything else you need, you have my comm code. Good luck.”

“Amazing,” Matt breathes. He stands in the shorn-open door to the cockpit, face alight with curiosity and a sharp, wicked wonder. “This is what the lockdown was for?”

“This is it,” Shiro agrees. He’s sitting underneath the pedestal - the control pedestal, Shiro’s calling it - head tilted up towards the underside, tablet and stylus in hand. His discarded jacket’s somewhere on the floor nearby.

“You get your sketches done?” Matt asks. He shucks his jacket too, rolling up his own sleeves. Shiro waves his tablet in response, one of four delivered to him by a gruff-faced technician. The tech was ill-at-ease to be playing courier, but the clearance level down here is entirely too high for a cadet. “Nice. They clean this place out during decontamination, or something?”

“Nope. Iverson says it was empty when they got in.”

“Then there has to be storage here somewhere,” Matt muses aloud. He grabs and drags over a ladder, stationing it against a far wall of the cockpit. With a double-tap of his foot, the gravity around the base activates; Matt hops on the stabilized ladder and scales all the way up to the top rung without any hesitation. He leans out, pressing his hands over the wall.

“Looking for treasure?” Shiro calls up to him.

“Aye aye, captain,” Matt quips back. The familiar frown of concentration creases his face, his eyes narrowed in clever focus. This is a puzzle to be solved, for sure. “A hidden panel, a pocket - what’s the goal?”

Shiro sets the tablet down, picks up his tools again. The smooth base of the pedestal taunts him: no cracks, no openings. “Turning her on, for a start.”

“Nice,” Matt says, working his way down the wall. There’s a burst of chatter from outside the ship - a researcher’s raised voice in question, the call of an answer - but in here, they’re alone. “And then?”

Shiro grins. “See if we can’t get this girl to fly.”

Unfortunately, the rest of the afternoon passes with no revelations whatsoever.

Shiro and Matt sketch and document every gleaming square inch of that elusive cockpit. No nooks or crannies appear, no matter how high Matt climbs or how creatively Shiro angles the light. There’s no visible hidden pockets in the floor or walls; no secret ‘on’ switches lingering on the pedestal or the wide shelf running along the wall beneath the window. Nothing. No clues. Nada.

“Well, I’m stumped,” Matt agrees at last, standing in the middle of the cockpit. Grease smears under one eye, and his hair’s sticking up funny. Shiro’s sure his isn’t any better. “I hate to say it, but either we have to start cutting into this, or we need to think of another option.”

Shiro frowns. He runs his foot across the floor; his toes don’t catch on anything. No cracks, no imperfections. There’s nothing here. “What if we cut something vital?”

“That’s a risk,” Matt admits. He’s studying the tablet, zooming in on Shiro’s sketches with a careful pinch of his fingers.

Shiro hesitates. The shorn-away part of the ship’s hull taunts him, raw and wrong.

“Yeah, me too,” Matt sighs, following his gaze. “I can requisition some x-ray scanners from maintenance, but they’ll take a bit to get here even with our new clearance. Won’t be fast.”

“Can Commander Holt speed it along?”

“Dad’s got his own kettle of fish,” Matt says, but taps out a message lightning-quick on the tablet.

Shiro blinks. “He’s on this project, too?”

Matt fixes him with a look.

“Shiro,” Matt says, like Shiro’s five. “An alien ship crashed into our backyard last night at 2300. The main campus just got off lockdown this morning. Everyone who’s anyone is working on this project, including Dad.”

Shiro frowns, not from the rebuke but from the wording. “The ship didn’t crash. It’s not damaged.”

Matt flicks his fingers, scrolling through the data. “The report says a crash. Pretty clearly, look.”

“If it crashed and survived, unharmed, clearly it’s got some sort of dampeners we don’t know about,” Shiro starts.

Matt’s eyes light up, catching gon. “Landing gear?”

“Or something,” Shiro says, scrambling for another tablet.

“I’m starting a list,” Matt declares, snatching the tablet out of Shiro’s hand and shoving his own at Shiro instead. “Things We Don’t Know.”

Shiro quirks an amused eyebrow. “You have enough storage space for that long of a list?” Matt hits him with the tablet. “Ow!”

“You shut up if you’re not going to be helpful,” Matt says, starting to type. “Dampeners, landing gear -”

“Flight capabilities,” Shiro adds. “Internal power.”

“Any sort of power,” Matt corrects, fingers flying over the tablet. “Storage, navigation?”

“Accessibility,” Shiro says, frowning back at the main entrance. The crews had shorn away part of the access ramp. There’s simply no other way into this ship, unless one comes in through the front - but the window’s in the way. “Did you check for hinges?”

“I’ll do that next,” Matt says, ticking off on his fingers. “List, x-ray equipment, ask one of those oh-so-highly-classified techs to bring us dinner. Think they’d do it?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Shiro says, fondly. “I’ll go get us something from the mess.”

Matt squawks, waving the tablet triumphantly. “No no, this is our big chance! We’ve been assigned, we can’t leave the project for something as menial as food. Let the food come to us. We’re important.”

“We’re a bit full of ourselves,” Shiro teases, poking Matt’s shoulder.

“We’re making history,” Matt corrects, twisting away easily without breaking stride in his typing. “Any other bright ideas, o fearless one?”

Shiro hums thoughtfully, trailing his fingers over the pedestal again. It’s almost taller than he is, and still devoid of any answers. No ‘on’ switch. No foot pedals. Nothing.

Unless…

“Oh no,” Matt says. “Nope, I know that look. Spill. What are you thinking?”

Shiro curves around the pedestal one last time. Straightens his spine to see fully over top of it. Still nothing. They’ve hit a wall.

“I think we need to talk to the pilot,” Shiro admits.

Matt stills. The tablet loosens in his limp hands before he regains himself, shaking his head. “The pilot?”

“Someone had to have flown this thing,” Shiro says. “Someone we haven’t met -”

“Hang on, hotshot,” Matt says, scanning through the tablet with renewed enthusiasm. “There’s no mention of a pilot in our reports.”

“Because that’s exactly the sort of thing they’d want to cover up,” Shiro says. His heartbeat quickens, excitement beating wild in his chest. “Matt - Matt, if the ship didn’t crash, it had to have landed instead. If it landed, either it used an autopilot we haven’t discovered yet, or -”

“Or someone landed it manually,” Matt says, catching on. The tablet hangs in limp fingers. “And then if they shut the ship down -”

“And then the Garrison found them,” Shiro adds, right on top. “Then that means - ”

“That means they’re here,” Matt finishes. “An alien?”

