Chapter 2: Grocery Run Gone Wrong
The first morning light was the color of dirty dishwater, seeping through the blinds and painting stripes across the sleeping alien on the couch. Eric, who had eventually crashed in his armchair, woke with a stiff neck and the immediate, electric memory of the previous night. He blinked, disoriented, until his eyes found Eclaire.
Eclaire was curled on his side, the borrowed t-shirt rucked up, his long tail draped over the back of the sofa like a fantastical blanket. He was still asleep, his breath soft and even, the delicate frill on his neck fluttering minutely with each exhale. In the gray dawn, the translucence of his limbs was even more pronounced; Eric could trace the fine architecture of ulna and radius, the carpal bones like tiny pearls strung together.
He looked peaceful. He looked like he belonged there.
The illusion shattered the moment Eric’s stomach growled loudly. Eclaire’s eyes snapped open—instant, lidless awareness. He sat up in one fluid motion, head cocked, searching for the source of the sound.
“Just me,” Eric croaked, his voice morning-rough. “Empty. Human thing. Means we need food.”
Eclaire blinked, then mimicked the gurgling noise with shocking accuracy, a soft brrr-gurgle-glrp from his own abdomen. He looked down at his stomach, then up at Eric, and let out a questioning chirp.
“Yeah, you too, huh?” Eric pushed himself out of the chair, his joints popping. “Okay. Problem. I have yogurt and an éclair wrapper. That’s it.”
He opened the fridge and cupboards for dramatic effect, revealing the barren landscape. Eclaire padded over, his bare feet silent on the carpet. He peered inside, his large eyes reflecting the dim light. He pointed at the empty yogurt cup still on the counter, then at the fridge, and made a sweeping, inclusive gesture with both hands. Where is more?
“We have to go get more,” Eric said, the words tasting like a terrible idea as soon as they left his mouth.
Go out. In public. With an alien.
Eclaire, sensing the shift in his demeanor, went very still. His tail tip twitched.
“We’ll disguise you,” Eric said, more to convince himself. “It’s… it’s just a quick trip. In and out.”
The disguise was a farce. Eric’s tallest, baggiest gray hoodie swallowed Eclaire whole. The hem pooled around his ankles, the sleeves hung past his fingertips. Eric rolled them up messily. A beanie, pulled low, concealed the feathery frill and the unusual shape of his head, though it left his large, lavender-honey eyes stunningly visible.
“Pants are a non-starter,” Eric muttered, looking at Eclaire’s digitigrade legs and the three long toes. “We’re going with ‘quirky fashion choice.’ Just keep the hood up and walk like you’re trying not to step on the hem.”
He found an old, oversized pair of sunglasses and slid them onto Eclaire’s face. The alien froze, then turned his head sharply left and right. He let out a low, distressed warble. The lenses were clearly affecting his vision, possibly his perception of light spectra.
“Okay, okay, not those.” Eric took them off. Eclaire blinked rapidly, relieved. “You’ll just have to not make eye contact. And the tail…”
The tail was the impossible part. Fourteen-plus feet of muscled, iridescent scales. Eric tried coiling it around Eclaire’s torso under the hoodie, but it created a bizarre, lumpy silhouette. In the end, they settled on letting it trail behind, disguised as much as possible by the long hoodie, hoping it would be mistaken for some bizarre belt or strap in the dim store lighting.
“You look like a kid who robbed a gym locker,” Eric said, surveying him. Eclaire, who had been patiently allowing himself to be manhandled, merely patted the soft fabric of the hoodie and purred. He liked the texture.
The walk to the 24-hour "Value Mart" two blocks away was an exercise in controlled terror. Every passing car was a potential spotlight. Every early-dog-walker was a witness. Eric kept his pace casual, his body subtly positioned between Eclaire and the street. Eclaire, for his part, was a model of wide-eyed, overwhelmed curiosity. He tried to stop and examine a flickering neon sign, a cluster of dandelions pushing through a crack in the sidewalk, a discarded glittering beer can. Eric had to gently tug him along, a soft “Come on, buddy,” feeling a wave of guilt each time.
