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You recall reading about when not to try to help a wounded animal—when they're venomous, large, ill, or predatory, among other things. This extends to beastmen, as prejudiced as that feels. A scruffy-looking coyote woman had told you that bit of advice herself. She also told you something you'd rather forget—that she had to use a shovel to beat in the head of a neighbor who had an allergic reaction to animorphaline.
The wounded person—animal... thing?—that you look upon now is very large. He lays prostrate in the middle of a field beside a crater that had drawn you to the spot. The semi-darkness of late dusk hid him from sight until you almost tripped over him on your way to your farm.
No apparent signs of venom or sickness that you can identify, though that offers little reassurance. The hate-filled eyes glaring up at you are a predator's through and through.
You probably shouldn't even think about helping. He looks like he wants to do to you what's been done to him.
That said, he's still a man, not an animal. As if to contradict your thoughts, you catch sight of a tail lashing weakly in the dirt. Mostly man-shaped. At least from what bits of his limbs and torso you can see from beneath his huge mane of hair.
"If you're going to finish me off, just do it." As he speaks, a bubble of blood swells from between his lips, quivers, then bursts.
That coyote woman told you she reached out to her neighbor before she realized what needed to be done. She showed you an appendage part-hand and part-paw missing two digits. In their panic and pain, they had bitten a helping hand.
"I'm not going to kill you." You sound unsure even to your own ears. "I want to help."
"Oh, I see. Can't stomach it, eh?" He chuckles wetly. "You people are pitiful."
You kneel. You want to turn him over to inspect the damage, the source of the dark puddle staining the ground around him. You wedge your hands under the strange, supple armor and try to lift. Thing is, he's heavy. Dense. You might as well try to upend a truck. Except at least a truck would have the common courtesy not to snarl at you. His red-stained teeth gleam in the weak starlight.
With great difficulty and not a small amount of adrenaline, you turn him over and instead of black hair matted with blood you take in a mess of gore and shattered armor. You gag, prompting him to let out a blood-spattered cackle that looks like it causes him more pain than it's worth.
"What happened to you?" You whisper even though the real question is, How are you still alive with a hole in your chest?
He scoffs and closes his eyes. "Long story. If you want to hear, you should probably do something to stop all of this bleeding."
You employ what little first aid training you have, wondering all the while if you should call someone far more qualified than you. Your parents always advised you not to bother in an emergency; this far out in the country the wounded person might be dead by the time paramedics arrive.
With a mixture of your adrenaline and his stubborn will, you get him into your farmhouse. There, you learn Raditz is an alien from an extinct planet and a soon-to-be-extinct race. Born and bred to do battle. You also learn that his kind, Saiyans, get stronger from being brought near-death.
"How could you possibly get any stronger?" You ask, eyeing his powerful muscles.
"Ha. You'd be surprised."
He sneers at the further first aid you apply at the house, insulting apparently inferior Earth medicine even though you suspect it saves his life.
Raditz startles like a spooked animal when you put a blanket over him a short while later. He eyes a cup of water and later tea and soup with the look of someone who expects poison. On the few occasions you dare to touch him—habitual gestures you don't think about until you're grazing steely muscle—he flinches. Then he seems to realize how much he must be telegraphing his trepidation. He attempts to cover it up with low, rumbling growls that evoke the same level of terror in you.
He expects you to exploit vulnerability and weakness. He doesn’t understand anything more.
Days pass. He heals at an alarming rate to your human eyes. Organs and muscles and sinew and bones and skin all return where they had been blown apart to nothing. There's still evidence of the impossible wound, though, in the form of a massive burst of scar tissue.
Once he heals enough to bathe, the big brute luxuriates in the shower until the hot water runs out over and over again. It takes days to get him to let you brush his hair. When he finally does, it isn't with words, but rather sitting himself in front of your couch, back turned to face you, and blocking out the view of the TV with his sodden mass. You clambered over the arm of the couch to grab every hair care product you own to attack the tangled mess. As you towel and later blow dry it, it's soft and thick, more fur than hair. In a fit of idle curiosity, you reach down to touch the tail around his waist, intending to compare the two.
"Touch my tail and you're losing that hand," he says, not turning his gaze away from the cooking show he'd interrupted you watching.
You withdraw, thinking again of that mangled paw-hand. Several snapped combs and one broken brush later, his hair gleams, looking cleaner than it ever has in the short time you've known him.
You don't get a single word of thanks, because of course you don't, but he silently rewards you by curling his tail briefly around one of your wrists. It's even softer than his mane.
Raditz regards offerings of meals with suspicion, but his massive appetite compels him to eat anyway. He likes spicy food and sweets in equal measure. You're no baker, but you make an effort to make some treats for him in addition to the savory dishes.
"I don’t need this," he growls, glaring at the chocolate chip cookies you made like they've done something to personally offend him. "I can get food myself."
To your distress, Raditz has dragged several large animal carcasses into your yard and eaten them down to the bone. He stops eating your crops at your request, but you suspect he continues to steal from other farms. He stays away from your farm animals because they don't offer any "challenge," lucky for them.
He wants easy food like the cookies too, though. He likes treats. It seems like stuffing his face is one of few things that can make him genuinely happy. You think that should be more than enough to justify gifting it.
"I'm giving it to you," you insist.
"Why?"
"Because it's a nice thing to do?"
Raditz's expression sours further.
You try again. "Because you'd do the same for me?"
He sputters, then throws his head back and cackles to the point of reopening his wounds. You redress them as he finally gobbles up the damn cookies. Not a word of thanks, as per usual.
Later that night, though, you get the closest you imagine you'll get to a "thank you" for everything you've done.
Injured and massive as he is, you had deemed it only fair that he take your bed while you retire to your couch. That night, however, the big brute startles you awake by crawling up to snuggle with you. It's less his hot, heavy weight and more the ticklishness of his hair that gets you, oddly. You curse in surprise once you fully awaken and blink at him in the darkness.
"Shut up. Go back to sleep." He settles on top of you like a house pet that doesn't know its own size.
You spare a bit of concern for his wounds before giving him a loose, tentative hug back. All that muscle is soft and unflexed at the moment; pleasant to touch. His tail loops around your waist and he tucks your head beneath his chin.
It seems that you made the right choice in helping a dangerous animal for now. Whether or not he'll ever bite you in the future—or chew you up and swallow you—remains to be seen.