Easing Into It
"You like it?"
"Uh ... heh. Well," the piebald-furred rabbit replied, not giving a definitive response. Only, "You're gonna make him blush. You know that?" The sound of a zipper. As she put her uniform back on. For, not ten minutes ago, she and her husband had been bare, in the fur, limbs tangled. Had been in the softness of their familiar-scented bed, basking in the peak of physical bliss. And, then, they'd showered. And, now, they had to return to duty.
"Emerson? He's got a sense of humor." The cinnamon-furred rabbit (oh, his fur looked delicious, didn't it) pulled his white, cotton briefs up. Up to his waist. And then reached for his pants. His luscious bobtail gave a flicker, still drying out. Still a bit damp.
"Yeah, but ... look, his sense of humor? And yours? Are on different planets." A pause. "Help?" she asked. She always asked him to help with her bra.
A welcoming smile. As he did as told. "There ya go," he whispered tenderly. And a breath. "But the gift? Darling, it's just a little ... "
"Kempton, you're NOT giving him that at his birthday party." She turned around, slipping her shirt on. "His ears will go beet-red!" A sigh. "Poor thing. You know how sensitive mouses are. Give it to him in private, if you want, but ... anyway, where'd you get that?" Cordova demanded, unable to hide her smile. She squinted a bit, her whiskers giving a singular twitch.
"I got my sources," the cinnamon-furred rabbit chuckled, chest still bare. Putting Emerson's birthday present aside. It was a grayish t-shirt, rodent-sized, with a cute, whiskery profile of a demure male mouse, whose eyes appeared to be darting. And beneath the cartoon-like drawing were the words (in royal blue): 'I eat mouse muff.' And, then, on the back of the shirt, a picture of the same male mouse. Only he was grinning this time, little liquid droplets weighing down his whisker-tips. "I got it the last time we were at the snow rabbit Home-world. One of the tailor shops."
"Snow rabbits aren't exactly humorous." Cordova was fully dressed, now. She wriggled her toes, and then raised to the tips of them, her bare foot-paws stretching. Arms, too, reaching out. A little moan-sound. And a sigh of relief as she eased down to her foot-paw pads.
"I know. It was imported. It was on sale. I mean, I think the tailor was glad to get rid of it." A chuckle, slipping his shirt on. Now fully dressed, as well, and fur all dry and smelling of strawberries (which was due to their fur shampoo). "Anyway, I stashed it away until I could give it to him. A birthday's a perfect excuse."
"I don't know. I don't ... " A giggle-mew. " ... darling, you are NOT giving him that," she repeated. "It's crude." She leaned up against him, wrapping her arms around him. Eying him.
"So?" he whispered, nose hovering so closely to her own.
"So, I know we're rabbits, and we're ... you know, all playful and virile, but mouses are very modest. Really, I don't think he'd ever wear it in public. He's too devout." Her nose bumped into his, and her muzzle tilted slightly, so slightly. Their lips brushed. But no kiss resulted. Yet.
"Doesn't have to wear it in public," was the whisper. "Just so long as he wears it a few times when ... he goes down on," panted the rabbit, "Azalea." The kiss finally resulted. Sweet, soft. Short. But a good kiss, all the same. Kempton pulled back, taking a breath. "Anyway, he needs to breed just as much as the rest of us. And he damn well enjoys it. He doesn't need to be embarrassed by it."
"I know, but ... "
" ... it's just a funny shirt. And it's the truth," he added. "Everyone knows male mouses are submissive. Everyone knows they're connoisseurs of muff."
Cordova couldn't stop giggle-mewing at that.
"See? That's why it's funny!" He nosed her cheek, grinning. Before nibbling on her cheek, the side of her neck. "Mm ... " His arms around her back.
Cordova sighed, giggling again. "Oh ... I don't know. Do what you want," she relented, shaking her head. "But I had nothing to do with it. It was all your idea. You make sure you tell him that before you give it to him."