“An alien,” Shiro confirms.

“An alien,” Matt echoes, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

He stares, struck dumb. Shiro stares back, heart pounding. All that time flying out to Kerberos - all that time in space, and not a speck of provable extraterrestrial life to show for it. The best of the best at the Garrison are still analyzing the ice samples, but nothing’s been concluded as of yet. That’s expected, if disappointing. The three explorers had known going into it that the chances of discovering extraterrestrial life were slim. Still, there’d been a sort of magic about the journey regardless, with hope a thrumming fuel as real as the engines of their little ship. The mere possibility of finding new life sustained them, there and back. To be out in the black…to be so close…

…and now to have a real, actual alien show up at their doorstep six months later. An alien, proof positive in their same solar system. No; their same building.

“Maybe - we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Matt suggests, tentatively. “The report could be completely accurate. Maybe the alien escaped before the Garrison crew got out to him, but -”

“But why would you fly all this way in technology so advanced only to flee without making contact,” Shiro agrees, wild with excitement.

Matt readjusts his frames, settling them further on his nose. “Why wouldn’t this be in the report? First Contact is a pretty big deal.”

“Unless it’s not in the report because our clearance level isn’t high enough,” Shiro says.

Matt gapes. “They’re not letting us - no. No way. They flew us all the way out to Kerberos and back. We came back. We’re assigned to an alien ship, the first solid and irrefutable evidence of extraterrestrial life that this planet’s ever seen! How much more clearance could there be that we don’t have?”

Shiro’s already reaching for his jacket, crumpled on the floor. “I’m going to go ask.”

“Iverson said you could comm him,” Matt calls after him. “Just do that. Save your legs.”

Shiro shakes his head, shrugging his arms into the sleeves. “This one I’m doing in person. I want to see his face when he tells me there wasn’t a pilot.”

“Go, be great,” Matt cheers, as Shiro heads for the shorn-off door. “Find me an alien. And a sandwich, while you’re at it.”

Shiro affectionately flips him off and ducks out.

Iverson doesn’t respond to Shiro’s request with any level of enthusiasm. He doesn’t even set his tablet down, staring pointedly at Shiro across the desk. “That’s above your clearance level.”

“So up me,” Shiro says. The chair in front of Iverson’s desk is notoriously uncomfortable. Shiro’d opted not to take it. “Matt and I are doing all we can, sir, but we’ve hit a wall. Having an idea of the physiology of the alien might give us a clue as to the interior components of their ship.”

“You’re making assumptions,” Iverson says. He sits rigid in his chair behind his desk, one pointed eyebrow raised in Shiro’s direction. “What’s to say the ship didn’t fly here on autopilot?”

“To explore what’s probably an unknown planet to them?” Shiro asks, dubiously. “First contact for them too?”

“The ship could have left surveillance material.”

“It’s too big to fly all that way just for a drop-off.”

“Could have been sent to establish a base,” Iverson growls, “To keep an eye on us.”

“It’s not transmitting on any frequencies we can detect,” Shiro says. This much he’s been able to accomplish. “No sonar, radar, nothing. The entire ship is locked down tight, sir. If we’re going to get in, I need to see the pilot.”

“Just cut the ship open, Shirogane.”

“It won’t be enough,” Shiro insists. “Cut blindly into it, possibly obstructing or severing important components? We’ll never know what they do if we cut them in half accidentally. We already know that ship won’t break atmosphere again, thanks to the hole in its hull. You want us to sabotage it further?”

Iverson taps a command onto his tablet. “You’ll have - what is it, the x-ray technology? You’ll have it by tomorrow. I’ve already approved Lieutenant Holt’s request.”

“It won’t be enough,” Shiro repeats. He doesn’t care if it’s true. This is too important. “I need a size comparison from the pilot. If they do in fact fly standing, which you all but said was a good idea, sir, then I need to see him. How he stands, how he positions himself, all of it. It’d give us some place to start.”

Slowly, far too pointedly, Iverson sets his tablet down. He doesn’t shift otherwise, doesn’t steeple his fingers, just glares steadily across the desk at Shiro. “You’re making assumptions, Shirogane.”

“Am I?” Shiro asks, deliberately mild.

The slightest of breezes blows in through the cracked window, rustling blinds. Iverson’s door is closed, and the room is hot and stuffy but for the hint of an interruption. It’s barely enough.

“Sir, you asked me to make that ship fly,” Shiro says, blunt into the silence. “The only option left is for me to get a look at the person who’s already flown it. Are you going to up my security clearance, or should I go find Commander Holt?”

Iverson stands so fast the chair legs squeak on the concrete behind him. Shiro braces himself, but Iverson merely taps in a sequence on his tablet, jabbing at the screen with his thumb. He picks the tablet up; takes it with him as he crosses around to the front of the desk.

He passes Shiro, and pulls open the door.

“Come with me,” Iverson says.

The walk down to the alien pilot is stressful.

Shiro’s heart pounds in his chest with every step he takes. Iverson leads him into a part of the Garrison Shiro never knew existed; leads him down an elevator, two sets of stairs, through four locked doors and a series of narrow halls. It’s a twisting maze of steps Shiro barely manages to keep track of. Unease settles low in his gut, curling with each new turn down a different hall. Why would the pilot be down here?

“Is the pilot still in quarantine?” Shiro asks.

Iverson does not reply.

At last they stop in front of a nondescript door, one of two in an entire hallway. The hall itself is cold and barren, one fluorescent light flickering over stark white walls and the cracks in the cement floor.

“Sir?” Shiro says, hesitantly. “Is this - are we in the right place?”

Iverson’s look transports Shiro immediately back to his first year, flushed and embarrassed at a basic mistake. Shiro swallows, and stands his ground.

“Your key card,” Iverson says curtly, holding out his hand. Shiro unclips his ID, drops it in Iverson’s waiting palm. Iverson types a command on his tablet and swipes Shiro’s card through the panel by the featureless door. “This will get you in here from this point on. Holt will have the same access once the authority goes through. You’ll need to show him the way.”

“Yes, sir,” Shiro says, accepting back his ID. His heartbeat quickens, excitement. Nerves. This is it. This has to be.

Iverson pushes open the door.

