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"We want our officers back."

"They are not YOUR officers," Aria stated, with stern clarity. "You do not own them."

"Perhaps not. But neither do you," the fisher said, leaning forward. "They are OUR officers," he repeated. "And we want them back."

Aria let out a breath through her nose, putting her paws together in an almost prayer-like formation, her elbows on the tabletop. They were in a clean, cool, white conference room on the station, and they'd been here for an hour. And would probably be here for hours more. Herself and Jinx, as well as the fisher and a squirrel.

Shuttle-pods drifted by outside the windows, ferrying about.

"Perhaps," said the squirrel, "I can, uh ... well, put it not more clearly than my colleague here, but more gently: half the officers on your ship are members of the Furry Federation. Their commissions come from us. They were assigned," the squirrel said, "by us. They report," he emphasized, "to us. If we wish to recall them and reassign them, that is our business. It has nothing to do with the snow rabbit High Command."

"What if we don't want to be recalled?" Jinx said.

"You don't have a choice," the squirrel said simply, tilting his head. Making a chitter-sound.

Aria, elbows still on the table, and paws still in a prayer-like formation, said calmly, "You have given no reasons to go with these decisions. Arctic is a JOINT," she reminded, "venture. Half snow rabbit, half Furry Federation. If you withdraw your half of the crew ... you will be rescinding your rights. Not only to our technology, but to our information, our intelligence reports ... by pulling back, you are putting yourself at a strategic disadvantage, and damaging relations between our two sides."

"I fail to see how," the fisher said, dismissing the concern. The fisher, a mustelid, had dark-brown fur, a wedge-shaped muzzle. Fishers were carnivores. Famous, centuries ago, for nearly wiping out the porcupine species. Fishers weren't scared of porcupines. Weren't scared of much. And, no doubt, this fisher 'ambassador' had been sent here to intimidate Aria. To intimidate Arctic. To ensure that the Federation's objectives were carried out.

But Aria wasn't one to back down. And, though her heart was pounding, feeling a certain revulsion over this creature (and wondering how the other ambassador, that squirrel, could so calmly sit beside such a predator), she countered, "I do not know if you need reminding. But we just fought and won a war that, had we lost ... would've gotten to you, eventually. We saved your tails," the snow rabbit said, her voice rising.

"Our tails never needed saving," the fisher said silkily, leaning forward even more, his claws sliding across the tabletop. "We knew the wasps would fail. They always do. Anyway, it was YOUR species that incited them. You should've given them what they wanted, and ... "

" ... appeasement? We should've appeased the wasps?" Aria demanded. "And how would that have helped anyone?"

"What my colleague is trying to say," the squirrel started, constantly having to 'soften' the fisher's words, "is that we believe in a, uh ... a non-interference policy when it comes to non-furs."

"Is that so?" Aria asked dryly. Her ears waggled.

"Didn't the Council try to stage a preemptive strike against the humans?" Jinx asked, his bold, silky skunk-features furrowing. "Like a few years ago? How was that 'non-interference'?"

"The humans are a greater threat," the fisher stated.

"We know very little about the humans," Aria stated. "We know a lot more about the wasps. Their intentions. Their capabilities. Believe me ... they are the greater threat. Had their Queen not been killed, there would've been no stopping them. And there is absolutely no guarantee," she said, "that they will not be back. I fully expect," she whispered, "that they will come back. In ten, fifteen years. I do not know. But they will try again, and the next time they do, you better hope that we're willing to save your tails, or you'll no longer have any tails to save."

The fisher growled. "What are you saying? Are you saying," he demanded, "that the High Command is better than the Federation?"

"I am saying the Furry Federation," Aria told him, as quietly as she could, "is corrupt."