"I will," Kempton assured. "I'll give to him after his party." Emerson's birthday party was going to be tonight, in the mess hall. It was one of those surprise parties, and no one was to breathe a word of it to Emerson. Else they would get an earful from the captain (who, enjoying cooking, was going to bake Emerson's cake).
Cordova leaned her head back, raising her muzzle.
And Kempton sensuously nibbled on her chin, their whiskers brushing, twitching in tandem.
A swallow, and a short, thirsty breath. "Uh, darling, uh ... we better not even start."
"I'm just ... nibbling," he breathed, innocently.
"I know, but ... we're rabbits, remember? Nibbling never stops at nibbling. We gotta be back on duty in, like, five minutes. Our break's over."
A little sigh. And a nod, as he pulled back. He swallowed, looking into her eyes. "I love you," he stated, without hesitation. Unashamed.
"I love you, too," she replied, happiness in her tone. A big hug. And she pulled back. "Gotta go," she whispered. "Got a disease to cure."
"Is that all?" Kempton teased.
"And what are you gonna be doing, pray tell? Saving the quadrant?" Her eyes sparkled.
"Something like that," he whispered. And then gave a wink. "I'm not allowed to talk about it."
A giggle-mew from the rabbit, shaking her head. "Oh," she sighed, lingering. Her smile fading into a serious, needy look. As she leaned in and kissed him again. Longer, this time. And wet. She was loathe to pull away. But when she did, her serious expression broadcasted the ferocity of her love. And the faith that helped give it meaning. The femme rabbit's eyes watered. "You, uh ... " He breath faltered. "Later, yeah?" she mouthed.
A sincere nod. "Later." And he squeezed her paw.
She took a deep breath, collecting herself, and they both hopped (as it were) out into the corridor, going separate ways. Husband and wife off to their respective duties aboard the star-ship Yellowknife. But this was a small ship. And, though soon to be on different decks, they would be only a hop, mew, and an ear-waggle away.
" ... well, I couldn't do much the other day. When the warp engines were down, and I felt kind of worthless, you know, and ... "
The black-and-white warbler, forehead pressed to an electron microscope head-rest (as her shiny, blackish eyes peered at plant cells), interrupted her husband with, "Taylor, when the ship's at warp, the computer does the flying. Not you."
"Yeah, but I keep an eye on it!" was the chittering defense. "There's a lot to oversee. A lot to monitor."
A heavy sigh from the warbler. Giving an aggravated cheep. She adjusted the microscope slide. Cheeping again.
"What? What'd I do?" Taylor asked, chittering. Giving a chip, as well. Chip! The chipmunk was sitting on a horizontal computer console. A table-like extension with flat-screen monitors all over. His foot-paws didn't quite reach the floor. "Aspera, if it's so easy, you can fly the ship. I'm resigning my position. Yep. You can be Yellowknife's helm officer," the chipmunk rambled. Sarcastically, of course. "You can ... "
" ... Taylor, it's nothing, okay? I ... look, you told me all this last night. Remember? I already know all this. I'm trying to work." She sighed again, raising her forehead (and rubbing it with her feathered hands).
Taylor bit his lip. "Oh. I ... I did?" He thought for a moment, remembering. "Oh. I forgot." He had told her all of this last night. In bed. And, making a face, he said, in a very hushed tone, "You were 'feather-dusting' my ... "
" ... penis?"
" ... while I was telling you about my day. No wonder I couldn't remember." He crossed his arms, as if this upset him. His brush-tail flagged. And, again, he made a 'chip' sound.
Aspera wanted to laugh. But held it back. Instead, she explained, "I'm listening, okay? Really. It's just this disease thing ... if the damn snow rabbits could keep their pants on, they wouldn't keep having these problems. Or better yet, if they could learn to be monogamous." A huff. "The High Command wants me to find a cure. The language they used? It was more like they expected me to. These things aren't logical. They take time. Diseases take years to isolate and study. And some don't even have cures." She slumped against the wall, sinking, sinking down to her rump. She twitter-trilled.