The room beyond is enormous, and busy. Top-of-the-line technology hums on tables against the walls, machines blinking and beeping in a frenetic, organized chaos. Technicians and supervisors bustle from machine to machine, talking quietly, pointing out details on tablets or monitors. The room’s most notable feature is the wide, dark panel spanning the entire length of the far wall - a panel just as empty and featureless as the one upstairs in the ship Shiro cannot turn on.

This…what is this room for?

“Commander,” says one of the supervisors at the far cluster of machines. She salutes, and the room follows suit; Iverson salutes back.

“At ease,” Commander Iverson says. “You know Lieutenant Shirogane? He and Lieutenant Holt are assigned to the ship upstairs. They’ll have a few questions for you. Get them answers; whatever they need.”

“The Kerberos pilot,” the supervisor says, holding out her hand. “I’m Kal. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Shiro says, as they shake. “My questions are for the pilot of the ship, actually. Where are they?”

As one, everyone in the room glances towards the darkened window.

Something cold drops into the pit of Shiro’s stomach.

“Sir,” Shiro starts.

“I have to warn you,” Iverson says, turning fully to face him for the first time since leaving the office upstairs. “It’s a bit of a sight. It got violent earlier. For the safety of our men we’ve had to restrain it.”

Freezing water slithers down Shiro’s spine. His palms are sweating.

“It?” he repeats, weak.

Iverson nods, an order. Kal presses a sequence of keys on her console; flips a switch. With a shuddering whine the panel on the far wall turns utterly transparent.

It’s not a panel at all. It’s a one-way window, activated now to reveal the well-lit room on the other side.

As if in a haze Shiro steps forwards, legs working without conscious command. His hands shake. His heart is pounding.

His feet carry him straight to the window.

There is an alien in the room beyond.

It’s - huge. Long lanky limbs are curled in on itself, head bowed. It’s covered not in skin but a pale purple fur, darker along its abdomen, its extremities, its legs. It - he isn’t wearing any clothes; Shiro flushes, averts his gaze. A crest of longer white fur ridges down the exact center of the alien’s crown and forehead, almost like hair. Almost soft. His ears are pointed, perhaps bat-like. On either side of the ridge of hair-fur are symmetrical white stripes. He’s seated against the back wall -

No.

He isn’t seated.

He’s restrained.

Thick cuffs encircle wrists and ankles, connected to chains bound to the wall. It’s top-of-the-line technology. The chains hum, magnetized, trapping both of the alien’s wrists to the wall above his head. He is seated, ankles only barely crossed by the grace of the electric chain between the cuffs on his ankles - his two-toed, cuffed feet.

Most noticeable of all is not the restraints. It’s not the anatomy. It’s not the pupiless yellow eyes, staring bleakly at a spot on the wall.

It’s the muzzle affixed firmly to the alien’s face, bound around flattened ears and directly over his mouth.

Shiro’s going to be sick.

“That’s the pilot?” Shiro whispers. The words come almost from somewhere outside of him, distant and numb. It’s like he’s underwater, watching all this play out while his body sinks in horror.

“That’s the thing that stepped out of the ship,” Iverson confirms, misinterpreting Shiro’s reaction completely. Shiro’s going to be sick. “Could’ve been a computer that flew the ship, just as easily. There’s no proof that thing was behind the controls.”

On the other side of the window the alien’s head lifts abruptly. Pupiless yellow eyes snap directly towards the one way mirror. Even though there’s no way he can see through the wall - there’s no way - those eyes seem to fixate exactly on where Shiro stands. Shiro’s breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah, it does that sometimes,” Kal says, at Shiro’s left. Shiro jumps, startled. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. It can’t get to us.”

“Why is he restrained?” Shiro manages, only barely louder. Horror freezes his tongue; chokes his words like chalk. This - this -

“It’s violent,” Iverson says, with no more concern than if he was describing the weather. “It tried to take a bite out of -”

“That’s no reason!” Shiro yelps. He’s horrified, yes, but deeper than the horror is a simmering anger. It boils up through him, stronger by the minute and finally loosening his tongue. “Can he talk? Did anyone try to talk to him?”

“It spoke no language - ” Iverson begins.

“It’s a he, I can see his anatomy just as clearly as you can,” Shiro snaps. “Commander, with all due respect - this is insane. The first alien to visit Earth - the first known emissary from outer space - and we’re treating him like this?! How did he attack? Was it self-defense?”

“That’s on a need to know basis,” Iverson retorts.

Shiro’s eyes flash, dangerous. “Consider me need to know.”

“You do not,” Iverson bites back, cold and hard. “You were brought down here for physiology specs and physiology questions only. What do you need to know, Shirogane? Take a look. Take a good, hard look at that beast. It’s not going anywhere.”

How could he do anything else? How could Shiro ever unsee the awkward bend of the alien’s long arms as they’re restrained by chains too short - or the press of knees to the alien’s chest, again hobbled by chains meant for a smaller being? Chains he never should have - he shouldn’t - how can Shiro do anything but look?

“We can’t do this to him,” Shiro breathes. Through the window the alien has not lowered his head, though his body shifts as much in the chains as he can possibly allow. This can’t be happening. This is unreal. “He’s an intelligent being, come to us as first contact. He flew that ship here -”

“What do you need to know about its physiology, Shirogane?” Iverson asks.

“Why is he restrained?” Shiro demands.

Iverson raises a warning eyebrow. “Its physiology.”

“Why is he -”

“Lieutenant, if the next words out of your mouth are not a question directly related to an anatomical detail of that thing, your access will be revoked,” Iverson snaps. “You were brought down here for one reason and one reason only. What do you need to know in order to make that ship fly?”

Shiro freezes. His eyes drift back to the alien. This is wrong. This is wrong. But if Shiro’s kicked out -  

The alien hasn’t looked away from the window - the wall - once. He hasn’t even blinked, gaze steady above the muzzle affixed to his face.

He’s just as trapped as Shiro is.

“How tall is he,” Shiro whispers.

“Seven foot four,” Kal answers readily. Shiro presses his hand to the glass. “Weight -”

Shiro can barely hear her. His throat is so dry. “His arms?”

“Longer than normal,” Kal explains. She consults her tablet briefly. “It has an examination scheduled in two hours. I can ask the biologists for that detail specifically. Here, would it be easier if I sent what we have directly to your tablet?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, tightly. Inside the cell the alien is curled so tightly in on himself, all his weight on those miserable magnetic chains. Shiro can’t look away.

