PART TWO OF FIVE



Later in the same day. A few hours later.

And the wind began to pick up.

Field's twitching, sniffing nose pressed to the glass of the window (the living room window). Watching the clouds roll in. Watching the grey.

Adelaide emerged from the kitchen.

Field turned to look at her. "It's gonna storm," he whispered. Whiskers twitching like little sensors. Little antennae. With his ears like satellites. All twitching and moving. And the vapor of his breath fogging the window as he exhaled through his nostrils.

"Yeah."

"It didn't look like it earlier."

The pink-furred bat nodded. Came up behind him. Put her paws on his shoulders.

"There's a tornado watch," the mouse whispered, "on the TV. It says ... "

"We'll be alright."

"I just didn't know it was supposed to storm today, and ... "

"Field ... "

The mouse nodded. "Mm ... well ... " And he looked away from the window. To her. And went quiet. "I smell lunch," he finally whispered.

A quiet nod.

"You didn't have to make lunch," he told her, paws gently on her. Half turning around. Perpendicular to her. Him soft and airy, and insisting, "I could've made it."

"You made supper last night."

"Adelaide ... "

"Field, this isn't something to argue about."

He nodded quietly, large, dish-like ears swiveling. The wind was tearing through the tree trunks in chilled, short gusts. Then settling. Then starting up again.

"We'll go to the basement," Adelaide whispered, "if we have to." She enveloped him in her winged arms. Her wings that were filmy and like velvet. She nosed his neck, eyes closed, using her telepathic abilities to soothe him (as best she could). For bats had enhanced mental powers.

Field swallowed and closed his eyes, taking slow, steady breaths. Mice, as a species, were very timid. Anxious. Required a lot of care, love, and nurturing. Often, they had lapses of confidence, self-esteem. They were the most prey-like of prey species. They were innocent and soft (despite all they endured), and yet ... they were born to scurry. Born to run.

Bats, born with wings, were confident, strong-willed things. Not prey. But not predators, either. Playful, but with the need to care for things. To tend. The instinct to guard. To be guardians.

The wind still blew.

The grey was not going away.

But Field and Adelaide were a safe, warm mixture of pink and honey-tan.

"Lunch," Adelaide whispered.

Field nodded. "Okay."

And the rain started to assault the foundations of their farm house. And it sounded like a sort of lulling music.

Field just hoped it STAYED as rain. And didn't freeze into something more sinister, like hail.

"I'm afraid," Adelaide said, leading him to the kitchen, "that I'm all out of fresh worry, so ... you can't have it for lunch. Would you like something else?"

A giggle on the mouse's part. "What do we have, again?" he asked, with a playful smile.

She showed her fangs. "Hmm ... "



A knock on the door. For the second time this morning, no less!

And Peregrine scurried to open it, and ...

... there was the skunk. Audrey. The new neighbor. Soaking wet. The rain pat-pattering all around, making that soothing, din-din sound.

"Oh," breathed Peregrine. "Come in! Please," he said, ushering her inside.

She panted a bit, nodding. Swallowing. "Thank you," she breathed, nose sniffling. She wiped the water away (that was dripping from the fur of her forehead to her green eyes). "It just, like, started. Like ... bam!" she exclaimed. "Five minutes ago, the rain ... "

Peregrine nodded, scurrying to get her a towel.

Audrey watched him move. Smiling a bit to herself. And, asking aloud, "Do mice always move at a scurry?"

He came back. Holding out a clean, dry, beige-colored towel. A nod from the mouse. Not making eye contact. "Pretty much," he whispered.

"Thank you," she whispered back, taking the towel and draping it over her head. Drying her fur as best she could. Her clothes, though, were another matter. Soaked and matting to her. Matting worse than her fur. "Um ... I'm kind of drenched," she said sheepishly.

"Yeah," Peregrine agreed.

"I mean, that storm front rolled in ... I was, like, two miles down the road, and I ... so, I started to come back. But it started to rain by the time I got here. Didn't make it home," she lamented.

"Hey, it's okay," Peregrine insisted. "I don't mind. You can stay here ‘til it passes," he offered.

"Thanks," she said again. She sniffled (not from sadness, but just from being so wet). She nodded at him. Smiling. "You got a shirt on this time."

His ears flushed. Turned a rosy-pink. "Oh. Yeah," he said.

"I could use one," she said. "A shirt. Um ... do you have any? I'm really wet," she said again. "I hesitate to sit down. I don't wanna soak your couch cushions or anything. And I shouldn't really leave until the rain lets up." And her ears, cocked and angular, swivelled at the distant rumble of thunder. "Seems like we're gonna get more than rain."

"You don't have storms in the city?" Peregrine teased, padding out of the room (to get her a shirt).

"We do," she called back, looking around the room. She saw a few pictures of a femme squirrel. In picture frames. Hmm. But precious else that would divulge any secrets about the mouse's life or personality. "Contrary to popular belief, we do get rain and sun and all that good stuff. It's just, you know, in the city, there could be a tornado ten blocks away, and you'd still have furs getting in their cars to go to restaurants. Go to the movies. They just don't see nature as any real threat to them. You know?"

