Scrub-scrub-scrub.

"I take it as an insult." A rag was dunked into a bucket of warm, soapy water. A bit of a splash as the rag was withdrawn and tossed (with a soggy slap-sound) against the wall. His brown-grey tail, all striped with black and silvery rings, gave lazy swishes. "I mean, shouldn't I? Not clean enough? What's that supposed to mean?"

Scrub-a-scrub.

Scrub.

"You gotta admit, this place is a bit rundown." Seldovia let out a breath, looking around. The dim, soothing lighting, shaded (so slightly) that hue of blue. She wondered, staying quiet enough, if you could hear the sounds of laughter and conversation that used to fill this place. When it was a hub. A home. Before it was turned into a ghostly shell. Before it had been forgotten by the universe.

They kept cleaning. For those were their orders: ‘cleaning comes first.' Is what Peregrine had said. Nothing else was to be done until the station was tidied to ‘mouse standards' ...



"How high are mouse standards?" Desmond asked, raising a paw. He was a toffee-colored cottontail. He was pretty easygoing. Just like Hyacinth, his wife (the brown Swiss). He was a handsome rabbit, well-spoken. But he didn't actually speak as much as some of the others. He could. He just preferred to listen. He was, truth be told, kind of shy. Which was an odd trait in a rabbit. "Medium-high? High-high?"

"High," was Peregrine's airy, simple response.

"Well, we get breaks, right? Lunch break? Breeding breaks?" The cottontail's eyes got wider with each question, his cottontail flicker-flick-flicking. "We don't have to clean straight through, do we?"

"Course not." The mouse's whiskers twitched. Twitched. His ears swiveling. "But, look, I'm not gonna have everyone taking a break every ten minutes. I want to get this done. I don't wanna have to worry about it anymore. And," the Commander added, "I don't wanna have to keep sneezing." His whiskers twitch-twitched. And his nose gave several sniffy-sniffs.

"I never sneeze," Hyacinth said. Chew-chewing her cud. She was a supple creature. Not exactly slender, no. But not overweight. Just that solid cow-build. With notable breasts. Her nipples showed through the fabric of her uniform. Cows constantly lactated. Where most mammals only produced milk after birthing a child, cows produced it daily (from puberty to menopause).

Wheldon, ribbing Desmond in the side with his elbow, said, "Bet you got good, healthy bones, yeah? All that calcium?" A wink. Knowing that Desmond liked to ‘milk' (or suckle on) his wife.

"Be quiet," was all Desmond said, slender ears getting a bit hot.

"Who, me?" Hyacinth blinked.

"No," Desmond said. " No ... Wheldon."

"He teasing you again?" the cow asked, ears flapping. Her ropy, brush-ended tail gave a lazy whip.

"You never sneeze?" Petra asked, her question a bit delayed. "With your nosy nose?" The rat was leaning against a computer console. Arms crossed. "Y'do sneeze. I'm sure I've heard ya."

"I don't," the cow insisted.

"Never heard of someone never sneezing. Not natural," the scruffy-furred rat declared. Her thick, naked-pink tail laying like a rope across some consoles.

"Wheldon always teases me," Desmond lamented. "It's not that I mind, but ... "

" ... that's what rabbit bucks do ... we tease each other. I'm just tryin' to make fun."

"I said I didn't mind the teasing. You're my friend. It's ... it's the timing, okay? The timing. Just ... tease me off-duty, or at lunch, or when we're alone. But not in front of everyone else. Not in front of the Commander." A breath. "I don't like the attention."

"Yeah, but ... as a rabbit, I'm obliged to make yiffy jokes whenever I get the opportunity. And if that's during a staff meeting or during red alert, then it can't be helped," was the indignant response. He crossed his arms.

"I don't make yiffy jokes about you during staff meetings or red alerts," Desmond said. "Just consider your timing. That's all I ask."

"Well ... "

"Um ... hello?" Peregrine squeaked, waving his paws. "I'm still here. This is still a staff meeting. Uh ... can we focus, please?" A sigh of frustration.

They were in Ops. He was standing on his office-steps. His office being placed a few feet above the rest of the room. Which allowed him to gaze out of his door-windows and see everything going on out there. Other members of his new staff were lolling around, listening, asking questions.

"Who's supposed to clean what?" Wheldon finally wanted to know. "Mm?" Where Desmond's fur was a chocolate kind of brown, Wheldon's was a tree-bark kind of brown. They were distinctly different shades, easily told apart. And brown was, after all, the most common kind of fur color.

"Well, I've drawn up a list, and ... a schedule," the mouse said, extending a pad.

Wheldon, squinting, took it.

"You don't have to follow it precisely. But, uh ... it should organize the whole thing."

"And what are you going to clean?" Wheldon asked, looking back up at the mouse.