His mind is reeling. To be captured like this - to be held and imprisoned against his will, unable to speak to the people now directly responsible for his care. Unable to even talk - at the total mercy of strangers? Not even strangers, of aliens, a strange species this visitor knows next to nothing about. To have that total loss of control - to be imprisoned like this - all for simply landing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Shiro can’t even imagine.

“Shirogane!”

Shiro snaps back to attention. Iverson glares down at him, face hard and unforgiving.

“Sir?” Shiro manages, weakly.

“I asked if you had any further questions. Questions relevant to your research,” Iverson amends sharply, when Shiro opens his mouth.

Anger boils beneath Shiro’s skin, nauseating and hot. Yes, Shiro has questions. This is wrong. This is wrong, this is wrong, this -

But Shiro can’t do anything. Not with Iverson glaring down at him, rigid and fierce. Not with him and a half dozen other technicians between Shiro and the door, between Shiro and any controls. Shiro doesn’t know how to get into that cell. He can’t rush in and set the alien free.

He can’t do anything.

“No, sir,” Shiro whispers.

“Then you are dismissed,” Iverson says. “The details will be sent to your tablet. Share them with Holt, and Holt only. There’s a full team briefing at 2200 hours. If you have other questions for the biologists you can ask them at that time. I expect both of your attendance, and I expect some answers about that ship. Understood?”

His voice, and the threat, is clear.

There is nothing Shiro can do. He glances back towards the window one last time. The alien is still staring directly at them. His pupiless eyes are piercing, unwavering, and yet - somehow - distinctly and sorrowfully sad.

There is nothing Shiro can do to help him.

“Yes, sir,” Shiro says.

“What’s wrong?” Matt demands, when Shiro stumbles back in through the door of the strange ship. Matt straightens from where he’d been crouched by the pedestal, tablet active in his hands. “Is there a pilot? Did you meet him?”

“Yes,” Shiro manages. He sits down hard on the steps leading into the ship. The metal rungs dig into the back of his knees. His hands are shaking. All he can think of are eyes, pupiless and staring. Unwavering.

Sad.

“And?” Matt asks, coming up to him. He sits down next to Shiro, tablet loose in his hands. “Shiro, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Shiro swallows.

“We need to talk to your dad,” he says.

Sam Holt is livid.

“First contact,” Commander Samuel Holt shouts, standing in front of Iverson’s desk with both hands flat on the poor surface. In all their years of working together, Shiro has never heard him yell. “First contact, Monty! And you want to ruin it by torturing him?!”

For his part, Commander Iverson holds up well under the onslaught. His arms are folded across his chest, stoic. “No one is being tortured.”

If Iverson’s surprised by the full interruption to his office, he hasn’t said. Shiro and Matt stand behind Sam, witnesses as Iverson refuses to yield and Sam refuses to back down.

“You locked him up,” Sam says, ticking off on his fingers. “You restrained him, cruelly if you believe Shiro’s description, which I do. You gas him into submission so he can be removed for ‘examination’. I bet no one’s even offered him anything to eat!”

“Samuel,” Iverson says.

“What if he has contact with other aliens?” Sam demands. A small sparrow swoops by the window outside, the briefest flit of its pale breast and dark wings before it’s gone. “What if there are others out there just like him, and the message they get from all this is ‘don’t go to Earth, they’ll try to kill you’? At best we’re sabotaging any future contact with the galaxy. At worst, you’re setting us up for intergalactic war!”

“Intergalactic?” Iverson shouts. He lurches to his feet, slapping one large palm against the desk. Sam doesn’t so much as flinch. “I will not put the safety of our men, our country, in jeopardy until we’re sure that beast is safe!”

“And what will that take?” Sam shoots back, undaunted. Nothing phases him. Shiro’s always admired that. “While you’re dallying with paperwork and fear, an innocent intelligent creature suffers by your hand. What kind of intergalactic message are you sending to the universe? Your actions are endangering us all!”

Iverson’s eyes narrow, a vicious glare. “We have no proof that this alien didn’t come here as some kind of scout. An invasion could be imminent. We’re not letting it report back to whatever foul beasts it came from!”

Sam sputters, outraged. “Foul?!”

“But he’s not,” Matt interrupts, hurriedly. Iverson whirls, but Matt stands his ground next to Shiro. “He isn’t foul or a spy. That ship’s not transmitting any kind of -”

“Watch your tongue, Lieutenant,” Iverson snaps. “It cannot be trusted. Look!”

He types a furious command into the console set on his desk. The alien’s measurements project immediately above the desk in sharp blue: full body scans, a close-up of his head that Iverson zooms in on. Without the muzzle, the alien’s features are slightly more imposing: the purple fur stretches down his nose, fading to what might be white across a narrow jaw and under his eyes. Shiro frowns, leaning in.

“It has teeth,” Iverson says, jabbing sharply at the projection. “It has claws. We can’t talk to it: it doesn’t speak any known language and, frankly, allowing it full use of its teeth is too dangerous. It would bite your head off before you got two steps close. Are you volunteering to go in there with it and try?”

Sam Holt steels his shoulders, iron-firm. “I don’t believe he would.”

Iverson scoffs, a derisive and rude noise. “You would risk the safety of our men on an ‘if’?”

The projection rotates, the alien’s head spinning in slow motion above the desk. His yellow eyes in the scan are emotionless, but Shiro cannot shake those sad eyes of mere hours earlier. Sad, and trapped.

“He didn’t come all this way to ‘bite someone’s head off’,” Shiro argues, stepping up next to Sam. “Whoever he represents, he didn’t come here just for violence. What kind of sense would that make?”

“Lieutenant,” Iverson starts warningly.

“Either he’s part of an exploratory mission,” Shiro continues, heated. “Or he came prepared for diplomatic relations. What are we trained to say, if we encounter any extraterrestrial life forms while out in the black?”

“That is besides the point - ”

“ ‘We come in peace,’” Shiro says, right over him. Righteous fury pulses tight at his heart. “We owe him the benefit of the doubt. Did you even give him a chance?”

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Iverson orders. “You’re out of line.”

“He’s exactly in line,” Sam snaps, jabbing a determined finger against the desk with each word. “I’m telling you, if word of this gets out not just back to this alien’s own people -”

Iverson throws up his hands in exasperation. “It isn’t people!”

“-but to ours,” Sam continues, undeterred. He folds his arms across his chest, face a wash of calculated anger. “You have had me out there all day dealing with the media, convincing our press that the ‘flaming falling UFO’ from last night was just an asteroid, folks, nothing to worry about. You had me lie.”

