He knew he was being silly.
He had accepted his ugliness years ago, at the orphanage, where his bugged out eyes and thick, wide mouth contrasted unattractively with his skinny form, earning him his nickname.
He still searched the mirror, desperately trying to find something about himself that wasn't awful to look at.
He dismissed his body. Sure, he worked out and had some natural strength there, especially in the lower half. But women weren't interested in men's bodies anyhow. And so what? Even if they were, living with men who could ruddy populate GQ and still have some left over for the next seven issues meant she wouldn't be impressed by him.
Women wouldn't be impressed, he meant.
Needing a distraction from his thoughts, his eyes flickered over his reflected image and he seized on his hair. It wasn't all that bad, now that he tried to care for it, really. Looked rather like most other fellows' styles. At least he wasn't going bald. That'd just make things worse. The color wasn't bad either. The natural red highlights perked it up some.
He snorted. Women didn't look at hair that much.
Well, maybe a little. He stood up straighter and turned on the light over the mirror.
A few small scars here and there on his cheeks from years of neglect, abuse, and acne. His eyes magnified them, turned them into huge gashes. He shook his head. "I could give the old hunchback pointers, couldn't I?"
He hated the way his mouth moved, the extra flexibility and strength in his jaw distorting his face. He looked away from it in distaste. Unhappily, he stared into his own eyes rather than at his lips. Mud brown, his orbs. If they were at least green or blue, he might not be too bad off. But they were plain old brown. Like a toad.
They were extraordinarily deep and clear, almost liquid in appearance. A more objective eye might have noticed that he was no longer a skinny orphan and had grown into his looks some, that his mouth was no wider than that of other men who were considered good-looking, and that his eyes were amazingly expressive of his emotions. He was healthy and well-muscled, moved with grace, and carried himself upright, without slouching.
No such eye was looking into Toad's bathroom mirror, though.
Disappointed again, he sighed and moved away from his hated image. "No point. Probably has a boyfriend back home, anyway."
He leaped onto the tub to avoid Lockheed, who was crouched under his sink staring up at him. "Now, what do you want?"
Lockheed blinked, then jerked his head toward the door.
"You can talk. Why don't you?"
The dragon flipped his wings once. "Hurts."
"It hurts you to talk."
The animal scampered over to the side of the tub and pushed the door with his nose so that it opened wider. "Kitty hurts."
Without a thought, Toad gracefully sprang through the door and leaped down the hall to his bedroom.
Lockheed nodded once and called to the man from the bathroom. He had reached Kitty's door. "No."
Toad paused, apprehensive, his hand on the knob. "No what?"
Lockheed blinked innocently and hopped into the hallway toward him. "Boyfriend."
The animal bent to nibble his side and Toad stared at him for a few seconds. He'd almost swear the creature was implying something, but he dismissed it. No way could the thing mean what he thought it did. He turned the knob and entered his bedroom.
Kitty was shivering, her cheeks flaming red, her curly brown hair strewn over his pillow. She looked up as he entered with wide, hot eyes and shuddered under the pile of covers. The tray was overturned on the floor to the left of the bed, cup overturned, plate and fork scattered over the brown carpet. "I'm sorry." She pulled her right arm out from under the pile and gestured, then pulled it back in, quivering. "Cold in here."
He gently touched her forehead with the back of his left hand. She was burning. He sighed. "Let's get your temp down."
She protested the removal of her covers as he pulled them off her and threw them to the floor. "D … don't. Please." Her arms crossed over her breasts and she tried to pull the sleeves of her nightgown down further. Her thin toes curled as he took her into his arms, supporting her shoulders and legs. He curled her left arm around his neck.
"It won't take long. I promise." He bounded for the door, powerful legs only taking one jump before he sailed through the doorway.
She giggled. "It's like flying. You're lucky." She held tightly to his neck, shivering, as he set her down on the bathmat and stripped her gown over her head. "Hey." She huddled over, hugging herself tight with her arms, her eyes pleading with him. Her gold Star of David swung from its chain at her throat.
"We already had this discussion. You lost. Remember?" He tossed the gown out the door and closed it firmly, trying not to look at the naked woman. She was sick. It wasn't right. Her breasts were heaving, in perfect proportion to her body.
Damn it.