"Ops and the command-core decks. Petra will help me. I believe you and Amelie are assigned to the Promenade."

"No one uses the Promenade. This is a mining station. The Promenade is smaller than on normal stations. And none of us use it."

"I want it cleaned," Peregrine repeated, patiently, looking around. "Anything else? Wheldon, uh ... pass that pad around, please."

The rabbit, ears waggling, did so. He looked to Amelie, his wife. The snow rabbit. "I suppose you're loving this?"

"I am," she said simply, logically. Eye-smiling. "I am a great believer in order and structure." She gave a look at Peregrine. "I am glad that my values are finally being shared."

"They're all messes, huh?" The mouse smiled a bit.

"It is trying," Amelie said, "at times ... yes."

"Well, I'll put you in charge of station ‘order and structure', then." A warm, little smile.

The snow rabbit tilted her head and gave a polite nod. Her official title was ‘ambassador,' and her specialization was history. She was in charge of studying the ruins and artifacts on the planet below.

Wheldon then joked, "I guess that makes her our ‘Queen of Clean'."

"Where's Nin and Prancer?" Hyacinth asked. The cow was chewing her cud.

"Breeding, probably," was someone's answer.

"I heard sounds coming from the infirmary on the way here ... maybe they, uh ... well, lost track of time ... "

Wheldon was about to make a yiffy joke, but several looks were sent his way. He grumbled, sighing. "It was a good one!" he insisted. "You can't silence me for long ... "

" ... we know," Desmond said.

Amelie just eye-smiled. Her husband was, indeed, outgoing. Somewhat boisterous, even. But, to her, that kind of openness and jocularity was a novelty. Her species could not do that (because of their freezes).

The group resumed chatting with one another.

Peregrine gave a bit of a sigh. He wanted to get to know his new crew. Become friends. Find out more about them. But, so far, he hadn't had time. He'd arrived, gotten settled. Everything needed to be cleaned. Then he needed to check out the ruins on the planet. But he hoped to find time to get to know everyone better. To win their trust. Maybe to make a difference in their lives. He wanted so badly to have others trust him. To not look at him and question his sanity. He'd had that too often in the past few years.

They talked so easily with one another. They were obviously close. Friends, spouses. Getting on each other's nerves, but loving each other all the same. And the mouse felt like an outsider. Like he didn't belong.

Felt ignored.

"Shall we go, sir?" Amelie finally asked.

A blink. "Mm? Oh ... you don't have to call me sir. Just, uh ... call me Peregrine."

"Your name is that of a falcon, yes?" the snow rabbit inquired.

"Yes."

"Why is that?" She tilted her head, curiously. Ears waggling. Her bobtail flickering.

"Cleaning comes first," was all Peregrine said. "Stories and jokes ... let's focus. Let's clean." He clasped his paws together, giving a squeak. "Dismissed."



Mortimer and Seldovia were assigned to clean the docking pylons. Which jutted out of the docking and habitat rings like arms or wings. Made the station look slightly spidery. But it allowed for many ships to be docked at once. Which, once upon a time, had been needed. Back when this had been a bustling mining facility.

"You didn't have to be so hard on him, you know. Yesterday. All those questions."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, blinking, looking up. His mask-like face peering over at her. "In Ops? I didn't say a word. I just sat and listened. I behaved," he insisted.

"Today, you did. But I'm talking yesterday. During the staff briefing when he got here. You were basically interrogating Peregrine."

"Was not."

"Was." The skunk, on her knees, arched her back. Stretching a bit. A sigh. "I think you hurt his feelings, Morty."

"Mouses are basket-cases. You look at ‘em wrong," the raccoon responded, scrubbing the outside of an access tube, "and they get hurt."

"Well, how ‘bout ... "

" ... I'm trying to clean. It's hard to do when I'm being picked on."

"You should be so blessed," was Seldovia's grinning response. Her silky, black-furred tail with the bold, white stripe down the middle, hung in the air. Swish-swish.

"What? Blessed?"

"To have me picking on you. I can tease with the best of them."

"Never said you couldn't."

"Then why are you complaining?"

"Cause I like to."

She gave him a lookover, and then looked to the bulkheads. "You can do better than that. I still see plasma residue."

"I'm doin' fine."

"I expect A-grade work from you, mister," she said, warmly. "You're an engineer. Shouldn't you like things to be crisp, orderly? All that?"

"An engineer without a bit of grime on his uniform probably hasn't been doing his job," Mortimer said simply.

"I don't buy it."

"I'm not asking you to, darling. Just telling it like it is."

"And you tell it so well," she teased, shaking her head. And she trailed. Before looking around. "You brought the vacuum, right?"

"It's around the corner. Hey, we're not done with the bulkheads yet ... you can't leave," Mortimer declared.