Iverson straightens his neck, defensive. “It was not a lie.”

“Monty,” Sam says. His voice drops, dangerously quiet. No less furious. Low. “Monty. You kept this from me.”

An inch of panic flits across Iverson’s expression, there and then gone. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You kept this from me,” Sam repeats. “Me. My life’s work.”

“Sam - ”

Sam raises one deliberate, dangerous eyebrow.

Iverson stares, jaw just slightly slack in guilty alarm.

“I don’t mind covering up for a while,” Sam says, slowly. Each word drips with perfect, deadly enunciation. “I’m happy to give your speeches. But you could at least have done me the courtesy of saying ‘hey, Sam, the report was wrong. There’s an actual alien in our basement, and we’re treating him like an animal!’”

“Samuel,” Iverson says. A note of desperation trips into his voice. “Sam.”

“No,” Sam says, cold. Matt glances at Shiro; Shiro shakes his head, unable to intervene. “This has gone far enough. You think it wouldn’t be difficult to walk right out to the press and take it all back? How long until the executive government hears? Or the world?”

“Sam -”

“One hour?” Sam demands, undeterred. “Two? I’ll take bets. This is a game to you, right?”

“You’d be in violation -”

“And you’d be in a deeper pile of shit than you already are,” Sam snaps. Shiro’s jaw drops open; Matt pulls back half a step, startled. “Furthermore, since apparently we need the obvious stated for us today: you are standing with three faces of your military operation the public knows very, very well. Whose story do you think they’re going to believe?”

Iverson’s eyes widen, horrified. The damage is done. He glances from Sam to Matt, from Matt to Shiro - just a quick shift of his eyes, but enough. Matt crosses his arms, a perfect iron mimicry of his father. Shiro steels his shoulders and glares back with everything he has.

Iverson caves, but not enough.

“No,” he says. “I am not putting our people in danger. That thing is dangerous, and until I’m convinced otherwise it’s staying right where it is. You think the populace wouldn’t panic? ‘Oh, yes, we’ve found an alien’, we say - ‘it’s giant and purple and dangerous and deadly’. You want to cause that kind of fear? Mass panic, riots in the street? We’ll be overrun. It’ll be an international disaster.”

“Better that than an intergalactic one,” Sam says, level and frighteningly calm.

This situation’s devolved, terrible and horrid. The alien’s face projects on the screen - those batlike ears, that narrow pointed chin, the bright and pupiless eyes. Shiro cannot look away. To come so far…

No. This isn’t right. Prestige aside, position aside, the fact of the matter is an alien being is chained up in the basement of the Garrison. A diplomat, maybe; an explorer, certainly. Come all the way from who-knows-where. This isn’t right.

A sick knot of certainty settles low in Shiro’s gut. A burning, pulled tight.

“It’s dangerous,” Iverson says. “We can’t set it free. I’m not ordering any of my men to go in there with that thing.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m volunteering,” Shiro says.

Shiro refuses the hazmat suit. He refuses to eat something. He refuses to take any more time to ‘think about this’ or to ‘reconsider.’ Every second he wastes is another minute that poor creature sits down in that brightly lit cell, an animal in a cage. Restrained, immobile - tormented. Shiro’s not leaving him to it a second longer than he has to.

At last, too soon, the time arrives.

Shiro, Matt, and Sam stand alone together in a small room outside the cell, down the same hall as the observation room from earlier. The observation deck is surely crowded right now, stuffed full with every single person in the Garrison who has clearance to this moment: technicians and doctors, biologists and linguists, scientists and researchers, commanders and upper brass and everyone in between. Every move Shiro makes in that cell will be carefully scrutinized, every word he speaks recorded and passed down through history and through time.

No pressure.

“First contact,” Sam says, softly. He clasps his hand on Shiro’s shoulder, firm yet gentle.

“Second contact,” Shiro corrects. The second door in the room taunts him. “We messed up the first.”

“Your comm rang while you were arguing with the hazmat team,” Matt says. Shiro closes his eyes for just a moment. “You missed your spar with Keith.”

Sam frowns, pulling back. “You didn’t go talk to him?”

Shiro shakes his head, opening his eyes. Everything’s happened so quickly in the forty minutes since Iverson agreed. Fully half that time has been spent arguing with doctors, with superiors, with hazmat - with everyone. A scattered five minutes spent waiting, gathering options. Five frantic minutes with a linguist. The 2200 meeting’s been cancelled completely. Everyone is upstairs in the observation room, waiting.

Watching.

Shiro forces the air out of his lungs in a stressful exhale. Besides. There’s nothing Keith could do, even if he had enough clearance so Shiro could fill him in. Keith would just worry - or worse, do something foolish and stupid. Shiro can’t have that.

“What did you tell him?” Shiro asks, hoarse.

“I told him you’d call him back later,” Matt says. He grips Shiro’s forearm tight, a handshake between the two of them that’s been true since their very first year together. The overhead lights shine in his glasses; the reflection does nothing to hide the worry and fierce faith in Matt’s eyes. “Don’t make a liar of me.”

“I won’t,” Shiro swears, gripping back. His heart’s pounding in his chest.

“Shiro,” Sam says. There’s pride in his voice, a hard determination matching his son’s. A worry, running deep. “Be careful. Monty talks a tough game, but he is right: this could be very dangerous. We don’t know what this alien can do.”

Shiro manages a tight smile. “That’s what I’m here to find out, right?”

“You sure you’re not taking these with you?” Matt asks, dropping Shiro’s arm to gesture at the lone shelf in the room. It’s stacked high with weaponry and self-defense materials. A stun stick, meant to paralyze the victim when struck. A blaster, for long-range defense. Both have been offered to Shiro, and then some.

“I’m sure,” Shiro says, throat tight.

The door at the opposite end of their little room taunts him. It’s opaque now; the transparency setting will activate as soon as he’s through. The door looms, the access panel at its side glowing and ready. There isn’t a panel on the inside. Once he’s in there, he’s in until someone lets him out.

“We’re right here,” Sam promises, quietly. He tugs Shiro down; Shiro goes, folds into the hug easily. Matt joins from the other side and for a moment - for a moment they could be anywhere, almost. Out in the middle of deep space, celebrating a successful launch. Just past Jupiter, combating homesickness. Beyond Neptune, after Matt’s safety cable had snapped mid-ship repair and Shiro’d caught him, precious milliseconds to spare. Landing on Kerberos. Landing on Earth. Returning home. The three of them have been through a lot together. Survived the impossible together. It’s been quite the journey, together.

