A Hard, Bruising Fall
"The flow regulators are off by .03 microns," the snow rabbit stated, her voice crisp. Controlled. Her posture proper, and her fluffy, white bobtail flickering like a flame. But it wasn't a flame that many wished to burn themselves on. If this fact bothered Aisling, she didn't show it. Snow rabbits didn't show much, that was true. But she showed even less.
"That is within the .1 margin of acceptability," Konka replied, not looking at her. Refusing to, as he often did. Busying himself at an upper-level console. Engineering had two levels. Most of the control panels and consoles were on the lower level, but there were some compartments and work-spaces up here.
Konka had discovered that, at certain, unfailing times of the day, every day, the sparseness of the upper level actually made it a convenient 'breeding ground' for the snow rabbit engineers. The upper level, as well as the junctions in the access tubes. It drove the coyote mad, at times. Having to listen to their not-so-subtle mews. Having the scent of sex filtering down to him, wafting around his powerful nose. The old cliche was true, as far as he was concerned: a ship full of rabbits was nothing more than a glorified 'sex cruise.'
However, he couldn't truly complain about it. Not without being a hypocrite. He was no better. The scent was a pleasurable one, no denying that. And, when the rabbits started going at it, it allowed for him to leave his duties and exit engineering. To go and sate himself with Wasilla.
Which had happened (most recently) an hour ago.
Right now, however, everyone was fully-concentrated on their work. Keeping the engines running. Keeping the ship's systems aligned and intact. And making sure it all happened without the non-engineers needing to know or think about it. Making it seem like the ship was running itself.
The cylindrical warp core, with its aesthetically-pleasing, swirling wisps of purple and blue light, pulsed and hummed in a background sort of way. You almost didn't notice it. Unless it stopped. It ran from the ceiling to the floor, anchored by support struts, with plasma tubes running out of the bottom and into the walls, feeding the warp nacelles.
"They should be precise," Aisling responded, thrusting a computer pad at the coyote. Her many whiskers gave a singular twitch. Her black nose sniffed with impatience, and her ears gave a few waggles.
The coyote narrowed his eyes. Tap-tap. Beep-a-beep. Still not looking at her.
"Take it. Re-tune the regulators."
He finally looked to her. "I do not need a computer pad to ... "
" ... review the engineering protocols. They are clearly expressed. Pay particular attention to the section on ... "
" ... my ship, I ran the engines just fine. On Reverie ... "
" ... is gone. You allowed her to be destroyed by magnetic forces, did you not? A good engineer would've anticipated such a thing. Would've been on the lookout for ... "
" ... there was no way of detecting the field until we were on top of it. Reverie's sensor array was not as advanced as Yellowknife's."
"You are correct there," was her declaration. "This is a superior ship, and I am your superior officer. And you will correct the imbalance in the flow regulators," Aisling stated. Again, she thrust the computer pad at him. "Take it."
The canine didn't. Simply shifted on his foot-paws, golden eyes still narrowed. A low growl escaped from his throat as he said, "There was a time ... when my species hunted yours." A dangerous tilting of his head. Canines had not the subtlety of felines. As far as predators went, they were blunt, straightforward creatures. Lacking any sort of finesse or self-control. "I believe rabbits used to be one of our dietary," he whispered, "staples."
"Meaning?" Her snowy-white fur bristled. Her body tensed.
A slight nod from him, a grin creeping onto his muzzle. Her heart was picking up its pace. Her pulse increasing. He could smell fear, now. "Meaning, I will not be reprimanded by ... prey."
"Your wife," Aisling said, with hostility in her tone, "is prey. Is she not?"
"Wasilla," Konka stated, "is different."
"How so?"
"She just is." A plain growl. Konka was not an intellectual. And wasn't fond of being drawn into philosophical debates. A huff, as he continued, "I am a certified engineer. I was a chief engineer ... just as you are. Your qualifications are no better than mine. I am not," he growled, "stupid. I know my systems. The flow regulators can safely work within a margin of .1 ... off the precision point."
"I don't know how they run things on Federation vessels, but on ships of the High Command, we like to practice ... "
" ... perfection? I've noticed," was the growl. It was not a friendly growl.
"It is not logical," Aisling stated, stiffly, "to aim for anything less," she emphasized, "than perfection. You will fix the ... "
" ... rumor on the ship is that you've been telling others that I am 'ill-tempered'."