The grocery store’s back alley, their entrance, was a dim, neon-lit labyrinth. A flickering security light strobed over dumpsters and crumpled cardboard boxes. The scent of expired milk and stale bread clung to the damp concrete. Eric hurried past, ushering Eclaire towards the relative anonymity of the fluorescent aisles.
Inside, the sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. Harsh lights buzzed overhead. Muzak tinkled from tinny speakers. Aisles stretched in a blinding, colorful infinity of packaged goods.
Eclaire stopped just inside the automatic doors, utterly paralyzed. His hood fell back slightly, revealing his awestruck face. His pupils were blown wide, his head moving in tiny, jerky shifts as he tried to take in everything at once—the towering shelves, the spinning disco ball of a discount mobile hanging from the ceiling, the distant rattle of a shopping cart. He made a small, overwhelmed sound in the back of his throat, a barely-audible eep.
“Stick close,” Eric whispered, grabbing a cart. The metallic rattle made Eclaire jump. “Think of it as… a biodiversity survey. Earth foods. Let’s go.”
He started with the produce section, hoping familiar shapes would be less frightening. He held up a bright green bell pepper. “Vegetable. Probably not for you.” He picked up a banana. “Fruit. Maybe.”
Eclaire reached out a hidden hand from the long sleeve and tapped the banana. He leaned in and sniffed it, his nose wrinkling. He shook his head: no.
They moved on. Eclaire was fascinated by textures. He’d rub the sleeve of his hoodie against the rough skin of a pineapple, then the smooth waxiness of an apple. He avoided the meat aisle entirely, recoiling from the metallic scent of blood with a sharp hiss, his tail stiffening behind him. Eric guided him away quickly.
The dairy aisle was where things settled. The cool, quiet section with its rows of white and blue felt familiar. Eclaire brightened at the wall of yogurt cups. He pointed emphatically at a brand with a fruit cartoon on it.
“You got it,” Eric said, grabbing a twelve-pack. He tossed in some cheese sticks, a gallon of milk. Basics.
It was in the condiment aisle, near the pickles, that the equilibrium broke. Eric was comparing prices on peanut butter, his back turned for a second. He heard the distinctive, ceramic clink of a jar being knocked from a low shelf.
He spun around. An elderly woman had dropped a large jar of gherkins. It hit the linoleum floor with a catastrophic, wet SMASH. Glass and brine and small green missiles exploded across the aisle.
The woman gasped. Eric flinched.
Eclaire moved.
It was a blur of instinct, faster than Eric’s eye could truly follow. A length of iridescent, scale-covered tail, previously hidden by the hoodie, shot out. It didn’t just move; it struck, like a whip, but with purpose. The muscular tip wrapped around the falling jar’s neck a fraction of a second before it hit the ground, arresting its fall mere inches from the floor. It held the jar suspended, brine sloshing inside, in the stunned silence.
Simultaneously, from the cuffs of the dragging sleeves, Eclaire’s hands emerged. His soft, four-fingered hands were now sheathed in dark, sharp, retractable claws that clicked into place with a sound like snapping ceramic. He dropped into a low, defensive crouch between Eric and the source of the sudden noise, his body a tense, protective arc, the hood falling completely away.
He was a vision of elegant, alien threat. His large eyes were narrowed, pupils thin vertical lines scanning for danger. The frill on his neck was fully erect, a vibrating crimson crown. He held the jar of pickles aloft with his tail like a bizarre trophy, claws ready.
The old woman stared, her mouth a perfect ‘O’. A stock boy rounding the corner with a pallet jack froze. Time stretched, syrup-thick.
Eric’s brain, powered by pure adrenaline, clicked into a gear he didn’t know he had.
“Whoa! Easy! Easy, buddy!” he said, his voice loud, cheerful, and utterly forced. He stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Eclaire’s trembling shoulder. The alien didn’t look at him, his focus still on the broken glass on the floor. “It’s okay. It was just a jar. See? No problem.”
He looked at the stunned audience—the woman, the stock boy, now a middle-aged man peering from the next aisle. He offered a sheepish, what-can-you-do grin.
“Sorry about that! My, uh… my service animal. He’s still in training. Really protective. Startles easy.” He patted Eclaire’s shoulder. “See? All clear. You can stand down.”