Shiro’s faced death before, absolutely, but this…

…no. He can’t think about this. If he thinks about it, he’ll lose his nerve, and he didn’t come this far just for that.  The being - the person - in the cell needs him.

He can do this.

Shiro pulls away; the Holts pull back, giving him distance. If his hands are trembling, just a little, none of them comment.

“We’ll be right here the whole time,” Sam says. Matt hands Shiro the pile of cloth: two blankets, folded tight. Shiro takes them, numb. “We’re right here.”

No matter what happens.

Shiro can’t. He swallows, choked. “Matt, if this -”

“I’ll tell Keith,” Matt promises. For once, he isn’t teasing.

“I’ll tell your mother,” Commander Holt adds, such a familiar expression in his scolding eyebrow that Shiro can’t help but crack a weak smile. Trust Commander Holt to think of everything. “You ready?”

Bravery is one thing. Staring death in the face, willingly, is another.

Shiro’s flown out into the black before. He’s signed his life away a dozen, two dozen times. He always figured he’d die giving his life for the cause: for space. For exploration. For discovery and pursuit of knowledge. For intergalactic peace, however illusory, however nonexistent right up until just now.

If this is how it happens after all. If the alien does bite his head off. If there’s poison on his claws or in his teeth. If he’s strong, and Shiro can’t wrestle his way free.

“It’s been an honor,” Shiro manages to say.

Both Matt and Sam salute him. Father and son, united: Shiro’s family. His team. His friends.

He can do this.

With his hands full of cloth Shiro can’t salute back. He nods, a brief jerk of his chin, and then turns for the looming door.

This is it.

This is the precipice of history.

This is everything he’s dreamed of.

First contact.

If this kills him, if he doesn’t make it out of this after all, there is no better cause Shiro would rather die for.

Armed only with a bundle of cloth, Shiro steps through the door and into the alien’s cell.

The alien’s head jerks up the instant the door swishes open. Those pupiless yellow eyes stare directly at Shiro, piercing straight through him. There’s no barrier, no filter. Shiro stands on the threshold and stares back, jaw agape. The alien is huge - much bigger than the distance from the observation room implied. Shiro’s read the reports, sure. He has a fairly good grasp of dimension. Somehow, though, seeing the reality up close and in front of him…

It’s different. It’s alarming.

This is real.

The pneumatic hiss of the door sliding shut behind him rings in his ears, as does the click of a magnetized lock. Shiro’s too frozen in awe. The alien’s gaze is steady, eerie and unwaveringly keen. His chest rises and falls with measured breaths. Shiro cannot look away.

First contact.

Second.

Any prepared speech Shiro might have made for this moment sails completely out the window.

“Hi,” Shiro says. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.”

If the alien responds, Shiro can’t hear for the muzzle still affixed to the alien’s face. The alien shifts slightly before the chains catch him, tight. The chains are too short for a being of his size; the alien’s forced to bend his arms awkwardly, feet still crossed at the ankle and hobbled with another short chain. His hands - his giant hands - are trapped above his head, cuffs humming magnetically around the slightly darker fur of the alien’s wrists.

No.

That isn’t darker fur.

Those are burns.

The cuffs are hurting him.

Shiro’s feet move immediately and without conscious thought, carrying him further into the room. The alien flinches; Shiro freezes abruptly, paralyzed in place. He’s - moved too fast?

The alien makes a noise - a strangled sound back in the depths of his throat. Shiro can’t fully describe it. Are alien vocal cords the same? Can this one - does he talk after all?

Shiro waits, heart pounding in his ears. The alien watches him absolutely, yellow eyes fixed firm on Shiro’s face. His chin tilts; those eyes drift down to the pile of cloth in Shiro’s arms.

Of course. Of course. For all he knows, Shiro’s holding a weapon beneath the two blankets. The alien has every reason to be afraid of him.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, softly.

Slowly, maintaining eye contact, Shiro bends his knees. Crouches, places the pile of cloth down. The alien’s eyes track every single movement Shiro makes.

“Okay,” Shiro says, once the cloth is on the floor. He holds his hands up, palms out and completely empty. “Is that better?”

The alien makes another noise, low.

Oh. Oh. Shiro’s hands are moving before he’s even aware of it, undoing the buttons on his uniform jacket and stripping the coat away entirely. On a whim, Shiro shucks his socks and shoes too, first one foot and then the other, stepping out of the bulky pants as well. In seconds he’s standing before the alien in just the standard black tank and long shorts. The shorts aren’t strictly regulation, but if an entire observation room full of superiors chooses that to ding him on, they’re worse off than Shiro thought.

“There,” Shiro says, aloud. The floor is cold against the soles of his feet; goosebumps prickle at his arms. What is the temperature in here? “I’m not hiding anything. See? It’s alright.”

The alien grunts - say something? If those are syllables and not just a growl, Shiro cannot tell.

The muzzle has to go.

“Right,” Shiro says. He keeps his hands visible, palms open, fingers relaxed. “I’m - I’m going to walk towards you now, alright? I’m coming over there, and I’m going to take that off. Okay?”

This time the alien does not respond. Just watches him with those wary, hesitant glowing eyes.

Shiro draws in a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself, and crosses the rest of the room up to the alien.

If the alien seemed large from six steps away, he’s much bigger up close. Within seconds Shiro is in range of those long legs, dangerous limbs that might kick out at him at any moment - no. The alien can’t. The cuffs around his ankles are locked tight to the floor. It’s a safety precaution that doesn’t make Shiro any safer whatsoever.

It just makes him angry.

“I’m taking the muzzle off, alright?” Shiro repeats, taking care to keep his voice low. Calm. “I have to come closer.”

The alien’s purple fur is short and fine, standing on end along his arms, his chest. There’s a warmth emanating from his body; the heat of something alive, the flutter of a beating heart. The alien’s pulse beats at the hollow of his throat, quick. If that’s a fear response - or a heartrate above average for his species - Shiro has absolutely no idea.

Slowly, maintaining their precious and bizarre eye contact the entire time, Shiro raises his hands and carefully brings them up past the alien’s ears.

The alien flinches then, eyes briefly squeezing shut. Shiro cannot be deterred. Gently, so gently, he reaches his arms around the back of the alien’s skull, working blind. His fingers brush fur - soft hairs tickle against his fingertips. The alien’s eyes fly open and he makes an unmistakable noise of deep surprise.