Lockheed whistled outside as he bent to turn on the tub, making sure the water was warm, but not too warm. "She's all right," he called back. He heard a disgruntled "eep" through the door, but he was not going to let the animal in. There was no need for a chaperone.
He reached for her and swung her into the water. She shrieked and tried to phase through it, but was only partly successful. "Cut that out," he admonished, holding her body down as the tub filled.
She stared up into his eyes and turned solid. "How far back do they go?"
"What?" He tore his gaze from her and watched the water flowing into the tub instead. She hugged her knees, trembling.
"Your eyes. Deep."
"Hmph." He turned off the water.
"How'd you hide the speaker?"
"The what?" He remained crouched down at the tap end, testing the temperature of the water with one hand while he turned his head toward her.
"In my … your room." The red spots on her cheeks remained.
"Ah. That. Little invention of my own. I made the covering for it a few years after I built the sound system. Thin oak veneer treated with a little miracle. Stops the light, but not sound." He took his hand out of the water, shaking off the drops.
"You built it?" She closed her eyes and stretched her neck backward. "Wow."
He shrugged. "Nothing special. I couldn't rely on anyone else to do it for me. I've always been okay with machines."
"Typical English understatement." She mimicked his lower-class accent perfectly, eyes closed, tone mocking. "I've always been okay at building high class sound systems that would blow most others out of the water, creating laptops that are more efficient than Apple can make, traveling faster than a speeding bullet, and singing like an angel. It's nothing, really, any more than the five-storey museum I built yesterday out of toothpicks and old lorry parts was."
He cleared his throat, seeking a safer topic of conversation so his blush could fade. "Good accent."
"Thank Excalibur." She opened her right eye and winked, then winced and closed it. "It hurts to look."
He knew the feeling. He turned from her so she wouldn't have to see his face. "Arthur and all that, hm?"
"Yeah." She relaxed a little in the water. "Sing for me again."
"Why?" He touched her forehead again. Still too hot.
"Gives me something to focus on. Calms me down." She smiled weakly and coughed. "Please."
He was about to refuse when he thought of something. He hadn't heard the song in twenty years, yet it came to mind when she spoke of calming down. The day woman at the orphanage sometimes sang a little tune when she was cleaning.
Green gravel, green gravel, the grass is so green.
The fairest of ladies I ever have seen.
I'll wash you in milk, and I'll clothe you in silk,
And I'll write down your name with a gold pen and ink.
He had listened to it one day, standing outside, watching a woman and her son. They were heading to the gardens up the street, no doubt, and the song had given him a brief hope that someday, someone would want him like that. Someone would write his name on the adoption papers, and he would matter.
He sang it to her now, not looking at her, hands in his lap, legs crossed, remembering that day. It had been warm for once, warm and clear, no rain all day. He faltered and stopped on the last words, re-living his boyish wish for a family.
"Teach it to me." She leaned over the side and touched his arm with a wet fist.
Why not? Not like he had anything better to do, did he? Her trembling alto followed his sure tenor until she stopped, panting, and said, "Okay. Got it. You go first."
"Go first?"
She blinked at him. "It's a round."
A round? He'd known the thing for longer than she'd been alive. He didn't think it could be sung that way. Still, she was sick, so he'd indulge her for now.
He began and she joined in. He was surprised. It was rather good as a round. Her voice followed his twice through and ended on its own, plaintively. He watched her sing, smiling. Who knew that was what the bally thing was, anyway?
They stared at each other, neither wanting to give up the feeling of closeness after working together as they had. He considered speaking, but didn't know what to say. Kitty opened her mouth but closed it again without a word. Then Lockheed flung himself at the door. "Gleep," he said urgently.
The moment broken, they both looked away. Toad felt her forehead perfunctorily, his eyes on the door. "You're cooler. Get back into your gown. I'll go see what's bothering the overgrown lizard." He swiftly vanished.
Kitty sat in the cooling water holding her head. Who knew that one day she'd end up singing duets with Toad in reality, not in some drug-induced dream? She stood shakily, reaching for the mat with one weak leg, then wrapped a fat towel around her body, feebly rubbing until some of the water was gone from her skin. She threw her nightgown on, pink ruffles covering her chilled skin. The cotton clung to her legs as she looked out, then walked slowly to the bedroom. Toad was not there. Neither was Lockheed. She covered herself as best she could, then closed her eyes. She would rest for a little while. She hummed as she relaxed into sleep.