The crew-furs of Yellowknife busied themselves. With their duties. With each other. Waiting for the storm to come. Waiting for the thunder.

A waiting game.

Waiting.

Wait.



Chirrup!

The door chime, which sounded extra-polite today (if that were possible).

"Come in," was the slow, slightly-distracted response.

A swish. In padding the field mouse, into the captain's ready room, the double-doors swishing shut behind him (once his long, ‘liable-to-get-jammed-in-doors' tail was clear, of course).

"Emerson." Graham knew without looking up. Mouses had distinct scents. The snow rabbit, sitting on the coach near the big windows, stopped what he was doing, raised his head. And gave a friendly ‘eye-smile.'

"Hi. Um ... I can come back ... " He noticed the captain was studying some computer pads.

"I'm not busy," was the assurance. "Just reading today's departmental reports." A pause, and his ice-blue eyes seemed to glimmer. "Not that I don't value my senior staff's writing skills, but ... their reports are somewhat un-engaging. I would welcome a break."

"Okay," was all Emerson said, in his light, airy way, still standing. His bare, silky-pink tail, long and thin, snaked about in the air. Almost without him knowing it. It gave him an extra air of cuteness.

"Sit. Sit," Graham urged, patting on one of the couch-cushions. "What seems to be the problem? Anxiety?" he asked, with genuine concern. For that was the logical problem, wasn't it, with mouses? And in the current situation, especially. The task force had arrived yesterday. Some of the other ships could be seen, right now, outside the ready room windows here, floating in space. They were pleasing to the eye, in both color and design. The snow rabbits had an undeniable sense of physical grace (when it came to their own bodies, as well as the ‘bodies' of their ships).

"Um ... well, I got anxiety ... pretty bad," the mouse admitted, speaking slowly, shyly. "But ... "

" ... you should take a sedative."

A quiet, whisker-twitching nod. "I did. I, uh ... have been. Every eight hours." A deep, frustrated breath. "I wish I didn't have to, though. You know?" His eyes, gentle and delicate, on the bluish side, seemed to glisten with moisture. As if he were tearing up. "I wish I didn't have to be medicated for being a mouse." A few blinks, and he looked away.

"Would you rather have your fear paralyze you? Disrupt your thoughts, your duties ... your interactions?"

He bit his lip. "No," he whispered, looking down to his bare foot-paws.

"Then there is nothing to be ashamed of. The sedatives are just ... "

" ... anti-mousers." A dejected twitch.

"That is not true," Graham assured. He put his paw on Emerson's arm. "Look at me."

The mouse hesitated, but did so.

"When this conflict," he said, "with the Federation ... when it is over," was the assurance, "you won't need them. We will get through this. We WILL be safe." A little sigh, and he removed his paw from the mouse's arm, saying, "You must trust me."

"I do," Emerson whispered, whiskers twitching. Twitch-twitching. "It's not about trust. It's about ... instinct," he managed. "I just want some peace. I don't have a strong wall, you know. A ... a strong," he said, looking for the words, "sense of ... " A sigh. " ... I don't know." His whiskers twitched. "I'm weak," was his final statement.

"You are not weak."

Emerson, not responding to that, turned his head a bit, nose sniffing. Sniff-twitching. "Those ships," he said, looking out the window, and then looking back to Graham. "Are they good ships?"

"They are. Ensign, you needn't worry ... please ... " And a pause, followed by an apologetic head-tilt. "I am sorry. I ... you must understand: ‘mousey-ness' is foreign to me." Another pause. "In many ways, your species is the opposite of mine."

"Opposite?"

"Snow rabbits are very orderly. Our emotions are very controlled. Hidden. Frozen. But yours ... they spill out of you, like a flood. You have a certain level of unpredictability about you ... you are easily overwhelmed. Your emotions threaten to sweep you away." More quietly, he said, "Where, sometimes, I wish for the mere ability to cry ... you are pleading for your own tears to stop."

The mouse's whiskers twitched. He bit his lip, ears swiveling.