Aisling sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. Raising her muzzle. Lowering it, opening her eyes. Saying, as patiently as she could, "That was said in confidence."
"I'm friends with the mouses," Konka said, as if bragging about the fact.
"I'm sure they view you ... as a friend." Her tone held disbelief.
"So, it is true? You called me 'ill-tempered'?"
"I do not believe it is an incorrect assessment," was her plain response. "You are being," she claimed, "ill-tempered as we speak." She gestured at him. And a heavy sigh, and she looked around. Down to the lower level. No doubt her officers were all hearing this. Both of them were speaking loudly enough. And, lowering her voice, turning her attention back to Konka, she said, "There can only be one chief engineer on a star-ship. I am," she stressed, "the chief engineer."
"We have the same rank."
"I am aware of that. But you report to me. You are the 'junior' chief. Do not question my authority or my intelligence, please," she added. And a deep breath. And another sigh. "Take the pad," she said, yet again.
The coyote hesitated. Before swiping a paw. Quickly, with predatory power.
Whack!
The pad flew from the snow rabbit's paw, clattering onto the lightly-carpeted floor, coming to a stop a few feet away.
And, Konka, tilting his head, showing his sharp, canine teeth, whispered back, "You take it."
Aisling's paws were shaking. In fear. She hadn't seen his paw-swipe coming. He could've just as easily hit her. Rather than hit the pad. Her heart hammering, she licked her dry lips, swallowing, whispering back to him, "You do not know what I have been through. You do not scare me."
"Your body is telling me otherwise," was the coyote's cool, confident response.
"My body ... is not," she whispered, "my mind." And, without hesitation, she spun on her own weight, leaning back a bit, using gravity to her advantage. Spinning on one, planted foot-paw, while recoiling her other leg, and delivering a hard, hard ...
... rabbit-KICK!
A surprised, pained yip, and a yowl, as the coyote flew back, hitting the computer console. And then crumpling to the ground, in a daze.
Aisling's breasts heaved beneath her uniform.
A nod by Konka. Huff. Nod. "I ... I see," he said, the wind knocked out of him, "that those big foot-paws of yours lead well to kicking. But if ALL," he growled, "you can do is kick?" A shake of the head, as he stumbled back up. Upright, sharp-clawed paws (for predators did not file or blunt their claws like prey did) at the ready. "A one-dimensional arsenal."
"Do not come near me," Aisling threatened. She coiled her body, ready to kick him again.
A chuckle from him. Pad. Pad. A step closer.
KICK!
He skirted contact, lunging forward, knocking her to the ground. Both of them falling with a collective 'oomph!'
The snow rabbit, heart hammering, her fear very evident, desperately tried to push him off. Squirming, mewing out.
And he stopped her mewing. In an instinctive, primal way: by shutting her muzzle. Not with his paws, or with force. But with ...
... she shuddered, trying to break away from the kiss. Her nose flaring, sniffing, whiskers twitching. All in motion. Wet, hot lips, and his longer, more navigable tongue snaking against her. And ... the lust, the animal need ... welling within her mind. And ...
... he broke the contact. To pant. To breathe. His eyes wild, full of instinct. He was a predator. She was prey. It was the order of things. And he growled happily from the throat.
"Get ... off," the snow rabbit panted weakly, "me." She was flushed. Severely flushed. Her body shaking with a nauseating mixture of sharp, terrible fear and unmistakable arousal. The natural prey desire to submit. She struggled against it. And, when Konka didn't answer, she threw her arms tightly around his back, and using all her strength ...
... the coyote yipped as he was rolled over. On the bottom, now. The snow rabbit sitting up, at a straddle of him. And the last thing he saw before it all faded to black was a paw careening toward his face.
Aspera took a gentle seat.
Aisling continued staring at the floor. Sitting on the edge of a bio-bed. In sickbay. The lights were clean and white. Computer beeped and bopped, almost inaudibly.
The black-and-white warbler, beside her, said, "I, uh ... I healed your cuts and your wounds, and ... " She trailed. " ... most of your bruises. If you feel sore tomorrow morning, come see me, okay?" Her voice was soft. And had that soothing, lyrical quality about it. A pause. "Do you ... "
" ... no," was the immediate whisper. Unblinking.
"You gotta talk about it," the warbler insisted, clacking her black beak a bit. "Aisling ... "
The snow rabbit turned her head. Finally blinking. Saying, "He is a predator. I am prey. The tension ... came to blows. That's all."
