CREATURE
It does not often dream. Perhaps this is because it lacks imagination, or perhaps it sleeps too deeply to court dreams. When it does dream, they are often practical – dreams of hunting, or of its kin, dreams of the forests and meadows it haunts. This does not bother it, of course – it cannot miss things it does not know to miss.
It does not often dream, but it thinks the sound of her laugh is curious, and lovely, and the chime of it may etch itself across Creature’s mind, and will, perhaps, be dreamt of.
Were it a more cerebral type, it might lament their contrast, might long for the lightness of the strange being who questions Creature’s reality. It might painfully contrast its odd, drab, alien body against the lithe pink shimmer of hers.
But Creature does not long to be anything but Creature.
Instead, it lets out its own version of a laugh, a birdlike noise that comes so much easier than their complicated language. It moves its head in a quick nod, and reaches to touch her again, because it liked the noise she made.
“What…” it begins, mouth again battling for the difficulties of a foreign language, “do friends…do?”
It does not often bemoan the slowness of its language – it does not often speak, in this way – but it wishes now it could do so, could tell her it has never known anyone who called themselves its friend, but Creature thinks – it thinks! – it likes the idea.
and what rough beast, its hour come ‘round at last
slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
@Sokali