"That's hardly a way to speak," the squirrel said, "about our government. After all, this is supposed to be ... "

" ... a benign meeting?" Aria asked, looking around. "I see nothing benign about it. The Furry Federation, or whatever you wish to call it ... does not know WHAT it wants. Does not know WHAT it is. And can come to no consensus on anything." A breath. Her icy-blue eyes steely, holding, squinting. "Your organization, over the past several years, has begun to destabilize. When the predators were in control, you were no better, but ... at least you had solidarity in the iron-rule of their paws. Now, the prey want one thing, the predators want another. Both sides have the same amount of power, but ...the predator/prey divisions in the Federation are so severe as to be splitting you down the middle. I fear you will come to civil war over this."

"You know NOTHING about us, bunny," the fisher said.

Aria bristled.

Jinx tensed. He knew how rabbits felt about being called 'bunnies.'

"I know," Aria said, withdrawing her paws from their prayer-like formation. Putting them on the edges of the table. Gripping the edges of the table. "I know that you are untrustworthy. Our species, and several other species ... were on the verge of annihilation. We ASKED you," she said, "for help. You could've sent help in time. You could've sent a fleet. You didn't. You gave us THREE ships, and you only gave them to us because they were already here in the first place, and because their captains ignored your orders to stay 'uninvolved.' Arctic was a joint venture to forge a better relationship between our two governments ... and, on my ship, I have seen it work. I have seen a group of 'warm-blood' furs become an extended family to my snow rabbits. And vice versa. I have seen us inter-marry. I have seen it work. The snow rabbits are committed to the success of Arctic's mission and purpose. And are committed to peace."

"Peace? Committed to peace?" objected the fisher, showing his teeth, exhaling slowly. "Funny thing to say. Your species has been in more wars in the past five years than we've been in ... in the past fifty!"

"We fight wars to save ourselves. There was no other option."

"No option? No choice? There is ALWAYS a choice," the fisher continued, doing his best to turn the tables on Aria. "Your species might 'claim' to be prey, but as the Arctic foxes observed ... you are dangerous. Very, very dangerous. After your war with the wasps, we no longer trust you to ... "

" ... OUR war?" Aria asked, frowning.

"We saved your TAILS," Jinx said again. "The wasps were going to come after you ... the moment they were done with us, you would've been next." His silky, striped tail flagged in the air behind his chair. His muzzle frowned. His angular ears swiveling on his head.

"You can't prove that," the squirrel ambassador said calmly. "That is conjecture. Perhaps, if you had just appeased the wasps ... "

"We are OFF the subject of appeasement," Aria declared, obviously unhappy. "And, let me remind you, we SAVED the Arctic fox species. That conflict is over." A sigh. "Let us, for the moment, forget the wars. And get back to the more pressing topic: your ships. Luminous, Solstice, and Illustrious. What is to become of them? They are assigned to our region of space, and they frequently work with us. They make use of our planet for shore leave and repair."

"Yes, they HAVE done that," the squirrel said. "But they will no longer ... "

"You're recalling them, too?" Jinx asked, his tail slowing. And then flagging again. "Not just the Arctic crew, but the other ships, too?"

"We are withdrawing all of our forces," the squirrel said, nodding, "into our territory. We must protect the core worlds. And we have nothing more of need," he claimed, "out here. We've explored. What have we found? Trouble? Wasting resources, doing this, doing that ... no, we need to condense our reach."

"I think you are only doing this," Aria said, "because you are starting to lose control of the fleet. Your fleet. You wish to have them all 'close to home' ... before their crews mutiny. You know a division is coming, and you preparing for it."

The squirrel sighed, ever the politician, ever the diplomat, and said, "No, I assure you, there is NO division among the Federation. We are perfectly fine. We control ten times the amount of space that your species does ... ten times the amount of ships. We are vast. We are strong. And we are diverse, and we have learned, through years of struggle, how to hone that diversity."

"We are simply protecting ourselves. We are ... "

" ... looking after your own interests," Jinx provided.

"Yes. There is nothing wrong with that."