"Are you SURE," the warbler asked, "that's all?" A squint, narrowing her glistening, black eyes. "Look, Konka's not telling me anything. I think you, uh ... thoroughly humiliated him by winning your little skirmish there, but ... " Again, the warbler trailed, picking up with, " ... you're sure nothing else happened? You were just fighting?"
"We were just fighting," Aisling whispered.
A sigh. The bird looked to the floor, taking a deep breath. And then she looked back to the snow rabbit. "I can't prove that anything ... happened. And by the time the other engineers came up to the second level, the fight was already over. I can only go on your word and his word, and ... "
A slight nod from the snow rabbit.
" ... you know the captain's not gonna be happy with two of his higher-ranking officers going at each other's throats."
"I would assume not."
"We're gonna be at war soon ... you know that, too, right? We have to be on the same side here. All of us. We can't beat the Federation ... if we're fighting ourselves."
A cold, detached glance. "I am WELL," Aisling insisted, "aware, doctor." A breath. "And I do not need a pep-talk."
"No?"
"No."
"Are you going to tell me the truth? What did," the warbler demanded, her voice hushed, "he do to you? Did he try to ... "
" ... is he conscious?" she interrupted, avoiding the question.
A shake of the head. "You broke his jaw. I just sedated him. I'll repair all the damage in a little while ... he'll be fine. Back on duty by tomorrow."
A slight nod.
"I have to give a report to the captain, and I need to know what to say," the warbler repeated.
"Tell him we ... clashed. And that I will deal with it."
"Aisling ... "
"Konka is under my jurisdiction ... "
" ... and you're under the captain's. We all are. Don't be stubborn."
"Snow rabbits ... "
" ... don't get stubborn? My tail-feathers, they don't," was Aspera's sarcastic response. A huff, and a shake of the head. Her taloned feet moved about, and then stopped. And a very quiet whisper of, "When I scanned you both, I found ... each of you had traces of the other's saliva in your muzzles."
Aisling flushed. She drew a shaky breath, licking her dry lips. "He kissed me ... when we hit the floor."
Aspera nodded, listening. Her feathers looking soft and pretty.
An exhale. "And ... and then I overpowered him. And that was the end," she assured, meeting the warbler's gaze, "of that."
"But his intent," she whispered, "wasn't to stop, was it?"
"Doctor ... "
"Lieutenant-commander," was the response. "Let's dispense with the formalities: he had his mind set on ... "
" ... I do not," Aisling interrupted, still avoiding the topic, "wish to prolong this matter any further. We fought. Predators and prey fight ALL the time. This is hardly the first instance of a predator/prey skirmish on a star-ship ... "
" ... no, it's not," the warbler admitted. "And, yes, even on Reverie, Konka got into fights ... with Kempton, for instance. But Kempton's male. You're not."
"What difference does it make? I won the fight," Aisling insisted. "I can handle myself."
A frustrated sigh. "Aisling, please ... "
" ... it started out as a fight. In the heat of the moment, perhaps ... he got carried away. I do not believe," the snow rabbit said, honestly, "he believed for it to go that far. His instincts simply took control. And perhaps that was my fault. Perhaps I should've ... been calmer, more ... I could have handled him better."
"You're blaming yourself for him attacking you?" The warbler's voice trilled a bit.
"I am saying it is over. It is done. We are both fine. And I wish to move on. As you said, yourself: we are on the verge of war. I am the chief engineer of Yellowknife, and my focus must be my engines, the weapons systems ... my focus must be on the ship. Not on an ... ill-tempered," she said, using that term again, "coyote."
"Alright." A reluctant nod. "Alright. But I'm gonna be frank here: you're gonna have to let your guard down sooner or later, okay? Around someone. You have to ... I don't know why you're so rigid, so afraid of ... of trusting anyone. You're not trusting me right now."
"I am ... "
" ... a snow rabbit. Not an iceberg." A pause. "Seward came in here yesterday. He talked to me about you. He was concerned."
A blink of surprise, and then a flustered, "Seward has no right to come to you with ... "
" ... concerns?"
She flushed beneath her cheek-fur.
"I think he ... "
" ... I am free to go?" Aisling asked, smoothing her uniform. And smoothing her fur, as well.
Aspera hesitated. And then nodded, lightly. "You are."