"I'm ... well, I didn't mean to bother you," Taylor started, flustered. "If you were that busy, I could've stayed out of the lab." He and Aspera didn't necessarily fight a lot. When they did, it was wrenching. His rodent heart couldn't take such things. He was too emotional. "I'm sorry ... " His eyes were glistening, watering.
Aspera, looking up, whispered, "Hey ... darling, no. I'm not mad at you, okay? I already told you that."
"I'm ... "
" ... not bugging me, either. If I wanted to be left alone, I'd say, okay? And I don't want to be. I'm just ... under some pressure," she repeated. She craned her neck, rubbing it. "It's finding this cure."
Taylor looked to her, whiskers twitching. His angular ears cocked atop his head.
"I come from a species of open-breeders. I used to do the same thing, you know ... but I was blessed. I didn't catch anything. I, uh ... " She slumped a bit, closing her eyes. "I had all those eggs, though. Gave them to the hatchery. All my babies ... I had all those babies, and they were hatched by other birds. They'll never know who I am." Her beak clacked, and her feathers ruffled. "But, at the time, I didn't care. It was ... you know, birds do that. I didn't know my own parents. And ... " She trailed, opening her eyes. " ... it didn't seem to matter, at the time. But, now?"
Taylor bit his lip, eyes locking with hers.
"I wish I could have your child. And I can't, and ... I don't know," she whispered, taking a deep breath. "I don't know." A dejected look, and a whispered, "I wish you could give me an egg."
Taylor swallowed, looking away. "I can't," he whispered. "We knew that coming into ... "
" ... I know. I know. I'm not blaming you," she said. "I just ... I had all those babies without emotion, without care. And gave them all up. Like a good bird. And, now that I've found love, found faith? I know, now, what life ... " She paused. Before continuing, " ... what life is worth. The responsibility. The meaning," she said, "behind that." A pause. And she turned her head, looking to the science equipment. "It's just a bit bittersweet that when I finally want to have a baby, I'm unable to." If she had wanted to be artificially inseminated, that would take time. Birds were vary sparse in this region of space. "I don't know how I got on that. I just ... open-breeding?" She nodded to herself, looking back to Taylor. "I used to be an open-breeder. But you pulled me out of that lifestyle. God brought you to me, and ... and it saved my life," she whispered. "I would've had a bad end, otherwise. I really feel I would've had a bad end."
Taylor sniffled. "Darling ... "
" ... you rescued me, Taylor. You brought light into my life." A pause. "So, now? I mean ... to be stooped over, squinting through microscopes, trying to dissect plant enzymes to find a cure for an STD? I just shiver. I could've been a patient. I could've been infected with something like this. Instead, I'm the doctor ... trying to cure those patients, the infected. All those patients I don't even know. I'm a doctor," she repeated. "I've a vested interest and a great desire in promoting health. And to have all these furs hurting themselves ... not just physically, but spiritually? Willingly bringing this upon themselves? They know the risks. They know what they're doing, and ... it pains me. As a doctor, it pains me. I'm supposed to heal furs. I'm supposed to fight sickness." A heavy sigh. A pause. Finishing with, "They're not making it easy."
Taylor slipped off the console he'd been sitting on and gently padded over to her, lowering. Taking a seat next to her on the carpeted floor. Their backs against the bulkhead. Their uniformed shoulders touching. And the chipmunk, whiskers twitching, his brush-like, brown-striped tail flailing about, leaned his head on her shoulder.
Aspera closed her eyes. "I love you, darling. Sometimes, I just get frustrated, and I ... you know, I don't mean to ever ignore you."
"I know," was the whisper.