The words “service animal” seemed to break the spell. The old woman’s confusion melted into a semblance of understanding. “Oh! A service… what kind of…”
“Rare breed,” Eric said smoothly, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Custom trained. For, uh, neurological stuff. Hey, let me pay for that.” He gently pried the jar from Eclaire’s tail, his fingers brushing the powerful, scaly muscle. It was warm and taut as steel cable. He handed the intact jar to the stock boy. “Add this to my stuff. And the cleanup. Really sorry.”
Eclaire, under Eric’s calming touch, was slowly coming back to himself. The claws retracted with a soft shink, disappearing into his fingertips. The frill slowly flattened. He looked from the glass on the floor to the jar in the stock boy’s hand, then up at Eric. His expression shifted from defensive alertness to dawning confusion, then to a profound, embarrassed shame. He made a small, miserable chirp and tried to shrink into the hoodie, pulling the hood back up over his head.
“It’s okay,” Eric murmured, just for him. “You did good. You caught it.” He kept his hand on his shoulder, a steadying pressure, as he guided the cart and a now-subdued Eclaire towards the registers.
The checkout was a blur of nervous smiles. The cashier, a teenager with purple streaks in her hair, stared openly at Eclaire, who was now studying his own concealed toes with intense interest. “Your… friend okay?”
“Just shy,” Eric said, tapping his temple. “Sensory processing. You know how it is.”
He paid in cash, hurried the bags into the cart, and all but pushed Eclaire out of the store. They didn’t breathe until they were back in the alley, the dumpsters like silent monoliths around them.
Eric stopped, leaning against
the rough brick wall, and let out a long, shaky breath. "Holy shit. You caught a flying pickle jar. With your tail."
Eclaire slowly pushed back his hood. His frill was still slightly elevated, but his expression was pure remorse. He looked at his own hands, now soft and clawless, and made a low, warbling sound of apology.
"No, no, don't be sorry." Eric ran a hand through his hair, laughing a little hysterically. "That was… honestly kind of amazing. Also terrifying. But mostly amazing. Are you okay?"
Eclaire nodded, but his eyes were still wide with residual alarm. He pointed back toward the store, then mimed the jar falling, and clutched his hands to his chest in a universal gesture of 'I messed up'.
"Hey, you prevented a bigger mess," Eric said, pushing off the wall. He offered a genuine smile. "My brave, weird little guy. Let's just get home before anything else happens."
They moved down the alley, the grocery bags rustling in the cart. The tension began to seep away, replaced by the mundane relief of escape. Eric started narrating the walk, a soft, calming stream of consciousness. "That's a fire escape. That's graffiti—art, sort of. That's just a puddle. Don't drink that."
Eclaire followed, his tail now dragging with a relaxed, sweeping motion, clearing a path through the litter. He was listening, his head tilted, absorbing the sounds if not the meanings.
Then he stopped. He froze so completely that Eric took two more steps before realizing he was alone. He turned back.
Eclaire was facing a narrow, open storefront nestled between a pawn shop and a boarded-up cafe. A hand-painted sign above the door read "Pier 7 Live Bait & Seafood" in peeling blue letters. The windows were foggy, but inside, tanks glowed with eerie green light. The smell hit Eric next—a potent, briny, organic smell of saltwater, wet seaweed, and fresh fish.
Eclaire’s entire body had gone rigid with a focus that made the pickle-jar incident look casual. His nostrils flared, the delicate slits widening. His frill, which had finally lain flat, now stood up again, not in alarm, but in what looked like intense, vibrating recognition. He took a step forward, then another, drawn by an invisible line.
"Eclaire?" Eric asked, nudging the cart closer.
The alien didn't hear him. He was at the doorway now, his large eyes reflecting the green tank lights. Inside, the store was a dim, dripping cave. Stacked tanks burbled, holding lobsters, blue crabs, and glittering silver fish that darted in confused circles. Bins of crushed ice displayed glistening fillets of salmon, cod, and snapper. Bundles of kelp and other sea vegetables lay in wet piles, their surfaces slick and gleaming.
Eclaire made a sound Eric had never heard before. It was a high, keen trill of pure, unadulterated longing. It was the sound of someone who had been lost in a desert stumbling upon an oasis.