"No," Aria said, nodding quietly. "There is nothing wrong with looking after your own interests. But when you become so self-involved as to ONLY look after your own interests ... and let the rest of the universe suffer, ignoring cries for help ... you will become like a light that is hidden. A light hoarded. And, eventually, you will burn yourselves on that light, for you will give it no room to glow. You will give no warmth to your neighbors."

"Our neighbors can take care of themselves," the fisher said.

"That is an isolationist view," Aria stated.

"Pardon me, ma'am, but wasn't your species ... rather isolationist?" the squirrel asked.

"We used to be," Aria admitted.

"So, how can you fault us ... if our views skirt in that direction?"

"Because isolationism nearly destroyed my species. It does nothing but stagnate you."

"The Furry Federation is hardly stagnant. As I said, our range, our resources ... "

" ... yeah, you're super-dandy," Jinx said, rolling his eyes. "I think you need a new horn. The one you're tooting is worn out."

"Commander," Aria said, patiently.

The skunk looked to her, raising his eyes. As if silently saying, 'What? It's true!'

"Mr. Jinx," the squirrel said. "You are one of OUR officers. You are respectable enough. Your rank. Your service record. I do not understand your hostility."

"You wouldn't," was all Jinx said.

"You are married to a squirrel, are you not?"

Jinx hesitated. "Yes," he whispered.

"Then you know how squirrels are. You know you can trust me," the ambassador said, doing his best to smile.

Jinx did a bit of a twitch.

Aria stepped in, interrupting the 'interrogation,' saying, "I do not believe your perimeter vessels will heed your command to return to Federation space."

"They will do as they're told," the fisher stated.

"Will they? And the Illustrious? When was the last time you had contact with her?"

The fisher shifted in his seat. "They maintain radio silence."

"Captain Kalmbach is a rogue captain," the squirrel provided, "is what my colleague means ... he is 'on the lamb.' We leave him alone because he is insane. His ship is old. He is of no use to us."

"So, he will remain in our space?"

"For all we know, he might not even be alive anymore. For all we know, Illustrious has been destroyed."

"She is still around," Aria said. "And if she doesn't go, I doubt Solstice will go. And if Solstice doesn't go, Luminous won't go. Which leaves you with the following options: you let them stay, and realize that your edict is an illogical one. Or ... you send a task force into snow rabbit space and forcibly TOW them the four weeks journey back to your territory. And, not only do I believe that they will not go peaceably, but any unauthorized intrusion into snow rabbit space will be firmly dealt with."

"You are our ALLIES!" the fisher said. "You would attack us?"

"You would renege on your treaties?" Aria countered. "We wish for the 'warm-blood' crew of Arctic to stay. And we wish for the three Federation ships in our territory ... to STAY in our territory. We wish for their presence. We wish for a relationship with your government. You are the ones trying to sever that relationship."

"Yes. We wish to withdraw our presence. We no longer feel it is warranted. This part of space is unstable. We want no part of it. And you do not own the entire perimeter of this quadrant," the squirrel said. "Who is to say where your space begins and where it ends? A lot of this region is unexplored. As it's been stated, you snow rabbits were relative isolationists yourselves, until recently. This area is on the fringes of explored space. No one knows what is out there ... where does your space start?" he repeated. "And where does it end?"

"That is an argument of semantics," Aria stated. "One could ask the same of your space."

"Our space is clearly marked. And clearly habited. And secure. Our ships would be safer with US, not with you. They are OUR ships, and they are OUR officers."

Jinx sighed, shaking his head. But let Aria continue to do the talking.

And Aria did talk. Continuing, "My species is born with an emotional freeze. We are unable to express our emotions as other species do ... but I do believe we've expressed more concern and tenderness toward those in need," she said, "than you have. Were the Furry Federation to be besieged, we would aid you."

"Would you?" the fisher demanded, shaking his head. "I do not believe it."

"It would only be logical," the snow rabbit said, "to assist you. For your fate is tied to ours. We would do unto you as we would have you do unto us. We ... "

"That's nonsense. Don't get into that Christian mumbo-jumbo ... " The fisher snorted.