She moved a feathered hand to hold to his paw. Her winged arm brushing against him. She swallowed, squeezing his paw, continuing, "I guess so many furs invite disease and trouble to their bodies ... because they view their bodies as a product of evolution and science. They view it as an accident. As chance. And not as ... purposeful. Not of God. For the faithful, the true religious, the ones who view their bodies as designed and sculpted, as fearfully and wonderfully made by the Lord? They have the moral compass in place to keep themselves from these ... 'yiffy' diseases. From taking drugs. From eating poorly, and ... you know? I mean, we have that. We know. I mean, I don't see how furs can look at biology, at all the intricate body systems ... such perfection, such layered ... life. Just life. The evidence of God is oozing out of life itself. Just open a science book. Seriously." A pause. "But if you don't have faith, I can see why you wouldn't treat your body as a 'temple,' as it were ... and why you'd more readily engage in risky behaviors." A frustrated sigh. "But I changed. And can't others change, too?"
Taylor was quiet for a moment, eyes half-open. He gave a bit of a nod, his whiskers brushing her beak. "They can." A breath. "I just ... I wish I could help, you know? That I could help you in some way ... " A pause. "I don't like seeing you so upset."
"Darling, you do," she whispered, giving a cheep-sound. "You do ... your love? Your patience? Your presence? They feed me. They help me greatly."
The chipmunk flushed beneath the fur, chittering. "Well ... I, uh ... " He swallowed, sighing. "You're just so stressed out. And kind of, uh ... "
" ... you can say it," she whispered, beak-smiling. "I deserve it."
" ... grumpy? Just a bit," he added, qualifying the statement. "Just a bit."
"I've just been stuck in this science lab all day," he bird breathed, "every day, all week. I want to be back in sickbay. I'm a doctor, not a ... a lab technician."
"So, where's Cordova?"
"She'll be here to take over in, uh ... she should be here soon," Aspera said, swallowing. "When Cordova relieves me, you wanna come to sickbay with me?" A soft, musical sound. "We can relieve," she whispered, "each other ... "
" ... I was really hoping you'd say that," he breathed, tilting his head a bit. To let his lips brush her cheek-feathers.
"That why you came here in the first place? To fetch me for a bout o' breedin'?"
"That wasn't the only reason." A shy twitch. "I wanted to see you, and ... the Captain gave me some extra time off today. He's in a really good mood."
"I'd noticed," Aspera said, nodding. And she leaned her head back against his. Both of them sitting there, knees bent, legs pulled up, heads resting on each other, eyes closed.
The lab was quiet.
And they breathed softly.
So peaceful.
Until the doors swished open, and Cordova hopped in, stopping. Grinning and blurting out, "Aw ... love-bird and love-fur!"
Aspera, eyes fully open, clacked her beak at the piebald-furred rabbit. "How'd I know you were gonna comment?"
"Cause I'm predictable?" Cordova asked, smiling, bobtail flicking. Her tall, slender rabbit-ears like antenna atop her head, held up proudly.
"Cause you're a cheek," the warbler supplied.
A mirthful mew. "That I am. But not all the time," she defended. "I just have my moments, is all."
Aspera, stretching, rose to her bare, talon-like feet. Spreading her pretty, black-and-white winged arms to their full span. "Well, Taylor and I are gonna check into sickbay for ... "
" ... some physicals, huh?" Cordova grinned, her black and white-patched fur looking soft. "Medical check-ups?"
"Apply whatever euphemism you like," the bird replied.
"You're awfully quiet, Taylor," Cordova noted, as she tap-tapped on some controls.
The chipmunk, rising to his foot-paws, said, "I'm a rodent. I'm shy."
"Shy, huh?"
"Yes."
"Look, I know Kempton and I like to gang up on you, but ... you know, we're just teasing. You're our friend. I hope you don't take it personally."
"I don't," the chipmunk assured.