“Sorry,” Shiro says. “Sorry, I’m almost there.”

It’s a few seconds of searching, of fumbling along the straps before Shiro figures it out. His questing fingers find the buckle, the single connection point fastening the muzzle tight against the alien’s skull.

Shiro hesitates. Looks down. The alien stares up at him, pupiless eyes wide and - hopeful?

No. Maybe that’s just Shiro’s imagination, hoping too. His heart is pounding.

“Don’t - maybe don’t bite me,” Shiro suggests, weakly, and then before he can lose his nerve he undoes the lock and opens the muzzle.

The alien shakes his head as Shiro pulls the hated piece of equipment away; snarls as Shiro casts the muzzle into a corner. The alien’s batlike ears loosen from where they’d been pressed against his skull, fluffing free. The skin - the fine fur around his mouth is white after all, the same color as the stripes along his skull and the tuft of longer fur stretching vertically towards his nose. Shiro pulls back slightly as the alien wriggles his mouth, his nose. Draws in a warm breath.

Then the alien speaks.

At least, Shiro’s pretty sure he’s speaking. The alien utters a string of sounds, of syllables loosely tied together. They march in a pattern Shiro doesn’t understand, a sentence of language impossible to translate.

But it is a sentence. The sounds are too different and unique from each noise before it to be anything other than distinct words.

A language.

Impossible.

Laughter bubbles out of Shiro’s throat, an exhale of hysterical relief. The sheer absurdity of the entire situation catches up to him all at once. He’s in a cell in his underwear in the basement of the Garrison, half-straddling a very naked alien. An alien who’s speaking the first intergalactic language any human’s ever heard. He’s speaking it straight to Shiro, staring up at him in a wild, grateful sort of calm.

At least, Shiro assumes. He has no idea what the words mean.

The alien has a language. He has a language.

They can work with this.

“I don’t understand,” Shiro says, shaking his head. His eyes scan over every detail of the alien’s face - as if memorizing the pattern of his nose, the way the fur is matted where the straps dug in, as if any of that would help Shiro translate these strange words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this took so long.”

The alien frowns - yes, that’s a frown. His lips curve downwards, pale bushy eyebrows narrowing. His nostrils flare. He speaks again, another strange tangle of sounds and clicks Shiro can’t pull apart at all. None of it sounds the same.

The alien flexes his arms a bit, tugging at the restraints. The restraints around his wrists hum as the magnets pull, tight.

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, cursing himself. “Of course, here -”

He reaches. It’s easy to figure out the locking mechanism on the cuffs, the magnet trapping the alien’s wrists to the wall. It’s the work of but a moment before Shiro has it disabled. The cuffs stay around the alien’s wrists, but the chain slides free with a click; the magnets hum themselves into silence. The alien’s arms drop straight down, accompanied by a noise that can only be a sigh of visceral relief.

It lasts about a second before the alien uses his newfound mobility and lunges.

Shiro recoils reflexively, but doesn’t get far. The alien wraps his - its - his huge hands around Shiro’s shoulders, gripping him in place - nostrils flaring - and in one smooth motion, presses his face straight against Shiro’s throat.

“Shiro!”

The intercom activates with a hiss, a clamor of voices yelling all over one another. Shiro’s heart beats so wildly it’s going to break right out of his chest. The alien’s face presses into his jaw, he can’t- “Shiro!”

“I’m - I’m okay,” Shiro shouts, hastily. He is. Shocked, yes, but okay. He’s alive. The alien doesn’t take a bite of him; there’s no press of sharp teeth against his exposed throat. The alien’s face is buried into the hollow between Shiro’s neck and shoulder, fur brushing against Shiro’s collarbone. He’s - the alien -

- he’s breathing, in a very distinctive pattern. Alien or not, Shiro knows that type of inhale.

“He’s - he’s smelling me,” Shiro offers, aloud. The alien breathes in again, fur tickling the bare skin of Shiro’s neck. “It’s. Uh. He’s okay. I’m okay.”

The intercom clicks on again, this time with Sam’s worried voice. “Are you sure, Shiro? We’ll come get you, just say the word.”

“I’m sure,” Shiro says. He swallows, hard. “I’m sure.”

The alien lifts his head from Shiro’s throat, nostrils flaring once before settling. He says something - a string of liquid syllables. Shiro shakes his head.

“I don’t understand,” he manages. His heart’s pounding. He’s - he’s been smelled by an alien. And he’s alive. “Here - h-here, hang on.”

He shifts, slightly. The alien pulls his hands away, allowing Shiro to scoot backwards. Shiro has to crouch to examine the cuffs at the alien’s feet, the short chain binding his ankles together. The mechanism is identical, yet Shiro’s barely touched the cuffs when there’s a gentle, firm pressure on his hands. The alien bats Shiro’s hands away and presses on the cuffs himself.

Nothing happens. The alien’s face scrunches into that frown again. He looks up at Shiro and says something, something else Shiro can’t follow. The syllable sequence tilts up at the end. A question? Maybe?

“Uh, okay,” Shiro says. “Sorry, I don’t - your hands are too big. Let me.”

He couples the words with action, carefully - so carefully - bumping the alien’s hands away from the cuffs and slipping his own in instead. The alien’s hands are enormous - darker purple, like his extremities, and tipped with long, sharp claws. Nails? Claws. He allows Shiro to move his hands free, allows Shiro to press along the bindings. In seconds Shiro finds the locking mechanism and disengages it. The cuffs stay, but the chains fall away.

The alien leaps to his feet so fast Shiro’s bowled over from the force of it. He hits the floor as the alien rushes past; Shiro slams into the concrete so hard the wind’s knocked out of him. Stars burst behind his eyes, a pained groan tearing from his throat.

“Shiro!” a cacophony of voices yell over the intercom.

“Abort this,” Iverson orders, “Send in the -”

“No,” Shiro gasps. The words barely make it out; he swallows a second moan, lungs straining. No. This is too important. He can do this. “Don’t! I’m okay. Just - wait.”

Whoever’s on the intercom says something else, but Shiro can’t make it out. Slowly he picks himself up, catches himself on hands and knees. He’s not bleeding. Nothing’s broken. He’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, but he can live with that.

A deep voice speaks above him, different than the intercom. Shiro looks up, startled.