Aria kept her composure, but her throat was dry, and she was panting a bit, now.

Jinx clued in on the signs: dehydration. She needed water. The skunk scooted back in his chair, briskly pacing to the food processor.

The fisher eyed him suspiciously as he went.

And, after a few seconds, the skunk came back with a big glass of ice water, setting it down in front of his captain. "Here you go, ma'am," he said softly.

"Thank you, Jinx," she whispered, both of her paws going to the glass. And she brought it to her lips. And took a gulp, and another. And polished off a good half of it, and then set it down, sighing very heavily. "Oh," she breathed, closing her eyes. Saying a quiet, little prayer. And then opening her eyes. Her paws still on the water glass, and Jinx back in his seat, she said, "I feel that further debate would simply be a waste of time. Your minds are made up. You are doing nothing but offering 'political spin'." A breath, and she sat up straighter. "You may order your officers on Arctic to return to Federation space for reassignment. And you may order Luminous, Solstice, and Illustrious to return to your territories, but ... my officers are going nowhere," she stated, with a steely, feminine command. "And those ships," she added, almost whispering now, "are going nowhere, either."

"You are making a mistake," the fisher promised her.

"Then it is mine to make," was all Aria responded. "My government will back me up on this. So, don't bother trying to go over my ears." A sigh. "You have a month's journey back to your space ... to your worlds. And to your Home-world, specifically. So, I suggest you get going. No doubt you have a lot to say to your superiors." And she brought the water glass back to her muzzle, and she polished off the rest of the liquid.

The squirrel raised his brow a bit.

"I like water," was all she said, and she slid the glass across the smooth tabletop. And the squirrel chittered, stopping it before it slid off the edge. "Jinx," Aria said, standing. And she nodded at the two ambassadors. "Goodnight, gentlemen." And then she turned and left, the skunk following her.

Leaving the Federation ambassadors to grumble. And fume.

"As the snow rabbits would say, 'you've driven me to thirst'!"

Araballa giggle-squeaked, bright eyes gleaming. And she shook her head with mirth, inhaling deeply through her nose, making her whiskers to twitch. As she got a nose-ful of her husband's scent. A scent she had memorized. And a scent that, often, had her body hypnotized. It was, like, even when he wasn't in the room, the ghost of him remained. The breath of him remained. "Driven you to thirst, huh?" she whispered. "And how," she went, breathing deeply, oh, so deeply. "And how am I doing that?"

The flying squirrel, on his back in the sheets, pretended to consider. And made an exaggerated, scrunched-up face. His tail trailing off the side of the mattress like a blanket.

They were sinking into the softness of their bed. Their quarters newly-refurbished, among the first of the crew-quarters to be upgraded. New carpets, and the bulkheads reinforced, and everything looked like it did before the war. Maybe even better. And, of course, lots of their own, personal items and effects were decorated around, lending it their mutual paw-stamps.

The kangaroo rat was laying, half-sprawled, atop of him. Her chin on his chest. "I'm waiting," she whispered, "for an answer." Her tail with the tufted end swayed around, around, around. And stopped. And swayed some more.

"I was gonna say 'cause you're so hot,' but ... uh, that sounded kind of lame."

"Kind of?" A giggle-chitter.

"Well ... not THAT lame," Wilco insisted. And a sigh. "I wish I was artistic. Or poetic. I'm ... I'm too practical," he said.

"Never mind. Mm ... never," Arabella whispered, "mind ... " Every tear that had fallen in the past few months. Every nerve that had snapped. Every dream that had turned into a nightmare. Let it all drift away. But, oh, not that easy. Oh, no. It was hard to forget certain things. It was hard to forget the stains, be them literal or not, made by the blood, and the tears. "Darling," she whispered, sighing out.

"Yeah?" he closed his eyes. And his arms went around her bare back. His furred, fleshy membranes folding, accommodating all his movements.