Cordova turned her head, wanting to make sure. She and Kempton often ate supper with Aspera and Taylor. Sometimes, Kempton teased Taylor a bit too much. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure," he repeated, giving her a smile. "I'm just ... tired," he said. "Aspera and I haven't gotten as much time together as, uh ... as we need." Aspera also hadn't been singing for him as much. He missed being sung to sleep. Missed her lullabies. She had the most beautiful singing voice one could know. So musical. So lovely.
"Tell me about it," Cordova said, nodding, looking back to the controls. "Same with me and Kempton. But, hey, at least I have something to do! The science lab has never been so utilized, I can assure you. Most of the time, it's just ... odds and ends. And sex. That's all this room ever sees." A chuckle-mew. A sigh. Her smile faded. "Now, it's seeing the results of sex used wrong ... " A look to Aspera. "I don't think we can cure this. I mean, I don't know what they're thinking. We're just two warm-blood furs ... who know nothing detailed about snow rabbit physiology. They should ask their own doctors. I mean, wouldn't that be logical?"
"They're asking every medical staff on every ship ... we just happen to be one of the more visible, important ships in the fleet. And we happen to be patrolling an area that has several plant-rich planets. The snow rabbit home-world, as cold and snowy as it is ... they've a limited range of plant life. It's more likely we'd find ingredients for a cure out here than back there. But, still, you're right. They should send a medical ship ... with their own doctors."
A sigh, and the rabbit shook her head. "Well, we'll work the rest of the week on this, and we'll send them what we have, but ... "
Aspera just nodded, giving a twitter. "You gonna be okay in here by yourself?"
A nod. "I bred with Kempton half an hour ago," she said, seriously. "I'm good for several hours. I already ate lunch, so ... I'm rarin' to go. You're gonna come back, right?"
"Later. For a bit, maybe. But, uh ... this is your room. You're the head science officer. So, uh ... the décor in here? Is boring."
"Boring?" The rabbit looked around, making a frown-face.
"Spice it up," the warbler insisted, spreading her winged arms. And she grabbed at Taylor. The chipmunk still being shy and tired and quiet. "I gotta go revive this one," she said teasingly, of her husband. "He's almost comatose."
"Well, you have experience lighting fuses, I'm sure."
The bird gave the rabbit a playful, patient look. "See you later."
Cordova smiled, hearing Taylor chitter as he was ushered out of the room by the growing-more-eager-for-it warbler. And, when they were gone, the piebald rabbit sighed, glaring at the monitors. The detailed views of plant cells, DNA helixes, et cetera. God's infinite complexity and beauty revealed in science. But that science wasn't above being corrupted by sin and frailty. "Thank goodness we have souls," she whispered aloud to herself. Because the body? Was far too fragile. And was not enough to live on.
"You ever thought about a chef's hat? One of those puffy, white ... you know, they look like mushrooms?" Antioch asked, elbows on the mess hall counter. The marmot was leaning there, looking through the open 'window-like' space that allowed anyone in the mess hall to look into the kitchen (and vice versa).
Graham, stirring a pan of batter with a medium-sized wooden spoon, looked up. His ears twiddled. "Are you making fun of me, Commander?"
"Me? No ... " A slow grin. His darker-brown fur looking well-groomed. Same with his limp, bushy tail. His tail dragged behind him. Unlike Talkeetna's (whose squirrel tail arched up behind her, all puffy). His small, round ears were visible, listening.
A playful squint on the snow rabbit's part. "I should hope not. Cooking is an art."
"It is," the marmot went, giving a marmot-whistle. "It is."
"Yes," Graham stated, as if giving an order. "It is. Do not make me," he threatened lightly, raising a brow, "feed you my snow turnips."
"I've had them before. Several times."
"Yes, but one can never have enough snow turnips." He stir-stirred the batter, eye-smiling to himself.
"You're making a cake, right?" Emerson's surprise birthday party was tonight.
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"Vanilla."
The marmot whistle-squeaked. "Fitting," he commented, "for a mouse. Emerson loves vanilla."
