Page 20 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

Tev'ra

Finn sleeps with the complete relaxation of someone who has never learned to sleep lightly. His breathing is deep and even, his face peaceful in a way I haven't observed while he's conscious. Even in sleep, he remains close to me, one arm draped across my chest as if seeking contact.

The empathic connection has settled to a barely perceptible hum, but I can still sense echoes of his contentment, his trust. It's remarkable how quickly he's adapted to sharing physical space, considering his earlier admissions about isolation and emotional distance.

I remain still for several minutes, studying his face in the dim lighting, noting the way his hair falls across his forehead, the subtle movement of his eyes beneath closed lids.

There's something vulnerable about him in sleep that makes protective instincts I didn't know I possessed surge to the surface.

Carefully, I extract myself from his embrace and move to my workstation. The Council's questions about foster care require research, and I find myself genuinely curious about this aspect of human development that our extensive cultural analysis somehow missed entirely.

The ship's database contains comprehensive information about human societies, family structures, educational systems—but when I search for "foster care," the results are limited and clinical.

Basic definitions, legal frameworks, statistical data.

Nothing that explains the deeper implications or emotional impact on the individuals involved.

I expand my search parameters, looking for related concepts. Orphaned children. Alternative care systems. Temporary family placement. Gradually, a picture begins to emerge that is... disturbing.

Children separated from their biological families.

Placed with strangers. Moved between multiple homes.

The data indicates this system is intended as protection for vulnerable children, but the outcomes suggest significantly higher rates of various negative effects—educational disruption, emotional difficulties, increased likelihood of certain behavioral patterns.

The more I read, the less I understand how such a system developed or why it continues to function in this manner.

In Nereidan society, the loss of creator-parents is tragic but manageable.

Extended family networks, community support systems, and cultural values that prioritize child welfare ensure seamless transition to alternative care that maintains stability and emotional security.

The concept of a child being moved between multiple temporary placements, never developing lasting bonds, never having secure foundations. ..

It's incomprehensible.

"What are you working on?"

I turn to find Finn awake, sitting up in my sleeping alcove with rumpled hair and an expression of curious concern. He's beautiful in the soft lighting, skin still marked with faint traces from when we were together.

"Research," I say, which is accurate but incomplete. "The Council requested information about foster care systems. I'm attempting to understand the concept."

Finn's expression shifts, becoming more guarded. "Right. I mentioned that."

"Our cultural analysis contained no information about these systems," I continue, turning back to the display. "The oversight is... significant. According to this data, a substantial percentage of human children experience some form of alternative care placement."

"Substantial percentage," Finn repeats, and there's something in his voice I can't identify.

"The emotional and developmental implications appear to be considerable," I say, scrolling through more statistical information. "Higher rates of educational disruption, attachment difficulties, behavioral challenges. The system seems designed to provide protection, but the outcomes suggest..."

I trail off as I notice Finn has gone very quiet behind me.

When I turn around, his expression has shuttered completely. The openness, the vulnerability he showed earlier—it's gone, replaced by the defensive walls I thought we'd moved beyond.

"Finn?"

"Just research, right?" he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Data points. Statistical analysis."

Something in his tone makes me realize I've made an error, though I'm not certain what kind.

"I'm attempting to understand—"

"Yeah, I get it," Finn interrupts, standing up and reaching for his jeans. "You need to document the defective human's background for your report."

"That's not—"

"Higher rates of attachment difficulties," he says, pulling on his pants with sharp movements. "Behavioral challenges. Yeah, those are definitely the key points to highlight in your assessment."

I stand as well, moving toward him. "Finn, I didn't mean to imply—"

"It's fine," he says, though his posture suggests it's very much not fine. "You're just doing your job. Gathering data about the subject."

The clinical language, the way he's distancing himself—I recognize this pattern from our earlier interactions. Defensive mechanisms activating in response to perceived emotional threat.

"You're not a subject," I say firmly. "You're..."

I stop, because the words I want to use—partner, beloved, the person who changed everything about how I understand connection—feel too large, too soon, despite everything we've shared.

"I'm what?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, I step closer and kiss him. Gentle, questioning, trying to communicate what I can't articulate. The empathic connection flares between us, carrying my confusion, my regret for causing him distress, my growing feelings that have no proper classification.

When we break apart, some of the tension has left his shoulders.

"I have no framework for understanding your experiences," I admit.

"In Nereidan society, children who lose their creator-parents are immediately embraced by extended family networks.

Community support ensures seamless transition to stable, loving environments.

The idea of temporary placements, multiple moves, lack of consistent emotional security.

.." I pause. "I can't comprehend how such a system developed or why it persists. "

Finn studies my face for a long moment. "You really don't get it, do you?"

"No," I say honestly. "I don't."

Something in his expression softens. "It's not supposed to be like that. The system is supposed to provide safety and stability. Sometimes it does. Sometimes people get lucky and find families who actually care." He shrugs. "Sometimes they don't."

"And you didn't."

"Not particularly, no." Finn moves back toward me, some of the defensive distance dissolving. "But I survived it. Made it work. Figured out how to take care of myself."

The casual way he dismisses what must have been significant trauma makes my heart break for him and the child he once was.

"Come on," Finn says suddenly, taking my hand. "Let's get out of here."

"Where?"

"Back to the pools," he says, and there's something lighter in his voice now. "I believe someone promised me swimming lessons, and we got a little... distracted."

The suggestion surprises me. "You want to return to the water?"

"I want to actually learn to swim this time," Finn says, pulling me toward the door. "Plus, your research can wait. I'm more interesting than whatever's in those files."

His confidence, the way he's choosing to redirect away from difficult topics toward shared activity, shows resilience that our data analysis completely failed to capture.

"Yes," I agree, allowing him to lead me from my quarters. "You're infinitely more interesting."

The hydration chambers welcome us back with warm, humid air and the gentle sound of water. This time, I'm less concerned with proper instruction protocols and more focused on the way Finn's expression lightens as we enter the space.

"So," he says, beginning to remove his clothes with far less hesitation than before. "Actual swimming lessons this time?"

"If you're certain you want to learn."

"I'm certain I want to try," Finn corrects, stepping into the intermediate pool. "There's a difference."

I follow him into the water, noting how much more comfortable he seems this time. The fear that marked his first experience has been replaced by determination and trust.

"The basic principle is buoyancy," I begin, moving to stand beside him. "Your body naturally wants to float. The challenge is learning to work with that tendency rather than fighting it."

"Okay," Finn says, though I can see the way his hands want to reach for the pool edge. "What's the first step?"

"Learning to trust the water," I say, extending my hands toward him. "And learning to trust me."

Finn looks at my outstretched hands, then at my face. "I do trust you."

"Then let me support you while you practice floating."

What follows is an hour of gentle instruction, patient guidance, and gradual confidence building.

Finn is a quick learner when he's not paralyzed by fear, and his natural adaptability serves him well in the water.

By the end of our session, he's managed several meters of independent movement, though he still prefers to stay within easy reach of support.

"Not bad for someone who was terrified of water this morning," he says, floating on his back with my hand supporting his lower back.

"You're remarkably adaptable," I observe. "In all circumstances."

"Had to be," Finn says simply, then turns to look at me with an expression that's both serious and fond. "Thank you. For the lessons, for being patient, for... everything."

"Thank you for trusting me with something that frightens you."

"Yeah, well," Finn says, moving closer in the water until we're barely inches apart. "Turns out some things are worth being scared for."