"Where my species is afraid of anchoring itself ... yours cannot survive without anchors. Be it your love, your romance ... your faith. I have come to those things, myself. Love and faith. I have discovered that even snow rabbits need anchors." A breath. "It is only logical." He turned, looking out the window, and then looking back to the mouse. "Unfortunately, the majority of my species still believes that logic, that the ‘power of the self' ... that it can conquer anything. They try to sail life's waves ... with logic. After all, if logic can build a ship, and logic can map a course, and ... " He trailed, picking back up with, "However, they fail to realize that the sea they are sailing ... it does not adhere to their logic. The sea does not CARE that they built a great, mathematically-precise ship, or that they charted the perfect, most efficient course. The sea is not impressed. Nor is the storm." A pause. "So, in order to smoothly sail, in order to survive the full journey ... " A tilt of the head. " ... you need to change your tactics. You need MORE."

"Like ... Christ as your compass? Love as your undying light?"

A warm eye-smile. "Among other things, yes."

The mouse flushed a tiny bit.

"So, you see," Graham whispered, "that in many ways ... I envy you."

Emerson wasn't sure what to say to that. He opened his muzzle. And then closed it.

"I am not saying that I am not proud to be a snow rabbit. I am. I love being one, and this is what God made me as ... I would never wish to be anything else. I am simply saying," he told him, "that I would probably be better off ... if I could be just a little bit more like a mouse." A warm, friendly eye-smile. "You needn't be ashamed of your fear. Admitting fear, admitting weakness ... is a strength in itself."

The mouse's eyes did water, now, and he sniffle-sniffed, looking away.

Graham put a paw on his arm, gently. "It will be okay," he repeated, deciding the mouse needed a hug. So he gave one.

Emerson closed his eyes and sniffled more. Louder. Whiskers twitching, ‘til he began to fully cry. The hug was what prompted him to break down.

The snow rabbit held him. Whispered, "It is alright ... it is alright ... "

Squeaky sobs.

Graham continued the hug. Making Emerson feel secure. Safe.

A few more sniffles. A few more moments. Before the mouse pulled back, embarrassed. "I'm s-sorry ... sorry," he stammered, wiping his eyes with his paws, trying to control himself. "I ... I guess the sedative's wearing off," was his excuse. Or maybe, he told himself, you need a stronger sedative. But that was the problem, wasn't it: there no was no medicine in the universe that could de-mouse a mouse. No matter how many ‘happy drugs' you injected into a mouse's blood, you weren't going to change the fact that he was, in the end, what he was.

"Do not be sorry," Graham assured, taking a deep breath. "I care about all my crew-furs. If you need to talk, or if you need help ... I am glad for you to come to me. Alright?" he said, gently.

Emerson nodded, sniffling. He wiped a paw on his nose. Sniffle.

"Are you going to be okay?"

A deep breath through the nose, and a slight cough. A sniffle. "Yeah," was the airy assurance. "Yeah ... I'll, uh, be fine." A final sniffle. Still trying to get himself under control. "I'm just so scared," he blurted out, before he could stop himself.

"I know." The snow rabbit felt a stab of sharp sympathy. Wishing there were some way that he could give part of his own, icy calm, his own emotional control to the mouse. Wishing he could make the fierceness of the rodent's emotions to abate. "I will pray for you. And the Lord will take care of you ... and you have your friends. Me, the others. Your wife, especially. You are not alone."

A weak, weak smile from him. A tiny sniffle, whiskers twitching. "Thanks," he whispered.

Graham gave a friendly nod of the head, eye-smiling. "You are most welcome."

A deep, cleansing breath from Emerson. And a sigh, and a stabilizing nod. "Um ... oh, I wanted to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Um ... well, I know you keep ‘special foods' for personal cooking, right? Like, real foods? In stasis?"

The snow rabbit nodded lightly. His bobtail flicker-flicked like a flame, audibly rustling against the couch-cushions. "I do, yes."

Emerson fiddled with his tail, swallowing. His whiskers twitching, dishy ears swiveling. Swivel-swivel. His nose sniffed. Eyes meeting the captain's, he said, "I, uh ... do you have cheese?"

A mirthful eye-smile. "Cheese?"