"Hence why I am making him a vanilla cake." A pause. A raised brow. "Were you implying, just then, that mouses are 'plain?' The way you said the word 'vanilla' ... "
"No, they just ... they're very modest. They value tradition. They're not ones to branch out. Not to any extreme, anyway. Maybe they are a bit 'vanilla,' but ... no, it just makes sense. If I had to guess Emerson's favorite flavor, that would've been my first and only guess."
"Indeed. But a cake is a cake. Vanilla is a sweet, comforting flavor," Graham said, looking to the marmot. "It is much more innocent than its compatriots. Much more pure. It is almost a feminine flavor. And, male mouses being effeminate, Emerson's fondness for vanilla would make sense ... in that context. I would say that chocolate, on the other paw, would be more masculine. Being that cooking is a hobby of mine, I have often thought about the psychological ramifications of certain foods and flavors. It might interest you to know that ... "
"You're far too logical for me," Antioch interrupted, raising his paws. Seeing that Graham was about to ramble. "I'm, uh, not much for analyzation."
"Well, simply put: Azalea requested that I make a vanilla cake. When I asked her if I should make two cakes, one vanilla and one chocolate, she replied that chocolate is 'too rich' and 'too obvious'."
"Hmm. Well, uh, I can see where that would be true. But there are other flavors besides vanilla and chocolate. Strawberry. Red velvet. Lemon. Orange."
"Alas, one cannot handle so many cakes in a single evening. Either from a baker's standpoint or an eater's," Graham said. "I'm making two vanilla cakes, as is. They are big enough to allow every crew-fur at least one slice, with an extra slice left. Which will go to Emerson. There are unique mathematical ways which one can divide cakes into ... "
" ... I'll take your word for it," the marmot said. Interrupting (again). A smile. "You're in a good mood, you know that?"
An eye-smile. Ears waggling. Waggle-waggle. "Am I?"
"I'd say so. If I'm any judge of snow rabbit demeanor ... yeah."
A deep breath from Graham. A pause. "You are the only one here. Is something wrong? The party does not start for another two hours."
"I know. I just ... wanted to ask you," the marmot said, suddenly shy, "wanted to see if you, uh, wanted to wrestle tomorrow?" Marmots loved to tussle and wrestle. It was a way of displaying friendly affection. A bonding ritual. Antioch often wrestled with his friends. (He wrestled with Talkeetna, too, but in a gentler, much different way, of course!)
Graham, fetching a rounded cake pan, stood straight, giving an eye-smile and a polite head-nod. "I would enjoy that. It's been a few weeks, hasn't it?"
A nod, easing up. "Yeah."
"Are we going to keep score this time?" Graham sprayed the cake pan with cooking spray (so the cake wouldn't stick as it baked). "We never seem to."
"Well, it's just supposed to be fun. Some tussling. Not a competition. Besides, I never lose. Unless it's to another marmot. I'm bigger than you. And you might have power-house legs, but your upper body strength can't match mine."
"So, we are not keeping score?"
"I just don't one to one-up my captain."
"Well ... " Graham went to the oven, opening it. And putting the cake in. Setting the timer (and the temperature, which he put at 375 degrees). And, finished, he came back to the window-ledge. "Rabbits are very fond of running. Not sprinting, mind ... " Rodents were excellent sprinters, possessing extremes of energy. But rabbits? "We are built for endurance running. Marathons, even."
"You want me to run a marathon?" the marmot squeaked
"Just a leisurely jog."
"Yeah, but ... I'm not a squirrel or a mouse. I don't have any scurry in me. I'm not built for, uh ... long hauls."
"It will do you good. We will take breaks as you need them. Tomorrow, we wrestle. The next time, we jog. Agreed? In the simulation room?"
A relenting smile. "Alright, alright ... "
And Graham eye-smiled back. Once more, realizing that his crew was more than a collection of furs. They were his family. His friends. (And, as far as Ada went, his lover and wife.) He'd become so fond of them. After all they'd been through together in so short a time.
