"No."
Mentally, he reeled back, surprised not so much at her answer as the way she'd said it—automatically and without thought, like it was something ridiculous, like he was asking her to eat a hunk of metal. The surprise on her face was still painfully evident, but when she saw from his expression that he'd meant it seriously, she quickly rearranged her features into something like compassionate understanding. It didn't suit her, a contrast from the almost childish enthusiasm he'd found so endearing.
"I—I mean, I'm sorry but—I thought—it should be obvious, we can't!" Cathy said, unsuccessfully trying not to smile at his crestfallen face. "Come on, really, how could you be serious about something like that? We're friends."
"No, of course," he suddenly babbled, wanting to take the last minute and a half and banish it to a place where it would never resurface. "I didn't mean it. I was kidding, right? Kidding."
He was a horrible liar; he always had been. Even now he wasn't sure how he'd managed this whole other lifestyle, with aliens and a secret base and the constant excuses to not be home and to skip class.
Well, just like the rest of his circle of friends, he now had a reputation for being flippant and unreliable, built up by years of such behavior. That had just about killed Sam, who loved to be relied on and in control, but she'd bitterly accepted the consequences of her allegiance, and they'd all been there for her, and for each other.
Because they were best friends.
Until he'd started feeling something more for Cathy.
Seeing him now, scrambling to take back the words that had been festering in the back of his mind for months, her face softened. "Danny, I—I don't really know what to tell you," she admitted, wringing her hands nervously. Her chosen human appearance had changed as the rest of them got older and matured, the blond hair now reaching to her shoulders, legs longer and a tad more graceful, but nothing in her personality had altered since they'd met her all those years ago.
"Don't say anything," he said, blushing furiously, regretting everything. "I'm sorry. Just forget about it, okay?"
She nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea," she babbled, sounding relieved, and he fought hard to not be overwhelmed by the wave of crushing disappointment he'd felt at her words.
There was a pause, and then she spoke again, hesitatingly, which seemed so wrong compared to her usual vibrant, unreserved energy. "I mean—you know it would never, ever work, right?" she asked, cringing.
"Why not?" he asked, immediately clamping a hand over his mouth—stupid, stupid, why could no amount of monster-fighting could ever seem to make him look before he leapt?—and her eyes immediately grew panicked again.
"Danny, it won't work! You guys are just now catching up to me with your minds, and stuff, and soon you're all going to be more mature and older while I'm still a kid." She bit her lip and tried to find the words. "I mean, you guys are my friends and I like you and stuff, but humans and Rhapsodians just don't match up. And Danny..." She trailed off, not meeting his eyes.
"You're all going to be dead before I'm even an adult. So—so it's not even an option."
He was flabbergasted. It was so easy, sometimes, to forget that when it came down to it, that she was a completely different species, but this wasn't the sort of wake-up call he'd wanted. "Do we even mean anything to you?" he asked hoarsely, almost angrily, no longer caring about making a fool of himself. "If you're going to live so long, are you just going to forget us!"
She looked as astonished as if she'd been slapped. "That's not it at all! You're my friends. I just, I try not to think about it very much," Cathy said, the hurt in her voice almost palpable. "I'll never, ever forget you guys, though, no matter what."
He knew that. "I'm sorry," he muttered, shamefaced, looking at the ground.
She didn't seem much happier. "Me too."