"Yeah," Peregrine replied, reemerging. "Well, out here, we have a healthy respect for God's creations. And what they can do. It's better to have that kind of humility." He held out a dry shirt. And a dry pair of shorts. "When it rains, we take shelter. And let it pass."

"Thanks," she whispered (sounding, if he wasn't mistaken, a tad bit shy). "Um ... can I change somewhere?"

"Oh. Right. Um ... " He pointed. "The bathroom's over there."

"Thanks," she whispered again, padding off.

"I'll make you some hot chocolate?" he suggested/asked. "On the stove ... "

A giggle. "That would be nice, actually. Um ... haven't had hot chocolate in a long time."

"Alright," said Peregrine. Nodding. Nodding again. And then filtering to the kitchen. Getting some fresh milk (pasteurized himself, given to him by Field and Adelaide, who let Peregrine have milk from their cows). He put some milk in a small, metal pan on top of the stove. Turning the heat to medium. And got out some chocolate powder. And waited for the milk to warm.

And the skunk shuffled into the kitchen, biting her lip. And taking a breath. "Thanks again," she said softly, "for ... being so nice to me." Her voice trailed.

The mouse turned. "Not a problem," he replied, swallowing. For some reason, seeing her IN his clothes was ... well, gave him a feeling. Made his heart rush a bit faster. Made his ears tingle. The skunk wore one of his button-up t-shirts (the kind with the pockets over the heart). And she wore a pair of his jean shorts.

She saw him staring at her. And said, "Um, they fit," she said, "just fine."

"I have to wear a belt," he confessed, "to make them fit. The pants, I mean.." The skunk was a bit taller than the mouse. And must've weighed about fifteen more pounds.

"Well ... " She trailed. "You just need someone to make you eat more, is all. I bet you forget to eat, sometimes. Or maybe it's just you have no one to ... eat with," she finished, flushing. Why'd she say that? Audrey, just shut your muzzle, PLEASE ...

Peregrine swallowed, turning back to the stove. Stirring the milk with a spoon. The milk was warm, but not yet hot enough. We would only add the chocolate powder when it was sufficiently hot.

The rain could still be heard. Falling in hazy sheets against the black shingles of the rooftop. Hitting the outside of the air conditioner in the other room. Pelting into the windows and streaking down.

Audrey's fur was still damp. And smelled it, too. Wet fur had a distinct smell. And wet skunk fur ... no different. But the mouse didn't mind. In fact, his nose (always being at a twitch-sniff) sniffed a bit more. In his imagination, he imagined her, when wet, to be giving off steam ... due to being so ... well, hot (for lack of a more cultured word).

Another peal of thunder.

Peregrine tensed.

"You okay?" Audrey whispered. Concern in her voice.

A weak nod.

And a ...

... FLASH!

BAM!

The mouse squeaked. High-pitched, staccato squeaks, and he dropped the spoon into the milk (which was now giving off steam). "Oh," he huffed, and went to get a fork, which he used to fish out the spoon. And his body still twitching and shaking from the (very near) lightning strike.

Audrey, a bit nervous herself, was now standing beside him, and whispered, "Your paws are shaking."

"They're not," Peregrine replied, gripping to the front of the oven. Taking a deep breath.

"They are," she whispered.

A shake of the head.

"Peregrine, it's ... it's okay if you're scared."

"Cause I'm a mouse? Is that why? Cause mice are just ... weak? Cause we can't help it?" he prattled defensively.

She looked him over. Shaking her head quietly. "No. I don't make fun of anyone's fears, Peregrine. I don't belittle them. I have mine. You have yours. All we can do is help each other deal with them."

The mouse let out a shaky breath, stirring the milk again. It was almost done. "Um ... chocolate powder," he whispered.

She handed him the canister.

And he spooned three spoonfuls of powder into the milk. And began to stir. Stir. Stir. Confessing, "Most mice are afraid of storms. I ... it's just instinct. I ... "

"Hey," she whispered, putting her paws on his shoulders. "It's alright."

He felt his nerves flare and dance at the simple act of her putting her paws on his shoulders. He felt a tiny shiver. He swallowed. "It's just ... I don't know. It's like the storm is a predator, you know? It's a hunter. It's all around, and it shakes and roars and ... all I wanna do," he whispered, "is burrow. That's what us mice do," he explained, still stirring the milk (and staring at it, too), "when we're scared. Our instinct is to burrow. Beneath things. Sheets, cushions. Under the ground." A pause. "I have a basement. If it gets bad, we'll go down there. We'll be safer down there," he rambled. "But you can only access it from outside the house."

The skunk just nodded quietly, kneading his shoulders now.

Peregrine sighed.

"Oh, I'm ... sorry," she said, hearing his sigh. She pulled her paws away.

"No," he squeaked weakly. Opening his muzzle to say something. Shutting it. Whiskers twitching. Twitching.