He walked in. Eric hurried after him, abandoning the cart at the door.
The old man behind the counter, grizzled and wrapped in a thick sweater, glanced up from a fishing magazine. "Help ya?"
"Just browsing," Eric said quickly, his eyes locked on Eclaire.
Eclaire moved to a tank of live tilapia. He leaned over it, his face inches from the glass. A fish swam close. Eclaire’s head jerked, tracking its movement with a predator's precision. His tongue flicked out, not like a human’s, but thin, dark, and quick. He made that yearning trill again, lower this time. He then turned to a bin of whole, raw mackerel on ice. He reached out a hand, not to touch, but to let the cold, damp air wash over his skin. His translucent fingers seemed to almost glow in the shop's low light.
He looked from the fish, to the kelp, to the burbling tanks, and then finally to Eric. His expression was one of heartbreaking clarity. He pointed at the mackerel, then at the kelp, then pressed both hands over his own heart. This. This is my food.
In that moment, a dozen puzzle pieces clicked into place in Eric’s mind with an almost physical snap. The delicate, gill-like frill that pulsed when he breathed. The translucent skin. The effortless grace in water during his bath. The way his eyes, with those vertical pupils, had tracked the moving fish with an instinctual understanding. The preference for soft, cool, moist foods like yogurt.
"He’s semi-aquatic," Eric whispered, the biologist in him surging forward with thrilled certainty.
Eclaire wasn't just an alien. He was an alien built for a world of shorelines and shallow seas, for hunting in tide pools and foraging among reefs. The dumpster had been a tragedy of wrongness. This humid, salty store was the first piece of his world Eric had ever seen.
"Buddy," Eric said, his voice thick. He walked over to Eclaire, who looked up at him with pleading, hopeful eyes. "You want the fish? The seaweed?"
Eclaire nodded so vigorously his beanie almost fell off. He pointed to a particularly shiny mackerel and then to a bunch of emerald-green kelp, hopping from one foot to the other in anxious excitement.
Eric turned to the shopkeeper, who was now watching them with bemused curiosity. "We'll take two of those mackerel. And a pound of that kelp. Actually, make it two pounds."
As the old man wrapped their purchase in waxy paper, Eclaire couldn't look away. He purred, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in the moist air. When Eric took the damp, heavy package, Eclaire reached out and placed his hand on top of it, holding it with Eric. His touch was reverent.
"Come on," Eric said softly. "Let's go home and see if you like it as much as you love the smell."
The walk back was different. Eclaire stayed close, but his attention was no longer on the city's frightening novelties. It was solely on the package in the cart. He kept one hand resting on it the whole way, his tail swaying with a gentle, rhythmic contentment that hadn't been there before.
Back in the apartment, Eric laid the package on the kitchen counter. He unwrapped the paper. The smell intensified, filling the small kitchen with the essence of the ocean.
Eclaire climbed onto a stool, watching, utterly transfixed. Eric rinsed the kelp and arranged some on a plate. He placed one whole, gleaming mackerel beside it.
Eclaire didn't need utensils. He didn't need instruction. He picked up the mackerel with both hands, his movements suddenly sure and practiced. He bent his head and took a bite from the side, just behind the gills. There was a soft crunch of bone—which he seemed to entirely ignore—and a pull of dark flesh.
He froze. His eyes closed.
Then a shudder of pure bliss went through him, from the tips of his erect frill down to the very end of his tail, which thumped loudly against the stool’s legs. A low, continuous purr erupted from his chest, deeper and more satisfied than any sound he’d made so far. He took another bite, faster this time, eating with a focused, joyful gusto that was completely natural. He alternated with the kelp, tearing off a strip with his teeth and chewing with obvious pleasure.
Eric leaned against the counter, watching. A wave of fierce, protective understanding washed over him. He wasn't just housing a lost being. He was learning a person, a biology, a history written in gills and a taste for salt. He thought of the dusty biology texts on his shelf, the dead, dissected specimens. This was life, vibrant and strange and sitting at his kitchen counter, happily chewing on a fish head.
"Good?" Eric asked, his voice soft.