A fervent nod. "Only, it's ... been months since Azalea and I have had real cheese. Ages. I mean ... " He stammered a bit. " ... you just don't have access to it, you know, in deep space. I, uh ... I don't want a lot. Just enough to surprise her with. Over dinner ... "

" ... a ‘romantic' dinner, I take it?" Eyes still mirthful, ears waggling.

A shy, bashful nod.

"The food processor replicates any type of cheese you could dream of," Graham reminded.

"I know, and I avail of that, but ... I wanna have a special night with her. I want REAL cheese. And ... " His eyes darted, innocently, as he lowered his voice to a very quiet whisper. " ... we can taste the difference. Between the real stuff and the, uh, replicated ... " He trailed.

"I can imagine." A head-tilt, eyes shining. "Well ... I can spare you some cheese, yes. I have quite a bit."

"Thank you," was the grateful whisper.

"I will drop it by your quarters early this evening."

"Thanks," the mouse repeated, throwing his arms around the snow rabbit. Giving him a snuggle-hug.

Eyes gleaming, Graham raised his brow, his waggle-ears waggling. Waggle-waggle. Were he able, he would've chuckled. Were he able. Instead, he just sighed, saying, "You are welcome."

The tears on Emerson's wheat-colored cheek-fur had dried. He beamed, and retracted his arms, moving to a stand. Taking a deep breath. "Um ... I'm gonna go."

"Then, ensign," Graham said, with polite authority, gesturing with a paw, "you are dismissed."

A nod. "Yes, sir." And he scurried to the door, scrabbling out of sight.

And Graham just shook his head. "Mouses," he went, still amused. And a deep sigh. As he eyed the departmental reports. He still had more to read. And, so, he picked up a computer pad, trying not to turn around. For the sight of all those task-force ships reminded him of the coming thunder.



"Tweet-tweet? Anyone home?"

Aspera emerged from her open-windowed office (which had no true door, either), clacking her beak. "Very funny." In the background, little beep-a-beeps and mechanical chirrups could be heard from various equipments. The bio-beds were all empty, but were all very tidy. As if waiting to be used. And the lighting was soothing, but not dim.

"Would ‘chirp-chirp' have been funnier?" Kempton asked, grinning. "Or a ‘twitter-twitter-twit'?"

"Marginally."

"I'll have to remember that ... "

"What brings you here? You don't need a sedative, too, do you?"

"Sedative?" The cinnamon-furred rabbit blinked, whiskers giving a singular twitch.

"Some of the rodents ... their anxiety's gotten out of paw since, uh ... well, the closer we get to ... " She trailed. Not wanting to think about it, herself. "Anyway," she said, "I've treated Emerson, Azalea, and Wasilla ... "

" ... and the others?"

"Talkeetna and Antioch are rodents, yeah, but ... they're tougher cookies. They haven't asked for anything. Taylor insists he's fine, but I'm keeping a close eye on him."

A nod. "Well, I hope they'll be okay," was the rabbit's sincere wish. He felt a special kinship with his Reverie friends. Not that he wasn't making friends among the snow rabbits here on Yellowknife. But he didn't have a history with the snow rabbits. He had a history with the Reverie furs. Was closer to them. And, even though he and Cordova were rabbits, they weren't all that much like SNOW rabbits. The same increased virility, yes, and the same basic build, physically. But emotionally? Mentally?

"You still haven't told me what you're here for," the black-and-white warbler said, blinking. She stretched her winged arms. Giving a trill. And, sighing, lowered them.

Kempton sighed, squirming a bit. Looking around, even though there was nobody here but the two of them. And he padded toward the bird, whispering to the side of her head (for birds have no ‘ears'). "I, uh ... I need some ... "

" ... condoms?" she repeated, raising her feathered brow.

The rabbit blushed, hotly, beneath his fur. "‘Plastic sheaths'," he corrected, swallowing. "And, yes," he went. "I do ... " Still flushed.

"A modest rabbit?" Aspera teased, giggle-twittering.

"Look, I need some," was his insistence. Almost a plea.

"Cordova's nearing her heat?"

