creature, Tom stooped and picked it up. "No," he told Old Joe. "This is not dinner." He felt the kitten sink all claws into him, even as Old Joe looked up with a look of intense disappointment in his eyes.
Tom absently held the kitten close to him, hoping that the warmth would mollify him. He didn't dare put him down. Even if he had owners—and it was possible he might, and had only wandered in called by the smell of the diner refuse—what kind of owners let a baby this size walk around outside in a snowstorm? Making his voice stern, he yelled at Old Joe, "Shift. Now. Into human form."
The alligator looked up at him with such a sad look that Tom expected it to start crying. A different type of crocodile tears, Tom guessed. He cleared his throat, to avoid showing weakness, and said, "Now. You have no business being out here shifted. You know what kind of trouble Kyrie and I could get into if they found you. Do you want us to get in trouble?"
The alligator shook his head, earnestly.
"Right. Then shift," he said, and averted his eyes from the vagrant's form, as it writhed and twisted, from crocodile to human. "Better," Tom said. "Now stay. Don't you dare shift again or wander off." Aware that the poor creature was naked, he darted inside, grabbed the discarded sweats, and brought them out.
Old Joe put them on, with the expression of a school child obeying an unreasonable taskmaster. He looked resentfully at Tom from under lank clumps of steel-grey hair. "It's tasty. It's been too long since I've eaten an animal."
Tom shuddered. "You're not going to eat this one, either," he said, firmly, holding and sheltering the orange fluffball in his hands. The kitten had started cleaning himself, in affronted dignity, as though to let Tom know he could take care of himself fine, thank you so much.
Old Joe didn't say anything else about it. He gave Tom a half-amused, half-sad look. Though his eyes could be called brown, they had faded as much as the rest of him, so that they looked even more pitiful and washed out. The grey sweat suit—picked up at the thrift store down the street and faded and washed out as it was—looked like a scream of color on the small, short body. As Old Joe stood up, he never straightened to his full five feet or so of height. Instead he stooped forward, bent, and shuffled along.
Tom shifted his hold on the kitten, and held Old Joe's arm, as he led him inside.
"Walk better as a gator," the man said in a raspy voice, tainted with an undefinable accent.
"Undoubtedly," Tom said, maneuvering to open the door, without dropping either of his charges. "But alligators are not native to the Rockies, and if anyone sees you, they'll call animal control. And then what are we supposed to do?"
Old Joe nodded, but Tom wondered how much he understood of his speech. Most of the time Old Joe's hold on reality was thread-thin, no more than a dime's edge worth of awareness. Sometimes, though, when he spoke, Tom glimpsed . . . he wasn't sure what. Perhaps the man that Old Joe had once been—sharp and incisive, bordering on the acerbic. And sometimes, sometimes, he seemed old and wise and world weary, but very much intelligent and capable of logical thought.
The thing was, you just never knew which Old Joe you had. It could be the wise old man or the crazy old codger. His shifting between an alligator and a human wasn't nearly as confusing as that. At least that you could tell. What went on inside his mind wasn't nearly as obvious.
Tom led him inside and to the booth, and said "Stay," then ducked behind the counter, to ask Keith to get a burger started. He cursed himself, inwardly. He'd given the old man clam chowder, because he'd been thinking he'd be cold, of course. But the thing was, he'd just shifted, so of course he'd gone outside, in search of protein. "Make that a triple," he said.
Keith looked at him, as he threw three patties on the grill. "Hungry?"
"Not for me. Old Joe. Bring it to the table when you're
Tom absently held the kitten close to him, hoping that the warmth would mollify him. He didn't dare put him down. Even if he had owners—and it was possible he might, and had only wandered in called by the smell of the diner refuse—what kind of owners let a baby this size walk around outside in a snowstorm? Making his voice stern, he yelled at Old Joe, "Shift. Now. Into human form."
The alligator looked up at him with such a sad look that Tom expected it to start crying. A different type of crocodile tears, Tom guessed. He cleared his throat, to avoid showing weakness, and said, "Now. You have no business being out here shifted. You know what kind of trouble Kyrie and I could get into if they found you. Do you want us to get in trouble?"
The alligator shook his head, earnestly.
"Right. Then shift," he said, and averted his eyes from the vagrant's form, as it writhed and twisted, from crocodile to human. "Better," Tom said. "Now stay. Don't you dare shift again or wander off." Aware that the poor creature was naked, he darted inside, grabbed the discarded sweats, and brought them out.
Old Joe put them on, with the expression of a school child obeying an unreasonable taskmaster. He looked resentfully at Tom from under lank clumps of steel-grey hair. "It's tasty. It's been too long since I've eaten an animal."
Tom shuddered. "You're not going to eat this one, either," he said, firmly, holding and sheltering the orange fluffball in his hands. The kitten had started cleaning himself, in affronted dignity, as though to let Tom know he could take care of himself fine, thank you so much.
Old Joe didn't say anything else about it. He gave Tom a half-amused, half-sad look. Though his eyes could be called brown, they had faded as much as the rest of him, so that they looked even more pitiful and washed out. The grey sweat suit—picked up at the thrift store down the street and faded and washed out as it was—looked like a scream of color on the small, short body. As Old Joe stood up, he never straightened to his full five feet or so of height. Instead he stooped forward, bent, and shuffled along.
Tom shifted his hold on the kitten, and held Old Joe's arm, as he led him inside.
"Walk better as a gator," the man said in a raspy voice, tainted with an undefinable accent.
"Undoubtedly," Tom said, maneuvering to open the door, without dropping either of his charges. "But alligators are not native to the Rockies, and if anyone sees you, they'll call animal control. And then what are we supposed to do?"
Old Joe nodded, but Tom wondered how much he understood of his speech. Most of the time Old Joe's hold on reality was thread-thin, no more than a dime's edge worth of awareness. Sometimes, though, when he spoke, Tom glimpsed . . . he wasn't sure what. Perhaps the man that Old Joe had once been—sharp and incisive, bordering on the acerbic. And sometimes, sometimes, he seemed old and wise and world weary, but very much intelligent and capable of logical thought.
The thing was, you just never knew which Old Joe you had. It could be the wise old man or the crazy old codger. His shifting between an alligator and a human wasn't nearly as confusing as that. At least that you could tell. What went on inside his mind wasn't nearly as obvious.
Tom led him inside and to the booth, and said "Stay," then ducked behind the counter, to ask Keith to get a burger started. He cursed himself, inwardly. He'd given the old man clam chowder, because he'd been thinking he'd be cold, of course. But the thing was, he'd just shifted, so of course he'd gone outside, in search of protein. "Make that a triple," he said.
Keith looked at him, as he threw three patties on the grill. "Hungry?"
"Not for me. Old Joe. Bring it to the table when you're
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