The High Command would not like this. If they knew just how much Graham's command style had loosened. He still enacted discipline when it was needed. His crew couldn't take advantage of him. He was in charge. But all the same, he was far from the precision-based, logical, at-a-distance captain that so many of his peers were.
In the back of his mind, he wondered if this was a potential weakness.
He hoped not.
He didn't think so.
But he thought of Captain Kalmbach. The snow leopard. He was out there, somewhere. Him and his 'ghost ship.' All reports indicating that he was on the edge of insanity. If, indeed, he was still alive. Which Graham guessed him to be. The snow leopard's command style no doubt differed from Graham's. And the snow rabbit had to wonder what would make a loyal captain disappear like Kalmbach had done. What would make a captain go completely rogue? True, the Furry Federation had (for several years, now) been in the throes of political upheaval. One could understand why any Federation captain would begin to question his oath. And Kalmbach had, assuredly, been through traumas (most of them untold or off the record). But for him to just break off? And his crew of one thousand furs staying loyal to him in the process, all of them going along with it?
But I've been through those things, too, Graham thought. War. Death. And I'm prey. I'm not supposed to be able to handle it.
But you are also a snow rabbit. You are more than mere prey.
True, but Kalmbach is a predator. A big cat. A feline. If I can keep myself together, why can't he?
Perhaps he doesn't have faith.
And what is strength without faith? What does struggle mean if not given purpose by faith?
Indeed, one can handle anything with faith. One can move mountains.
Perhaps you are misjudging him. You do not know him, Graham. As you told Talkeetna: all we know about Kalmbach is speculation.
A little sigh.
Then there was Captain Aria, of the snow rabbit ship Arctic, which was currently the flagship of the High Command (and, like Yellowknife, a Crystalline-Class vessel). Graham had only met her a few times. But he admired her greatly. She was a great influence on him, having inspired his Christian faith and his command style.
Then Talkeetna. Last but not least. The red squirrel. Graham's valued first officer and friend. She had a confident, fiery spirit. Mixed with her rodent humility, it made for a worthwhile combination. She used to be a captain, too. She knew Graham's thought process. She could often guess his decisions before he announced them. It was good to have a peer onboard. One who knew the true responsibility, the true weight of command.
Talkeetna, Aria, Kalmbach. Myself. I suppose, Graham realized, that all captains are unique. In their own way. But we are all torch-bearers, and we must all learn from one another. Each other's strengths. Each other's weaknesses. We are charged with a monumental task. Leaders, protectors. Representatives of our respective species in the vast, starry stretches of space.
"Graham?"
The snow rabbit blinked.
"You, uh ... you zoned out there. Uh, you okay?" Anticoh asked, worried, slightly waving a paw.
Straightening, breathing deeply through his cool, black nose, the Captain gave a proper nod. "Just lost in thought," he whispered. "I am sorry. You were saying?"
"I was, uh ... asking if I could help? I'm off duty, now, so ... "
" ... Emerson is extremely fond of two things: macaroni cheese and broccoli. So, I am going to combine the two. Into a broccoli cheese-bake." A bright eye-smile. "You can help me mix the ingredients."
The marmot smiled, nodding. "Okay. Hold on a second. I'll walk around into the ... "
" ... kitchen? I smell food." Sniff-sniff. Twitch. His ropy, naked-pink tail snaking behind him like a downed electric line. "The mess hall? I ... let me take it off," Emerson said, of the blindfold around his eyes. Azalea was leading him by the paws. "What's going on ... " He tried to pull the blindfold off.
Azalea gently slapped at his paw. "Nope. Nu-uh ... did I say you could?"
A muffled giggle from somewhere.