A little nod. "Yeah ... another day or two. Should be. And now would be a really, really bad time for me to, uh ... "

" ... knock her up."

"‘Successfully fertilize her'," offered the rabbit. "To get her pregnant. Now's not the time for a baby."

"I'd have to agree with that. Though those darned mouses are ... under the impression that it is. They really want one. I've told them to hold off." The warbler walked back into her office, her taloned feet treading delicately on the carpeted floor. She gestured with a wing. Meaning for him to follow her in.

"Are they? Going to hold off?"

"Well, I can't TELL them ... you know, what to do. But, with a war near ... and them on a star-ship, on the front lines ... " A breath. "So, he came in here a few days ago for some ‘plastic sheaths,' if you will ... so, I think they heeded my advice." A pause. "What's up with the modesty, anyway? You're a rabbit. You're normally so cheeky." A chirping sound. "You're the prince of cheek. Maybe even the king."

"I've just ... I'm not modest," Kempton insisted, in her office, now. He leaned on her computer console, his bobtail flickering. His warm, cinnamon-colored fur so inviting. (He'd even had a comment or two, regarding the richness of his pelt, from some of the ‘breeding party' snow rabbits. Kempton could've sworn they were giving him veiled invites. He'd ended those conversations as quickly as possible.) A sigh. "I'm just tired. Not in the mood to joke."

"I know the feeling," was the whisper. "How many you need?"

"Um ... " A flush. "Enough for three days."

"I'll give you a bag of twelve. If you need more than that ... "

" ... twelve? Um ... can you make it sixteen?"

The warbler's glistening black eyes looked him over. "You rabbits," she whistled. "I don't know whether to be exhausted or jealous ... at the thought."

"Look, we don't do it THAT much more than the rest of you. We all gotta do it," he insisted, "multiple times a day, so ... "

" ... four times, though? Four? Two or three is not the same as four," Aspera assured, making that whistle-sound again.

"Will you stop?" was the exasperated sigh. "Sixteen," he repeated.

"Alright. I'm giving you sixteen. If, Lord help us, you need more than that ... "

" ... I'll come back." A sigh. And a look. "It's not fair that all the ... all these," he said, gesturing, trailing, and picking up with, "and all the lubrication and stuff ... "

" ... is stored in sickbay?"

"Yes. It's embarrassing," he emphasized, truthfully, "to have to ask for it."

"Hence the modesty," the warbler realized, giggle-twittering again. "You don't like having to come crawling to your physician ... "

"You have me at a disadvantage," Kempton agreed.

"I do." A beak-smile.

"Well ... thank you," he said, holding up the bag, "for, uh ... thanks."

"You're welcome. And you needn't be embarrassed. I'm a doctor."

"I know. I guess ... " A pause, and a sigh through the nose. "I guess that's why," he continued, "I'm embarrassed. You're not just a regular fur. You're ... "

" ... a bird," she told him. "For one."

"Yeah, you're a bird. That's not what I mean, though. I mean ... doctors? They always scared me. When I was little, they always ... I don't know," he admitted. "Getting those hypos when I was young."

"Hypos don't sting all that much. Just for a moment. Would you rather we go back to needles, like they used back in the day?"

"No, thank you." A shivering shake of the head. "No ... but you know what I mean?"

"Doctors seem to know everything about your body," she supplied for him. "More than you, yourself, know about it. It makes you feel insecure. How they know about everything that might potentially go wrong inside you ... like they have some kind of secret insight," she whispered, "into your mortal fate."

Kempton, very quietly, whispered, "Yeah ... " A breath. " ... that's kind of, uh ... yeah. It's intimidating. They have the ability to save your life. Not many jobs entail regular life-saving."

"I used to feel that way. Used to be intimidated."

"Did you?"

A nod. A nod. "Yeah ... " She swallowed, clearing her throat. "I actually became a doctor because of that. That feeling. That ... I wanted to know," she admitted, "what they knew." A beak-smile, and she fluffed her feathers. "I wanted to be as big and important as they were. I wanted to heal furs ... like they did. To make the cuts and bruises just ... go away," she whispered. "I wanted to be a singer, though, actually. First. That was ... my dream."