The alien crouches before him, mere inches beyond. His face is creased in something so distinctly apologetic it takes Shiro’s breath away. The alien utters ten syllables - the same sequence as a moment ago, his voice deep and concerned.

Shiro just stares. This close - oh, even crouching, the alien is so much larger than Shiro is. For the first time the severity of the situation really hits him. He’s in the same room as an alien; he’s in the same room as a predator, unhindered and free. The alien is huge. Powerful muscles bunch in his arms, swell at his chest. His body tapers to a narrow waist, long limbs crouched, ready. The teeth in his mouth are so, so sharp; his eyes keen, his claws deadly. This is a person, sure, but this is also a powerful creature that could probably rend Shiro limb from limb without even breaking a sweat.

This is a predator. This is a carnivore.

This is also an intelligent being - and this being is holding out his hand.

Slowly, giving Shiro plenty of time to pull away, the alien reaches out. His hands brush Shiro’s shoulders - Shiro tenses reflexively, but this touch is so different than the alien’s startled grab from earlier. The alien’s large hands wrap around Shiro’s shoulders and braces him, help him sit up. He asks a question again; that same utterance of ten syllables, one eyebrow quirked, mouth frowning.

“It’s alright,” Shiro stutters. He sits back on his heels; the alien lets go, hands hovering. Shiro’s aware he’s trembling, a minute quiver in his shoulders. He swallows, even manages a shaky smile. “I should’ve figured you’d be skittish, huh? That one’s my fault. I was too close. I’m sorry.”

The alien tilts his head, ears flaring out. He stares at Shiro for a long moment, yellow eyes almost thoughtful. Shiro stares back and wills his hands to stop shaking.

The alien leaves him, then. Shiro’s content to wait on his knees and be still. The alien rises fully - oh, he is tall - and stalks to the other side of the room where Shiro’d left his clothes. He moves gracefully for one his size, more cat-like than Shiro expects. The blankets are no longer folded, tossed carelessly where the alien must have dug through them in panicked haste. The alien picks up Shiro’s crumpled uniform jacket in his fingers - in the tips of his claws. With his left hand he digs in one of Shiro’s pockets -

- and pulls out a protein bar.

The alien’s face twists into something so comically confused that Shiro bursts out laughing.

“It’s food,” Shiro offers. The alien’s head whips to him. Shiro manages another smile, less shaky. “Here. Let me show you.”

He holds out his hand.

Slowly, tentatively, the alien pads back over to him on those two-toed feet, and reluctantly presses the protein bar into Shiro’s hand. His claws brush against Shiro’s wrist.

Shiro takes the protein bar and rips open the corner of the plastic wrapping; tears the wrapper off completely. He holds the bar back out. “Here.”

The alien’s nostrils flare. His face scrunches up, clearly hesitant.

“Oh.” Shiro pulls the granola bar back; takes a bite just from the end of it. The stale flavor of too much peanut butter breaks on his tongue, swims down his throat as he chews and swallows. “It’s not poisonous. It’s just peanut butter. See?”

This time when he holds it out the alien takes it. He raises the bar to his nose, sniffing dubiously - and then eats the entire bar in two giant bites.

“There you go,” Shiro says, softly. He sits back on his heels again, bare toes curled under and pressing into the floor. “You’re alright - hey, I don’t have any more!”

The alien’s now digging through the pockets of Shiro’s abandoned pants. Shiro looks across the room to the observation window. “Can we get him something to eat?”

The intercom clicks back on. “It was fed earlier,” Iverson’s distinctive growl answers.

Shiro frowns. “Sam?”

“We’ll get him something, Shiro,” Sam promises, not rattled by Shiro’s use of his first name. “You’re doing real great, son. Need a breather?”

Shiro glances back over. The alien is investigating the blankets now, picking one up just by its corners. He holds the dark green fabric almost daintily in his claws, frowning.

“Not yet,” Shiro says.

Picking himself fully up off the floor is an effort; his hands have yet to stop shaking. Shiro wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts. The alien’s head jerks up as Shiro approaches. He clutches the blanket in clawed hands to himself, ears fluffing straight out.

“That’s for you,” Shiro reassures him, smiling. “It’s a blanket. Do you like it?”

The alien says something, a fluid response. Shiro bends to pick up the second blanket, crumpled on the floor. The alien watches warily as Shiro shakes it out, holds it out. “You can have this one too.”

The alien stares, confused. He speaks, a response of fluid syllables.

“You - it’s a blanket,” Shiro repeats. The green comforter in his hands is a mirror of the one the alien holds, a commonality found in thick scratchy cloth. “Blanket.”

The alien looks at the blanket held in Shiro’s hands. Scrutinizes the one held in his own claws.

Shiro’s heart is pounding. He places his hand on top of the cloth. A gesture, hopefully understood.

“Blanket,” he repeats, deliberately.

The alien’s ears flick forwards, and then back. He stares at Shiro. Shiro stares back, unwavering. They can do this.

“Blanket,” Shiro says.

The alien draws breath.

“Blan-ket,” the alien says. The syllables trip strangely over his tongue, accented but true.

Shiro’s knees weaken with relief.

“Blanket,” Shiro agrees, nodding viciously. “Yes. Blanket. Yes.”

“Blanket,” the alien repeats, almost in wonder. He holds his blanket up, studying it. A small smile graces his lips, too. Shiro swears that’s a smile.

If that worked…

Shiro takes a step forward. The alien turns to him, waiting. Patient. Almost as if he knows what’s about to happen.  

This is it.

Shiro presses one hand across his chest, right over his heart. Palm flat, fingers wide.

“Shiro,” he says. “I’m Shiro.”

The alien’s ears flicker up, alert.

“Shee-ro,” the alien repeats, faster this time. Eager. “I’m - Shi-ro?”

Shiro shakes his head, hard.

“No,” he says. He taps on his chest with his flat palm, deliberate. The alien’s ears flicker. “Shiro. Shiro.”

The alien tilts his head to the side, blinking curiously. Shiro’s mouth is dry. Why should this work? What’s considered a universal standard has never been tested outside of Earth. Maybe Shiro’s gestures are unclear. Maybe aliens don’t have names. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake from the beginning. Maybe this is as far as it goes.

Shiro swallows, and taps his hand on his chest one more time. “Shiro.”

The alien’s pupiless, extraordinary eyes widen. Shiro forgets how to breathe.

Slowly, as if the entire thing is happening in a dream, the alien raises one clawed hand and places it on his own broad chest.

“Ulaz,” the alien says.