"Remember when we first met? You, uh ... you were, like, so bumbling. You scared me at my door. You were almost, like, stalking me." A soft giggle-squeak, her nose in his fur. In his cinnamon-brown, grey-streaked fur. "You, uh ... you were so lovelorn."

"What are you saying?" He blushed beneath his fur, feeling hotter.

"Nothing. I'm just ... I'm just remembering," she whispered, and she closed her eyes. And turned her head a bit, so that her cheek was on his chest. "I'm just remembering how I looked and you and wondered, 'how fast is his heart beating' ... and, now," she whispered, a big, fleshy-pink mouse ear pressed to his chest, over the left side of his chest. "And, now, I can listen to your heart every day. Every night. And I can count those beats," she told him. "Now, I know how fast your heart is beating. And the sound stays with me ... and, if I go deaf for twenty years, I'll never forget it."

Wilco wasn't sure what to say to that. He only exhaled, in that swoon-ful kind of way, that romantic, 'oh, my gosh' kind of way. That melting way.

"I do love you," Arabella insisted, with an utter seriousness in her voice. The frolic pushed aside, for a moment. "You have a ... a zeal," she uttered, "about you. A zeal for life, and for fun, and ... whether it's watching you fly in the simulation room or watching you bumble up the Captain's title ... you know, you're just cute. You're so cute," Arabella repeated. Liking how the word 'cute' sounded coming off her tongue. So, she kept saying it. "Oh, my cute, cute ... cute squirrel," she breathed.

"Flying," he breathed back, eyes shining with happiness.

"Flying," she added, "squirrel. I didn't forget ... I don't think I could forget that," she assured, lifting up a bit. Her paws stroking his membranes. Fingers caressing those velvety-furred folds of flesh that, when fully stretched, could catch and billow the air, like how a parachute could. No, the squirrel couldn't 'fly' like how a bird could fly. He could glide, or 'fall with style.' But it was flying enough to her. "My cute, cute, cute," she continued, "flying squirrel."

Wilco giggle-squeaked, finding this most amusing. And finding it, also, very silly. But he didn't tell her that. And didn't stop her. Cause, truth be told, he rather liked silly. And wasn't silliness best when silliness was in bed?

"Oh," the kangaroo rat breathed, her big, strong foot-paws pushing off against the sheets. As she slid, more and more, over his body. And then her paws pushing off the sheets. So that she was raising up. So that, eventually, she was straddling him.

And he looked up at her. And his whiskers twitched. And he offered, shyly, "I love you, too ... and, uh ... I wish I could write a poem about how much I love you, but I can't." A swallow. "I can just say it. I can just say that I love you. And that you're so pretty, and ... " His breath failed him. His eyes having watered. "I don't ... I don't ever, uh, mean to take that for granted."

She smiled down at him. And her paw went to his cheek, and she brushed his cheek, lightly brushing his whiskers, as well. "I've never felt taken for granted," she assured him.

And Wilco opened his eyes. "So, uh ... lieutenant," he asked. "What is an ensign to do when he's slipped through the cracks, huh? My ship is docked at a station. Isn't moving. Isn't going anywhere. I can't fly her, and ... I'm a flying squirrel," he said. "So, what am I to do," he asked, "to keep from going stir-crazy?"

"Well, ensign," she said, giggling at their uses of rank, "I would suggest that if you're unable to fly your ship, and if your mind has already flown too far ... that, maybe, you give your heart a go. Can your heart fly?"

"I think it can," he told her, meeting her eyes. "I think it has."

"Indeed," Arabella whispered sincerely. "I think our hearts have met each other at warp. Quite a few times."

A little nod from him. His head-fur rustling on the pillow-sheets.

"So, you got your heart buckled up?"

"Buckled up," the flying squirrel insisted. "Full, upright position, lieutenant. I'm ready for takeoff."