"What happened with that?"

"Dreams aren't realistic. I had to ... choose between making a living, making a difference, or indulging my own artistic whims. I chose the former."

"Your voice isn't ... isn't a whim, Aspera. I've heard you sing," Kempton whispered. "We all have. It's ... beautiful," he said, shaking his head slightly. As if in awe. "Really."

"Doesn't matter, now. I sing on the side. To my friends. And Taylor. That's enough for me," she insisted. Though, with the tinge in her voice, one could argue whether that was truly the case. "Healing seems more important than singing, don't you think?"

"Well, would life be worth living without music?"

A small shake of the head. "No, but ... songs are welcoming things. They come in your head. They stay. Diseases? Hurt? Physical maladies? Those are things that ... you chase away. You make go away. It's harder. But it's necessary."

"But you can't make them all," Kempton whispered, "go away. All the hurts."

"No ... "

" ... and when that happens?"

"When that happens, I ... try not to hold it against myself. Sometimes, a body just ... gives up," she whispers. "Sometimes, I can't do anything. But if I took it personally, if I took it to heart," she confessed, "I wouldn't be of much worth to anyone. I wouldn't be able to function."

"Are you scared?" Kempton asked. "That you're gonna have to ... "

" ... log some crew-fur's time of death? In the next few days?" A pause. Her feathers seeming to droop. "I have faith, now. I didn't ... used to, I didn't. Taylor brought it to me," she whispered, with gratefulness in her tone. "Death? It loses some of its sting when you know it's been defeated. When you know you've ... eternity. That you're not going to REALLY die. That ... " A pause. "But it's still unbelievably scary, you know? All the same. That hurdle. It's still terrible." A sigh. "I don't know how I used to live without faith ... without that. That knowing," she whispered. "I know what'll happen to me. I know I'll be in heaven. With Taylor. I know it," she said, "because I believe it."

Kempton nodded, swallowing. "I know. I mean, us rabbits can be frivolous, but ... we believe. We aren't as devout as the rodents can be. Not generally. But ... " A sigh. "I'm, uh ... sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

"It's alright," Aspera assured. A pause. "Are you ... "

" ... scared?" He licked his dry lips. "Mm-hmm." A pause. His whiskers gave a singular twitch, and his ears waggled. He turned over the bag of ‘plastic sheaths' in his paw. "I, uh ... I just hate wearing these things," he whispered, changing the subject. To this lighter, more casual topic.

"Most males do. All males," she corrected, "do. But ... "

"I wanna feel her ... in heat," he whispered, pupils dilated, "without one of those things on ... I wanna feel her. My skin on her ... in her muscle, in her body, and ... " He trailed, letting out a hot breath.

"I can always give you an injection. You know that ... "

" ... and you know those injections have side-effects."

"The nausea goes away after twenty-four hours," was the assurance.

Kempton rolled his eyes a bit. "That quickly, huh? No, thanks. I've ... I tried that once. Not worth it."

"Well, then I'm afraid your ‘pride and joy' ... will have to wear those little sleeves, then," Aspera said, her voice with a ‘teasing' tone, "for the duration of her heat."

"Yeah."

"It's not all that bad. It'll still feel wonderful," she assured him. "It's sex. And, what's more," she told him, "it's love."

A nod. And an honest smile. "Yeah," was the dreamy sigh. Followed by another sigh. "Love ... " The cinnamon-furred rabbit stood up, stretching a bit. And then relaxing, giving the warbler a nod. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'm here to help. What are friends for?"

The cinnamon-furred rabbit smiled warmly, nodded, and then hopped away.

And the warbler sighed, sinking to a sit in her office-chair. Where she began to twitter and trill, singing to herself. Knowing that, later on, she'd be singing to her husband. In the privacy of their quarters. In each others arms (or, in her case, ‘winged arms').

Love, indeed, was the best medicine.



They were stuck together.

Knotted.