The mouse's big, dishy ears perked, rotating like satellites, picked it up. Swivel-swivel. "I heard that. There's furs in here." Sniff-sniff. "I smell them. I smell the Captain ... Ada. Teller, Chignik ... everyone ... "
"It appears," Graham said, turning on the lights (which came on with an energy-sound), "that we have been 'found out'."
"Surprise!" yelled several furs (the warm-blood ones, of course).
The snow rabbits in attendance were more restrained in their exuberance.
"Alright, darling ... here ya go," Azalea said, removing the blindfold.
"What ... a party? For me?" the mouse went, wide-eyed, whisker-twitching. Full of cuteness. Full of innocence. He had healed from his head-wounds earlier in the week. Though he still woke up crying in the middle of the night because of the whole experience. Azalea had to soothe him back to sleep.
Talkeetna giggle-squeaked, padding up to him. "Just for you, Emerson. Happy birthday."
"How old are you, now, you old rogue?" Kempton teased, chomping on a carrot. Chomp-chomp. "Mm?" He'd been the source of the muffled giggle.
"Twenty-three," the mouse said, in his airy, wispy voice, eyes darting about. Seeing colorful, shiny balloons. Raspberry iced tea in pitchers.
"Getting up there." The rabbit gave him a friendly nudge, and then confided (with a wink), "I got you a present you're gonna love ... "
" ... Kempton?" Cordova gave him a look.
" ... heh, but, uh ... I'll give it to you later, in private," the cinnamon-furred rabbit promised, smiling as he padded off.
Emerson, nose at a constant sniff (and whiskers all a-twitch), looked around some more. "Broccoli cheese-bake?" he went, perking.
"Happy birthday, Emerson," said Graham, extending a paw. "It has been an honor, thus far, to have you among my crew. I hope you enjoy your party."
Emerson, sniffle-twitching, went past the Captain's paw and threw his arms around him, instead. In a hug.
Graham, momentarily caught off-guard, blinked a few times. But soon eye-smiled, returning the hug. "You are welcome," he whispered, in response to the mouse's 'thank you' hug.
And Emerson, taking a deep breath, pulled away. Looking around excitedly. Graham moved off, still having some things in the kitchen to look after. And all the other furs drifted about, finding seats at various tables. Chignik and Teller, who were married now, seemed to awkwardly linger near Seward and Aisling's table. Until Chignik finally asked, "May we ... may we sit with you?"
Aisling, looking up, was quiet for a moment. Before giving a polite nod. "It would please us if you did so." An eye-smile followed.
Emerson's whiskers twitched. He looked and saw Konka, too, and Wasilla. All his friends were here.
"You look like a mouse-ling in a cheese shop, you know," Azalea commented. The Western jumping mouse wearing a dress. With straps on the shoulders. Her strong, 'jumping' foot-paws soft and very close to his own. As her body leaned against his.
"I just ... I haven't had a birthday party in years," Emerson confessed. "My family stopped giving me birthday parties when I turned eighteen." His whiskers twitched and his eyes watered. A sniffle. And a bright, innocent smile, blinking the tears away. The dimples on his furry cheeks showed. "I didn't ... I didn't even know about it."
"That's why it's called a 'surprise party'," Azalea said.
"I know, but ... I got ears, you know? I'm surprised no one blabbed."
"Well, Taylor almost did ... but Aspera caught him in time."
The mouse gave a squeaky-squeak. "I guess we should take our seats. They're gonna say the prayer soon ... "
"Before we sit down, I just want you to know that your birthday present isn't here. It's ... waiting," she whispered, "for you. In our quarters. A whole night of it," she added, blowing a very brief breath into his right.
Emerson shivered hotly. Getting the message. And most grateful for it! His heart was already racing in anticipation. And, collecting himself, he whispered, "I love you." Looking right into her eyes.
"Love you, too, darling. Now, shall we take a seat?"
He nodded, giving a squeak. And they sat down.
And the party soon began as the stars streamed by outside the windows. As they sailed closer to whatever was to come next.