Arabella giggle-squeaked. "I ... I, uh ... " Squeaks. " ... sorry, I can't help it." She grinned, and then breathed deep, regaining her composure. And she cleared her throat. "Alright, ensign," she said, grinning. "Start your engines. Cause we're going," she promised, "for a ride ... " Her paws, sliding over his chest, now, and her body leaning, and she was, once more, horizontal. Atop of him. And their lips were meeting, muzzles were meeting, and they were simmering in their naked pelts, their tails swaying with their increasing rhythms.

And there was no coming down, right now, from this high.

No stopping. No going away.

"There you are," said Ross, with a brightness in his voice. A spike of love and hope, seeing her come through their cabin door. Into their quarters. "How did it go?" he whispered, so as not to wake the baby.

"It went as I expected it to go," she whispered back, her body language indicating her stress.

"Not well?" Ross's whiskers twitched. His paws went to her arms, rubbing lightly. And then holding onto her, softly.

"It will be fine," Aria assured, dismissing the subject. And looking past him, to the crib. "Sterling?"

"He's been sleeping for the past forty minutes," Ross said. "I, uh ... he'll want fed when he wakes up."

Aria closed her eyes. "Mm." A nod. "I expect so." And she opened her eyes, and eye-smiled at her husband. "I am sorry to have been gone for so long."

"It's okay. You're the Captain ... "

" ... and a mother," she said, and she swallowed, and moved toward the couch. Ross moving with her, in equal step, their bodies close. And their bodies warm. "Sometimes, I wonder if that is foolish." And, reaching the couch, they both flopped down on it.

"To be both?"

"What if my duty to one ... affects my duty to the other?"

"Well, what you have yourself do? Resign?" he asked. "I, uh ... don't think you want that. And neither do I."

"No," she agreed. "However, it is still a worry."

"I know," the meadow mouse whispered, his earthy-brown fur so soft. So soft as to lure his wife's fingers to unconsciously run through it. Just to feel it.

Her fingers moving down his forearm. And then up his arm, again, and then moving over to his chest. He hadn't a shirt on. She eyed him, almost hungrily, her pupils dilating. "I appreciate," she whispered, "your patience."

"Well, it's not that difficult," Ross said, "to be patient."

"For many furs, it is ... it truly is," she whispered back to him. "But you are patient," she said, "in such an effortless way, and sometimes, I do not understand it."

"You're rather patient, yourself," he told her, smiling softly. His whiskers did a bit of twitching, and his dimples showed on his furry cheeks.

"I do not feel patient right now," was all she said.

"No?" was the mouse's delicate, fragile-as-glass whisper. His pupils began to dilate.

"No," she whispered back, even more softly. Treading-on-eggshells softly. And she swallowed, and her muzzle tilted, and she was meeting him in a soft, simmering, slow-burning kiss, the breath-stealing, loose-heat kind. The kind of kiss that, when they finally parted to breathe, they had to blink a few times. Just to clear their hazy vision.

"Uh ... um, I, uh," Ross started, clearing his throat. "You, uh ... " What was he trying to say? Did anything even need to be said?

"Ross," Aria whispered, her nose against his neck. And her eyes closed.

"Yeah?" His paws went around her. Undoing the zippers and buttons of her uniform. "Yeah ... "

"I cannot express it, and I cannot ... but I," she confessed, "am scared of things. I ... sometimes, I am strong. Sometimes, I feel impervious. But, other times, I feel raw and open, and ... and, in those moments, the only balm I wish for," she confessed, "is your touch."

His ears turned a rosy-pink.

She slipped her arms out of her uniform-top, leaving her only in a bra from the waist-up. Her breasts supple. Supple and full. "I know that the Lord is my constant balm. I do not forget that. However, I know He uses you as a balm, too ... He uses us both," she said, fervently believing it, "as balms for each other. I ... I just ... you are," she panted, "a blessing to me. You are a song that lingers forever in my ears," she went, waxing on.