"Tell Wasilla and the Captain Graham that ... it was a misunderstanding. And tell Konka that, should he cause me trouble again, I will break MORE than his jaw." She spat that last part out. And, with that, Aisling slid off the bio-bed, to her bare foot-paws. And slowly padded toward the double-doors, which slid open.
Aspera blew out a break-ful of air, shaking her head. Thinking briefly of her husband, Taylor, who was currently running the helm (on the bridge). And a sigh. And then she slid off the bio-bed herself, going to tend to Konka.
"When you get into fights like that, it reflects badly," Talkeetna said, "on me. You're from MY crew ... my ship. You're one of mine," the red squirrel insisted, looking to the coyote. And looking none-too-pleased. Her auburn-furred tail, all puffy and arched, gave a few twitches. As did her whiskers.
Konka avoided eye-contact. Sitting on the bio-bed, rubbing his jaw. Aspera had mended it, but the coyote swore it still felt strange. Upon which Aspera had replied that it was 'phantom pain,' and was more because of 'the bruising to your psyche ... losing a fight to prey.' Konka had scowled at the remark, but had remained silent.
"Are you listening to me?"
The coyote nodded, finally meeting Talkeetna's eyes.
"I don't dislike you. I try to consider you ... a friend. Not just an officer. I view all my Reverie crew-furs as ... you're mine. You're family." The red squirrel sighed, swallowing. "Please, don't do this again," was all she asked, with gentle sincerity. Looking tired.
Konka, suddenly ashamed (not a feeling he was used to), gave a light nod, unable to maintain eye-contact. To see her disappointment like that.
A sigh, and a nod. "Alright," Talkeetna said, and she stood, exchanging a glance with Aspera, before padding away.
Leaving Aspera to say, "Your wife is here." The word 'wife' said with a bit more emphasis. And Konka realized that the warbler knew the entirety of what had transpired between him and Aisling. And was trying to make him feel guilty. And it was working.
Wasilla padded into view, sitting on the spot that Talkeetna had just vacated. "Hey," she whispered, with notable concern in her voice. "Uh ... I heard you got into a fight? Broke your, uh ... muzzle," she whispered.
Konka just nodded. Unable to meet her eyes at first. But finally doing so. And stammering a bit, trying to say the words. Trying to say, "I ... I am ... " He had to stop. A heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging. "I am sorry," he finally managed.
A slight, tender smile. The pika's roundish ears moving about. Her tail-less, rodent body twitching a bit. With energy. "It's alright. I ... I understand. It happens," she said.
"It happens because ... I let it happen," Konka said, sullenly. And his eyes betrayed with frustration. "But I cannot help it. I ... I feel this force. This heat. This ... " He trailed. "Too often, it seems that prey judge us. Judge us predators." A pause. "I admit, we ... we judge prey, as well, but NOT as harshly as they judge us! It is an unfair standard! They cannot understand the instinct," the coyote insisted, biting his lip. Almost quaking with heat. A heavy sigh.
"I want to understand." A pause. "Maybe some prey don't, but ... I love you," Wasilla said, plainly. "Look, it's ... I'm upset that you got into a fight. It doesn't help things. But I'm not gonna condemn you for it. So long as you realize you gotta work WITH the snow rabbits. Not against them." A pause. And a little breath. "I'm prey, too, you know?"
"I know that," he whispered, sincerely.
"You don't hurt me. You don't ... fight with me."
"Because I ... " He stopped short. Realizing how easily the following words had been about to come out. " ... I love you." A swallow. "That is why."
"And why do you love me, Konka?" she whispered.
"I ... cannot speak poetry," was his simple, slightly-evasive response. "I can show you better than I can tell you."
"But, sometimes, I want the words. Sometimes, I need them. We've been over that ... "
" ... yes." A pause, and his eyes darted on the floor, and he looked up to her. And gave a slight, toothy smile. "Perhaps it is just that you render me speechless."
A slight giggle-squeak. "Mm ... yeah, that, uh ... would do it," she whispered, swallowing. Looking happy, now. And a sigh. And the smile faded just a bit. "Talkeetna doesn't want you back in engineering today. She wants to let the, uh, bad blood between you and Aisling to ... to cool down. So ... "
" ... our quarters? Unless you're ... "
" ... off-duty. I'm off-duty," she assured. And she looked over to Aspera, who had been busying herself with her equipment (or, rather, not-so-subtly eavesdropping on Wasilla and Konka's conversation). "Is he free to go?"
"Yeah ... he can go," the warbler said, nodding. "You gonna behave, Konka?" she added, just to rib him a bit.
