Type Ia 2C. Deep Rose
"No, I can change!" he protested. "Just give me a chance, Rose!"
"I can't believe you said that," she growled, low like ears laid flat on a cat. "About me, about my work."
"Rose, rose," he crooned, putting his careful, chapped hands on her shoulders. "You know I didn't mean it. I'm always babbling around you, always saying the wrong things. What can I do to make it all better? Here," and he handed her a fern that piped sweetly when the leaves were tickled. "It's just...I don't know. You're so deep, Rose. Everything you think is so meaningful, so sure. I feel like a stupid kid around you. Like all I've done doesn't mean a thing."
She stroked the plant, listening to it sing, and pretended to ignore him.
"Look, I don't know anything about your work. I just said the first thing that came to mind. I'm sorry."
"You don't know anything about me, Scott."
"Well whose fault is that!" he snapped. "Deep Rose, always looking down at your hands, always staring into mirrors. How am I supposed to know you when you won't talk?"
Scientists learn all sorts of specialized languages.
Few of them actually serve for communication.