Ross's eyes watering, and his paws fumbling, and he kept undressing her, quick in his motions, and he swallowed, saying back to her, "I'm the song? I don't know about that. I've the better ears, and I do believe ... you are the song, darling." He elaborated on her poetic kernel, turning it into something more, using his words to spin the imagery, to further paint the moment, to drive their passion higher, saying, "You're a song for the weary. A solo for a solitary soul, an infusion of energy into a wanderer. You are ... oh, I ... I love you," was his final, breathless pant, as he had her bra off.

And her paws went to the back of his head. And her eyes closed. And she pulled his head forward. Guiding his muzzle to her bare, hanging breasts, those beautiful mounds of furred flesh. Like little snow mountains on his snow rabbit.

His lips parted, fumbling, his breath hot and needy, panting.

"I love you, too," she whispered, and in her hazy, horny state, she couldn't remember if she'd just said that five minutes ago. But it didn't matter. Say it again. Say it a hundred times. Say it in whispers or in firm declarations. For it never got old.

He squeaked lightly from the throat, his eyes fluttering shut.

Her paws securely on the back of his head. Holding him dearly. Scratching ever-so-lightly, and raising her head a bit, her whiskers doing a singular twitch and her ears waggling as he, finally, began his suckling. "Oh," she sighed.

His lips were over her left nipple, which had hardened, and which was giving of her warm milk. Which trickled onto his tongue, and down his throat. And he swallowed, his nose flaring. His whisker brushing her breast. And his arms and paws went around her, to her bare back, rubbing, caressing, holding.

"Oh," she breathed, head leaning forward a bit.

He kept suckling. Softly, steadily, using his tongue now and then. But keeping it, mostly, at a simple sucking-motion, his lips there. There. And then sliding off. As he, panting, went for the other nipple. The other breast.

She swallowed, and then mewed.

His ears swivelled, filling, gorging with blood, sensitive to her sounds. And sensitive to her heartbeat. Oh, he loved it when she mewed. He loved that soft, tender sound. And he suckled more.

And she mewed again.

And, soon, little, creamy milk-drops dripping from his lips, clinging to his whisker-tips, he pulled away from her breasts. And fumbled out of his pants.

She, panting, undoing her pants, too.

Time to fully undress.

Time to kick your clothes out of sight.

Time to get down to your elements.

A minute. That was all it took. A single minute, and they were bare, naked, in the fur, and their limbs were all over each other, caressing, wrapping around, and they were losing themselves in the cushions of the couch, and his mouse-hood was pressing, firmly, against her belly, and she was trying to get onto her back, trying to pull him atop of her, more, more, come on, come on, love, sex, and ...

... crying.

The baby. Sterling was awake. And he was crying.

And the two parents paused, holding their breaths, their hearts on the verge of overloading. And they exhaled, panting, panting ...

... and, still, the baby was crying.

Ross's whiskers drooped.

Aria's head swum. Her breasts heaved, full of milk. Milk as white as her snowy-white fur. "I, uh ... I should, uh ... "

" ... feed him. Mm." A swallow. "Yeah," Ross whispered, a bit disconcerted. In such a passionate, romantic, physical frenzy, and to the brink of losing yourself, and then, just like that, yanked back.

"I'll ... when I'm done, we'll ... "

" ... I'm not going anywhere," Ross promised, sighing heavily, sinking into the couch cushions as Aria rose. As she went to fetch and nurse their child. And he heard Aria whisper, "My baby. My little darling ... are you hungry? I am here," she said, in her soft, cool voice. "I am here ... " And the baby's crying slowed. Slowed. And stopped. And she padded wearily into the kitchen, taking a seat in a chair at the table (the kitchen wholly opening into the living space), and let the child suckle. Their tiny, steely-furred, half-snow rabbit, half-mouse baby boy.

And Ross, his bare, slender, mousey form twisting a bit, raised his head. And met her eyes from the living room couch.

And Aria eye-smiled at her husband.

And he giggle-squeaked in response, brightly sighing, and turning back to his horizontal lie-down on the couch. Staring at the ceiling. Giving a silent 'thank you' to the Lord.

Dear Jesus, for all our blessings (and interruptions), I thank you.

Oh, amen.