He gritted his teeth. "Yes," he admitted.
"Good," Aspera chirped.
So, with that, Wasilla took her husband's paw. And led him away. Led him to another bout of 'understanding.'
Aisling let out a breath, picking up her mug. Closing her eyes. And she took a dainty sip. Hot raspberry tea. She preferred it iced, of course. But, for whatever reason, she needed some heat right now. Some warmth. As if it would help thaw her. As if it would make any difference. Another sip. And she swallowed, lightly licking her lips.
"May I join you?"
Blinking, she looked up. Her posture straightening. "Seward."
"May I?"
"What are you doing here?"
"This is the mess hall. I am here to eat." Indeed, he had a tray in his paws. A plate of vegetables. A little dish of macaroni cheese. About which he commented, "Emerson 'insisted' that I try it ... he claims it is his favorite food."
"Noodles with cheese?"
"He claims I'll like it." A pause. "May I sit?"
She wanted to say no. But she couldn't very well do so. She had no good reason to turn him away. And didn't she want company? All she did was nod.
It was early in the evening. Several hours after the incident in engineering.
The male snow rabbit, once seated, began to poke his fork at his vegetables. Boiled broccoli, peas. Steamed baby carrots. "Are you not eating?"
"I am not hungry," was Aisling's quiet insistence. She let out a breath, taking another sip from her tea-mug.
"Raspberry?"
A slight nod. "How did you know?"
"You always drink raspberry." A pause, as if hesitating. As if wondering whether he should mention it. But he did. Saying, "Oftentimes, when we breed, you've the taste of raspberry ... from earlier tea-drinking. When we kiss, I mean," he elaborated.
"I did not know that," she whispered, blinking. As if suddenly shy.
"I do not mind it. It is ... pleasant."
Aisling shifted in her seat, swallowing. "I assume you heard about what happened. I assume that's why you're here."
"I did hear about it, yes. But that is not the only reason I wish to sit with you."
"Seward ... "
" ... did he hurt you? Badly?"
"I hurt him," she responded, "more than he hurt me. I broke his jaw."
A slight eye-smile. "I bet that bruised his ego."
"His pride did take a fall, yes," she responded, primly. Both her paws on her mug, now. Her delicate, white-furred paws. Those white-furred fingers with the blunt, black claws. And the soft, black paw-pads. "But I find," she admitted, her whiskers twitching. A bit. A bit more. "I find that my pride ... fell, as well."
"Why?" Seward asked, sticking his fork into his muzzle. Removing it. Chew-chewing on the broccoli.
A pause. And a weak, "I do not know." Her voice very quiet. She opened her muzzle to continue, but wasn't sure what she was trying to say. Or if she had anything to say at all. So, she shut it, sighing through her nose, which gave a few sniffs. And a few twitches.
"Your nose and whiskers ... are showing," Seward said, "that you are agitated."
"Am I?"
The male snow rabbit raised his brow. Repeating something she'd said to him the other day, in bed. "You answer questions with questions?"
She sighed. And tilted her head a bit, acknowledging whatever point it was that he was trying to make.
Seward eye-smiled, watching as she sipped more of her tea, which was slightly steaming. Not as hot as it had been. Which allowed for bigger sips.
When she looked up at him, he fixed his focus on his vegetables. The baby carrots. Which had a bit of melted butter on them, and a few sprinklings of pepper. "Chef does know how to prepare carrots."
"I would hope so. I would not trust him," Aisling remarked, "otherwise."
"Nor would I."
A pause. The sound of other furs chatting. The sound of silverware clinking on dishes. And the faint sound of the engines, creating that lazy hum of power. The stars outside, they streamed by. Yellowknife was still moving. Soon, they would stop at the designated rendezvous point along the border here, to wait for the task force to arrive. And, when it did, they would all wait, collectively, for the Furry Federation to make the first move.
Seward, finishing with his carrots, asked, without making eye contact, "Your partner today is, uh ... "
" ... Attu," she supplied. She sipped at her tea. Not because she needed to, necessarily. But she felt compelled. "I believe you are with ... "
" ... Orla, yes. I'll be meeting her after ... "
" ... yes," was all Aisling said. Why did that make her uncomfortable? She was the leader of their breeding party. She already knew who he was breeding with. Daily. She knew who everyone was breeding with. She was a snow rabbit. Breeding parties had been practiced by her species for thousands of years. Ever since they had emotional freezes. It was for their own protection. It was safer. It was easier. It was. It is, she told herself. We have physical needs. Desires. This is the best way to handle them, she assured herself, without damaging our freezes. You know that.