" ... I know, I know. Just saying," she replied. "All this carpet." The skunk pressed her paws into the soft, plush carpet. It could do with a vacuuming. "It traps so much dust ... sand grains. Strands of fur. A metal floor wouldn't trap so much. Wouldn't harbor dust mites, either."

"Well, wear shoes."

The skunk rolled her eyes. "Furs don't wear shoes. They hurt."

"Exactly. And you can't have metal floors if you've got bare foot-paws treading on them. Hurts the paw-pads. You get callouses. It has to be carpeted."

"I know. I'm just saying ... it's a lot of vacuuming." A sigh. This was going to take hours, honestly. All day. Maybe tomorrow, too. They weren't cleaning every room on the station. Just the main places (for a start). They'd worry about the rest later, Peregrine had said. "I'd like to get started. I bet this place hasn't been vacuumed in, like, a year. Since last shedding season."

A sigh. "Shedding season," the raccoon grumbled. "That's coming up again, right?"

"Another month, yeah." A pause. It lasted a few weeks. You couldn't sit down without leaving countless strands of fur in your chair. They'd get in your food, too. And cling to your bed-sheets and pillows and clothes. It was annoying, but an unavoidable part of having fur. "We gotta remember to get new doses of flea gel from Prancer. If we're going down to the planet soon, we'll need the protection. Lots of mosquitoes and fleas down there ... last time I was there."

"We just had our dosage last week."

"Try three weeks ago."

"What?" A frown.

"Look, don't argue. I know what I'm talking about. I'm sure our last dosage has worn off by now ... fleas, ticks ... " A shiver. "Ticks are the worst. And when they get on the black part of my pelt? Can't see ‘em. Can't even see ‘em. Don't feel ‘em until they're down they're, biting, sucking ... "

" ... will you stop?" A frown face.

"Afraid of ticks?"

"Yes," was the honest, blunt response. "I don't wanna hear about ‘em."

A nod, and a bit of a head-tilt. "Just saying, darling. Trying to get it through your head: cleaning this place will do everyone good. Clean foot-paws, safe pelts. Really, the fact that it's in this condition ... "

" ... we've had other things to concentrate on, darling," was the raccoon's serious response. A pause. "Like fending off space pirates. Dealing with that vicious feline." A breath. "Trying to survive and stay sane." He trailed, before adding, with bitterness in his voice, "The Federation abandoned us."

"I know that, but ... "

" ... and I don't have a staff. And Operations? I mean, does Desmond have a staff? No one does. This station was meant to house hundreds of furs ... not ten. Ten furs can't run a space station. Much less clean it every day."

"I know," was her patient repeat. "Why are you getting so defensive, huh?"

"Cause our new commanding officer thinks I'm a slob, and I'm not. And I don't like being thought of as one."

A shake of the head. "He doesn't think you're a slob. He never said that."

"He must think it ... " Mortimer trailed. Scrubbing more.

Scrub-scrub-scrub.

A sigh from Seldovia. "Just look at the state of my pelt. It looks dull today ... you used the wrong shampoo on me this morning," she accused.

"Didn't."

"Did. Did ... I know you did. My fur is silkier than yours. I need SKUNK shampoo ... "

"Like, how is this my fault?" Mortimer wanted to know, scrub-scrubbing, giving a bit of a sigh. "Hmm?"

"You're the one who shampooed me!" the skunk said again. "Stop being so dense."

"I'm not dense. And when we're having sex and shampooing each other's fur at the same time, I don't really stop to think what shampoo bottle I grab, do I? Like I was focused on which shampoo I was slathering you with?" A pause. And, more tenderly, "I just wanted my paws stroking you, and ... " The raccoon got quieter. "I just had to feel you. I wasn't caring what kind of shampoo I was putting in your fur ... "

"Well ... okay, I grant you that," was the honest response. A smile. "You can be sweet, you know?" she said, after a few seconds. "Sometimes. Sometimes, you can be sweet."

"Like sugar, I'm sure."

"Ah, but then the bite comes back. That coon-ish sarcasm. Trademark of your species."

"You like my bite," he whispered.

"I do. But I wish you'd let the sweet come out a bit more ... " A pause. A breath. "But the bottles are different colors, okay?" she said, starting up on that again. "Seriously, just grab the black bottle next time."

"I normally do."

"Well, you didn't this morning ... " She kept looking at her fur, running her fingers through it. "It's so dull."

"It is not. I can't even tell the difference." He peered at her. "It looks lovely."

"Oh, that's flattering. You ‘can't even tell the difference'?"

"I said it was lovely!" A huff. "I thought the bottle I grabbed ... thought it was black. You didn't object."

"I was in throes of rising ecstasy at the time," was her reply. She bit back a smile, wanting to laugh.

"There you go, then. And who was giving you those throes? Me and my coon-hood. So, if anything, you should be thanking me. Not nagging me about shampoo ... "

This time, she did laugh. "You're just a dynamo, you know that ... really, you're a breeding maestro. I defer to your pleasure-giving graciousness."