Eclaire looked up, his cheeks full, dark fish oil gleaming at the corner of his mouth. His lavender-honey eyes were brighter than Eric had ever seen them. He nodded vigorously, then held out the mackerel toward Eric, offering a bite, his expression earnest and generous.
Eric smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "All yours, Eclaire. That's all for you."
The sound of Eclaire’s contented purring filled the kitchen, a resonant hum that vibrated through the floorboards. Eric watched him savor the last silvery scales, his movements precise and strangely graceful. A slick of fish oil coated Eclaire’s chin and the delicate translucent skin of his wrists.
“You’re a mess,” Eric chuckled, grabbing a damp cloth. He gently wiped Eclaire’s face, who leaned into the touch, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “But a happy mess. I should have guessed from the frill. It’s not just for show, is it?”
Eclaire’s frill fluttered at the mention, pulsing softly with his breath. He chittered, a sound that seemed to carry a note of affirmation, and patted his now-rounded stomach. The journey from the dumpster’s despair to this moment of satiation felt monumental. Eric’s own clothes smelled of brine and supermarket chlorine.
“Alright, cleanup time. For both of us.” Eric began bagging the fishbones and kelp stems. The pungent, oceanic smell was strong on his hands. “I’m gonna hit the shower. You… just stay put. Don’t touch the stove. Actually, just don’t touch anything that beeps or buzzes.”
Eclaire nodded solemnly, though his large eyes were already drifting with curiosity to the blinking LED on the microwave. Eric shook his head, smiling, and headed for the bathroom. The hot water was a blessing, sluicing away the adrenaline sweat from the store and the fish market. He let it pound on his shoulders, his mind replaying the tail-lashing catch, the frantic cover story, the breathtaking revelation in the bait shop.
He toweled off, pulling on clean sweatpants, feeling more human. The apartment was quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator. “Eclaire?” he called, padding barefoot into the living room.
The alien was on the couch, but not as he’d left him. He had slipped out of the cumbersome hoodie, which lay in a heap on the floor. In the full light of the afternoon sun, his iridescent scales shimmered. He was sitting back on his haunches, his long tail curled beside him for balance. His head was bowed, his attention utterly absorbed.
Eric stopped. Eclaire’s translucent lower abdomen was exposed. There, partly everted from a subtle slit in the smooth skin, was the dark, sleek organ Eric had glimpsed only as a shadow during the bath. Now it was fully visible, about the length of Eric’s thumb, complex and undeniably biological. Eclaire was manipulating it with his soft, four-fingered hands, turning it gently, inspecting its tapered tip with the focused curiosity of a scientist examining an unfamiliar tool.
His expression held no shame, no arousal. It was pure, innocent inquiry. He stretched the skin around it, watching how the light played through the tissue, and gave a soft, contemplative trill. He seemed to be memorizing its structure, its function a fascinating mystery he was determined to solve.
“Whoa, hey,” Eric said, his voice softer than he intended.
Eclaire started, his head snapping up. The organ retracted smoothly, disappearing in a fluid instant as his frill vibrated in a brief flash of crimson alarm. He looked at Eric, then at his own hands, then back at Eric. He chirped a quick, questioning note, his head tilting. He seemed to be trying to gauge if he’d broken another unknown rule.
“It’s… it’s okay,” Eric said, running a hand through his damp hair. He kept his tone light, matter-of-fact. “That’s just… a part of you. But here, that’s private. People do that in private.” He pointed to the bathroom, then mimed closing a door. “Alone, you know?”
Eclaire watched the mime, his confusion clearing. He made a soft sound of understanding, a descending brrp, and nodded. He pulled his knees up, wrapping his tail around himself almost self-consciously, though his wide eyes still held that innocent curiosity.
Eric sat on the armchair opposite, the weight of the cultural chasm settling on him anew. How do you explain modesty to a being who has none? How do you explain society? He glanced at the discarded hoodie, then at Eclaire’s luminous, unclothed form. The hoodie was a pathetic disguise. The real work was far more complicated.
“We’ve got a lot to figure out, don’t we?” Eric said, more to himself.
Eclaire just purred, resting his chin on his knees, his large, trusting eyes fixed on the only person in this world who knew what he was.