"I am glad," Seward finally said, "that you are okay."
"I can handle predators," Aisling said, but there was a sadness to her voice. She could. She could handle them. But having to do so? She still remembered the sound of a neck snapping. That vicious break. The blood of Arctic foxes on her pure-white fur. And even after she'd washed it off, she could've sworn it was still there. Staining her. She hadn't been able to sleep for weeks. She was prey. And, when pressed to the edge, when pushed too far, in a time of war, she had become like a predator. Had killed. Not once. Not even twice. Several times.
You did, she told herself, what you had to do to survive. You were an officer. They boarded your ship. They killed the captain. You had no choice but to stop them. You had no choice. But, oh, did that matter? Did that make it any better? She did not have predatory instincts. She hadn't been prepared to DEAL with committing acts of violence. Oh, she'd been ingrained, imprinted with the capacity to RECEIVE violence. But to give it? Doing so had thrown her entire sense of self into disarray. Her world never seemed right after that. For she was built, by instinct, by nature's science, by God's grand, mysterious plan, to be killed. Not to kill. Not to hunt. But to BE hunted.
And, sometimes, she wished that ...
"Aisling?"
A blink. Her thoughts interrupted. Her paws suddenly shaking, and the tea in her mug (which was now lukewarm) sloshing a bit.
"Are you alright?"
A weak nod. And she stiffened her posture, nodding. Trying to put on an air of confidence. She put her mug down.
"Your paws are shaking." Seward's ice-blue eyes were wide with concern. But it was more than that. There was something there. Tenderness?
"I am fine," she insisted. "I have said as much. Please," she said. It came out as a plea. She collected herself. A sigh. And, after a moment, she nodded at his dish of macaroni. "Are you not going to try that ... mouse-food?"
A small eye-smile. "I do not believe it is exclusive to mouses. It is simply a kind of pasta ... but with cheese. Not tomato sauce. You've had pasta before."
"I have never seen such a thing."
"Would you like to try it ... " He stuck his fork into the macaroni cheese, getting a few noodles on the fork tines. Steam rising from it. The cheese hot. He lifted his fork to her. "Lean," he instructed. Meaning for her to lean forward.
She hesitated. But did so, opening her muzzle. Closing it.
He slowly pulled the fork back, eying her.
She chew-chewed, eyes darting. Arching a brow. "It is," she said, swallowing, "surprisingly pleasant."
"For mouse-food?"
"For mouse-food ... yes."
"I am glad you approve." An eye-smile, and he began to eat of the macaroni, himself.
There was a moment of silence. Her bobtail gave a flicker or two. And her ears, standing atop her head, waggled. And she finally asked, very quietly, "Why are you being so nice to me?"
There was a pause. Before Seward, swallowing, taking a breath and letting it out, replied, "For too long, I ... you intimidated me. It is only recently that I have come to realize that ... your stiff front is ... " He half-met her gaze. " ... it is your way of crying out for help. I give you niceness," he said, "because you need it."
If snow rabbits could've cried, she would've. But they couldn't. She could only bite her lip, avert her gaze. Her whiskers drooping. "I ... I ... " Her breath shook. "I must go meet Attu." She needed pleasure. Now. Badly. So badly. Perhaps breeding would provide that. It normally did. There was only one problem: the pleasure she got from breeding was temporary. It was not a permanent joy. It was fleeting. There had to be something more. Why were the prey from Reverie so happy all the time? What did their Christian faith give them? What did they know that she did not? "I must go," she said again, as she stood, and she gave him a polite nod. She tried to stay composed. "Lieutenant."
"Aisling," he said, not reciprocating with rank.
The femme snow rabbit moved off, with a nervous hop in her step. Not because she was excited. But she just had to get out of this room. The walls seemed to be closing in on her. She felt dizzy. Everything hurt. Pleasure. Think of pleasure, she told herself. Go and breed. But, somehow, the promise of breeding didn't make that gnawing sensation in her stomach go away. It only made it worse.
And she wondered, for the first time, if this was a moment that would call for prayer. But she wasn't sure. She had never prayed before. And, even if she did, she wasn't sure what she could possibly say.
For words, right now, hurt just as badly as thoughts. As memories.
As a hard, bruising fall.