"I, uh ... " Pant, pant. " ... I love," she managed, recovering her breath, "you. Oh ... " They'd already climaxed. The both of them. The bliss lingering, descending. But the pika and coyote glued together, for all intents and purposes. For another fifteen minutes.

A low, rumbling growl from Konka's throat. A pleasantly protective sound. Which was his way of ‘reciprocating' her words.

Wasilla wasn't going to press for a verbalization. She didn't want an argument. Besides, she knew what he meant.

Their bedroom was dim, dark. Except for the stars outside the windows.

"That was," the coyote breathed, his muzzle on her cheek. His hot, hazy exhales washing over her fur. "That was ... pleasurable." A huff. "Mm ... "

"It normally is," was her whispered, eyes-closed response. She was pinned beneath him. His sweaty, fur-matted form. All that energy exerted. The scent of it all. All the heat made and released. And her arms were around his bare back. In his tawny fur. Her fingers meshing with his pelt, clutching. Holding. "Konka ... "

" ... mm?" was his grunt. He closed his own eyes, breathing lazily. His knot swollen. Stuck. He gave a testing tug.

Her toes curled.

He gave a light whine.

A tiny squeak from her. Her tunnel hot, steamy. Seed sloshing all about. "You ... "

" ... I can't," he whispered, grunting. He gave another tug. Then stopped. He was stuck pretty tight. "Not yet."

"It's alright," she breathed, after a while. Sighing. Taking a deep breath. And then sighing again. "It feels nice ... I ... I like," she admitted, "it." A swallow. Filled. So completely. Tied. With him. He couldn't get away from her, now, even if he wanted to. And it delighted her to know that he was a captive audience. That he couldn't get away. Even if he was his normal, stubborn self. At least she had his attention. A squeak, though. The pressure down there was readily felt. A tiny grunt. She tried to relax, to stay at ease. "Konka," she said, again.

And he gave the same response. "Mm?"

"I don't know," she went, trailing. Because she didn't. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say. And knew that he wasn't a good conversationalist, anyway. But, sometimes, she just wanted to talk. Just had to talk. Just, "Talk to me ... I really wanna talk. Please," she finally said. Her fingers gently scritched his back-fur. Gently, gently.

The canine seemed to hesitate. As if flustered. "What do you wish," he finally asked, "to talk about?" A sigh. Belly-to-belly, atop of her. Her breasts squashed against his chest-fur. Their hearts beating in tandem. Beat-beat. Beat. Thump-a-thump.

"Anything," was her breathy response. A swallow. "Anything ... "

"I, uh ... " His nose was on her cheek. Breathing, breathing. Her scent was very pleasant. Very soft. Very feminine. He sighed, breathing her in. "I, uh ... went to the Chignik today. To coordinate our sensor grid with theirs. To create a sensor net."

"I heard ... you went over on the shuttle-pod. Did you have fun?"

"I got ... stares," he explained.

"Oh."

"So, I stared back. And they stopped."

She had to smile at that. Just a bit. At his directness. His bluntness. She had to whisper, "You can be ... goofy, you know? Sometimes ... "

"Goofy?" he went.

"Goofy ... "

A low growl. Not one of menace. Just one of confusion. Wasilla knew him well enough, by now, to be able to decipher those coyote-sounds. Those throaty sounds.

"It's not a bad thing, darling. It's ... endearing."

"I am not ‘endearing'."

"But you are," she whispered. "Lord knows why, and maybe ... maybe I'm out of my mind, but ... you are," she told him, "endearing."

A flush. Hot beneath the fur. And a bit of guilt, too, on top of that. She seemed to love him so much. And, indeed, he loved her, too. That's why he married her. But, at the same time, it was hard to deny those predatory urges. Those predatory habits. The old way. The old indulgences. Like the other day, when he'd fought with Aisling in engineering. He'd wanted her. Then. There. Her taste, her scent. Her sex. Never mind she wasn't his wife. Never mind it would've crossed a dozen different moral lines.