The skunk was quiet, and then ... slowly put her paws back on his shoulders. And resumed what she'd been doing.

And the mouse sighed again.

And Audrey smiled to herself. It hadn't been an unhappy sigh. He hadn't been uncomfortable. It had been a HAPPY sigh. He liked it. So, she kept doing it. Gently.

Until the mouse stammered, "I'm, uh ... the hot chocolate. I need to pour it."

"Oh. Course," she whispered, retracting her paws and arms.

"There's, uh, some mugs in the cupboard there. Above the sink."

She nodded and padded over there. Her bushy, luxurious tail swishing slightly in the air behind her as she went. Flagging with a bit of resistance (due to lingering dampness). And she brought back two mugs.

And he poured the hot chocolate from the pan to the mugs. And put the pan in the sink, turned the stove off, and took a seat at the table.

And she took the seat next to him.

And they both breathed for a moment. Both of them putting their noses above the rims of their mugs, sniff-sniffing. Letting the vapor trail upward. The steam. Smelling the aroma of the chocolate. And feeling the feel of the warm mugs in their paws.

The rain still falling.

And another clap of thunder. Another. Closer. Closer.

"I'm sorry," Peregrine whispered, taking a tentative sip of his hot chocolate. "I'm, uh ... sorry for being so quiet." A cautious sip. The drink still too hot. He blew gently on it. "I'm just losing my words." Skunk's got my tongue, he heard himself think. Skunk's got my tongue ...

"It's alright. Really. It's just nice to get to know you. I mean, I don't know anyone out here," she said, blowing at her own drink. "Do you have marshmallows, by any chance?" she asked.

A bashful shake of the head. "No. Sorry."

"Don't have to apologize." She gave a warm smile. "There are some furs," she said, leaning back in her chair, paws still on the mug (which was resting on the edge of the table). "Some furs, they won't apologize for anything. And others ... apologize for everything. I think the latter group has the best kind of heart. Even if all they really need is to be shown that they're of the same amount of worth as everyone else."

Thunder.

The mouse flinched, nodding a bit. Sipping at his chocolate. And he let out a breath through his sniffing, twitching nose. Outside, it was grey and dim. For the middle of the day, it was a bit eerie. In the back of his mind, scenarios ran. Disaster scenarios. Of cyclones snaking out of the sky and ...

"So, you always lived out here? In the countryside, I mean?" Audrey asked, trying to make conversation.

A nod from the mouse.

"Well ... always by yourself, then? Don't you have any family or ... "

"My family's gone," he whispered. "I used to have a mate, but she's gone, too. Bell-Bell. She was a squirrel." He swallowed. His words were blank. Were numb. And he fidgeted a bit, avoiding eye contact. "Sometimes, I don't know what to do with myself. And time is just ... inching away. And pulling me further and further from any tangible anchor. I have my faith, but ... "

She was quiet at the poetry of his response.

"I don't know. I just ... loneliness isn't a feeling. It's a pain. It's a disease." He trailed. "I'm sorry," he said again, taking a gulp of the hot chocolate. Which warmed him as it went down. He swallowed. Nose sniffling.

The raindrops still lulling. Still pat-a-pat-pattering.

And the lightning still ... FLASHING!

And a BOOM!

Peregrine jolted, paws shaking. Spilling some of his drink onto the table. He flushed and stammered. "I ... sorry," he stammered, getting up to fetch a dish cloth. And wiping it all up. And swallowing, nervously twitching, tail snaking. A bundle of unleashed, prey-like motions. He finally forced himself to a sit, where he held to the edge of the table. Where he planted his foot-paws flat on the floor. Where he stared at the grain of the wooden table-top and breathed, breathed, breathed.

Audrey watched him silently. Her heart aching for him, and yet ... not quite knowing what to say. What to do. He'd obviously lost a lot. Was obviously in great pain. And, though she'd just met him, she felt ... drawn to him. She liked him. Even only knowing him for a day. He just looked like he NEEDED someone so badly. And he seemed so sweet.

"I'm sorry," the mouse whispered (once more). Barely audible.

"It's alright," she whispered back (equally inaudible). "Really ... " She paused. And scooted her chair closer to his. "Here," she offered, moving her paw. Trying to mesh her fingers with his.

The mouse flushed. Whiskers twitched.

"Come on," she whispered gently. Urging.

He sniffled. And took hold of her paw. Squeezing it (with a firmness spurred on by fear).

Thunder!

The mouse twitching.

"Shh," she whispered softly. "Shhh ... " And she put her nose on his shoulder. Breathed in and out. Nose on his shirt.

The mouse closed his eyes. Breathed, breathed.

They were quiet for a moment. Just listening to the rain. The storm still raging. And neither of them knowing whether it was bound to get weaker or stronger. Whether the chances of truly severe weather had been exaggerated by the weather-furs.

Audrey kind of wanted to talk some more. Get to know him better. But now wasn't the time for a chat. No, words would shatter the current quality of the air. She simply held to his paw and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Both of them sitting in the kitchen with their eyes closed.