At that moment, he would've done anything to breed with that snow rabbit. Even though he hated snow rabbits. It wasn't so much a matter of liking or disliking Aisling or her species. No, it'd been a matter of instinct. Pure instinct. About the fervent wish to exert his superiority, his dominance, to ‘mark' her as his territory by sowing her with his seed. About gaining sweet pleasure from her body. From using her. The whole incident had been, on his part, a feral affair. And he hadn't planned on that. Hadn't intended to fight with her in the first place. But once the fight had started, once it'd gotten rolling, his instincts had welled, and he'd started to lose control, and ...

... afterwards, with a broken muzzle (that Aspera had fully-repaired), he'd been laying on a bio-bed in sickbay. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling sick. Sick of himself. That wasn't something he'd felt before. He'd felt sorry.

"What's wrong ... "

A blink. A slight squirm atop of her. "What?"

"You ... you normally ... you're always wagging your tail," she whispered, "after we breed." A breath. "It's not wagging." A pause. "I love to hear it wagging. That ... you know, it whooshes the air."

"I am ... I am just tired," was his apologetic response.

Her arms held to him tighter. Pulling him down (even closer). A heavy sigh. "Oh, I know ... I know," she whispered, eyes closed. "It's okay. Oh, I'm so glad you're here. You don't know how scared I am ... I ... " Her voice broke. "I know you think it's stupid. To be scared. But ... I can't help it."

"It is alright ... "

" ... but it just ... having YOU here, it makes me feel safe," she breathed. "You're so strong." A delicate sigh. "I know we don't always see eye-to-eye, but ... you know, I don't regret it. Any of this. Any ... cause I don't want any other fur. I ... "

Konka swallowed.

" ... I want you. I do," she insisted. "We just gotta keep working at it. I know we can get better ... not that we're in bad shape or anything," she added, "as we are, but ... you know ... "

" ... yes," he whispered. He did. A heavy sigh. "Wasilla ... "

" ... yeah?" Her roundish ears cocked.

"I, uh ... I am, uh ... " Just say it, Konka. Do not be a coward. " ... I feel that I ... " He cleared his throat. " ... that I, often, I do not give you as much as myself," he told her, "as you deserve."

"Well ... "

" ... I do not," he insisted. He exhaled through his nose. "I am sorry if I ... if I take you for granted. I am ... " Such a hard word to say. " ... sorry."

Wasilla wasn't sure what to say, at first. A small breath. "Thank you. I ... well, it's okay, you know? Cause I love you ... "

And he realized, suddenly, that she was waiting for a response. When she said ‘I love you,' she was yearning for him to say it back. To bounce those words back to her. To reply, with meaning. She was tossing that phrase out like a fishing line, hoping he would bite. Hoping she would catch his heart. Hoping.

"I love you," she breathed, her voice breaking.

And, after a brief hesitation, the coyote replied, "I love you, too."

A sniffle. And her hug grew tighter. Her appreciation evident. So evident. Just in her physical grip.

He did love her. Would protect her, kill for her. Breed with her. It wasn't a matter of whether or not this was love. It was a matter of: what kind of love was it? Deep, rooted? Or average? Was it ‘LOVE,' or was it just ‘love'?

Konka would've been content with the lower-cased kind.

But Wasilla clearly wanted the all-capitals.

And, thus far, they'd compromised. Throughout their young marriage, they'd compromised. Meeting halfway. But it was clear that, sooner or later, they'd have to pick one. One side. And stick it with it. Otherwise, division would set in. As maybe, at times, it already had. Would he have allowed his feral instincts to surface with Aisling had his love for Wasilla been ‘LOVE' and not ‘love?'

A sigh from her. And she nuzzled him. With her nose.

He nuzzled back. With care, he nuzzled her. Nosing her, sniffing at her fur, her scent. And they cuddled for minutes more. Until he began to shrink enough, soften enough, and with a soft, sensitive yip, he yanked his hips back.

Plop!

The audible sound of their bodies parting. And Wasilla gave a squeak, closing her eyes. A tiny whimper. As she felt seed leaking from her in heavy rivulets. Soaking into the bed-sheets.

Konka growled and nibbled on her shoulders.

And she held to him. All the while, she held to him.

In the dark, they didn't part.

Not for an instant.

And his tail began to wag.