"You should," he said, keeping a straight, serious face.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Neither do I."

Another laugh, longer, bright and warm. She threw her rag at him. "You ... " Uncontrollable giggles. " ... your shampoo's in the blue bottle! Blue! Mine's ... " Giggle-mew. " ... in the black." She dipped her paws in the water bucket, and then flicked him with extra water-drops.

A chuckle, water droplets dripping off his whiskers. Angular ears cocked atop his head. "You got me wet!"

"You're just ... you're ... " Laughter. "I'll ... "

" ... don't you DARE. What are you doing ... "

She picked up her bucket of soap-water. "I will. I'll do it."

"Seldovia, don't even ... I mean it ... "

" ... or you'll what?" she whispered, skunk-purring, leaning toward him. Holding the bucket with both paws.

"Or I'll ... " He thought for a moment, before replying, eyes shining. "I'll ravage you."

Giggle-mews, shaking her head. She had to put the bucket down as she slumped against the bulkhead, at a lazy sit. "Oh ... oh, that hurts." She'd been laughing so hard. She tried to settle down. Small, steady breaths. And a few intermittent giggles.

Mortimer stopped cleaning, sitting beside her. He smiled.

She looked to him, smiling back. "You'll ravage me?" she repeated, at a close whisper.

"Sexually," he whispered back, eyes glowing. "In the best way, of course."

"Oh, of course." A giggle, eyes squinting with mirth. "You're a character, you know that? You're the crankiest, cheekiest fur I've ever known, and ... " Her voice dropped to a whisper. " ... and it lights my fire, for some reason. Sometimes, I wanna know why, but ... I don't think it really matters. You're just maddening." A pause, tilting her head, smiling. "In the best way, of course," was her addition.

He nodded back at her. "I guess we should call our argument," he told her, "a draw."

"A draw, huh?"

"Well, I can't give you the victory." Raccoons loved to argue. "But I'll give you a draw."

"You're so generous." A giggle-mew. And she leaned her head on her husband's shoulder. A small, satisfied sigh.

Mortimer was about to close his own eyes. When they opened fully. And he nodded down the corridor. "Peregrine's shuttle is still docked up here. He hasn't moved it to a launching pad yet." The launching pads retreated within the hull of the station, into bays. The pylons were simply arms that you docked with. Meant for temporary docking, not permanent.

"So?"

"So, it's right there ... let's go in."

Seldovia sat up straighter. "Go in? To his shuttle?"

"Yeah." The raccoon was already moving to a stand.

"Hey," the skunk called, clambering upward, moving after him. "You can't just barge into his private shuttle."

"It's the Federation's shuttle. He was just using it."

"He was in there for a week ... all alone. Traveling." A pause. "He probably has personal things in there."

"Like what?" Mortimer asked, turning his head. Meeting his wife's eyes.

A sigh. "If you take ANY shiny objects ... "

" ... he's gotta have some."

"I cannot believe this. I can't ... "

" ... look, he's bound to have something."

"You want to break into his shuttle to look for shiny objects? Of all the racoon things you do, that is the coon-iest ... "

" ... look, I'm going in. And if we happen to stumble across anything else, well ... " A not-so-innocent look. " ... I want to know more about our new commanding officer. I think he has secrets."

"We all do," she responded, seriously.

"Anyway, darling, that shuttle's not supposed to be docked at a pylon. Rules and regulations. It's been twenty-four hours. It has to be moved to a launch pad."

"Well ... "

" ... it's the rules."

"Yes, but ... look, he didn't ASK us to move it."

"If he's a good officer, he'll understand we're only doing our duty. He's too busy to move his shuttle, so we'll move it for him."

A throaty growl-sound. "That's sneaky. That's SO sneaky ... hey! Wait!" She padded after him, at a jog. But she didn't catch up to him until he'd already hit the ‘open' button for the rusty-red, gear-like hatch, which rolled aside, allowing access to the docking ramp, and then the shuttle itself. Seldovia entered the shuttle a few seconds after her husband.

Mortimer, turning his head, said, "Smells like mouse."

A roll of her eyes. "Really?"

"That earthy, slightly musky ... that rural smell. You know?"

"Smells fine. It's nice."

Mortimer raised his brow.

"What?"

"Mouses smell nice?"

A sigh, and a bob of her head. "Not as good as raccoons."

"Good." A satisfied nod from him, and he started to pad to the back of the shuttle, but she grabbed his uniform.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she said, a tone in her voice.

It took Mortimer a few seconds to figure out what she wanted. "But skunks smell the best of any furs. I'd rather smell your pheromones," he said, "than flowers." Lame, maybe. But true. A skunk's pheromones acted like a perfumed drug. Very pleasurable. Of course, skunks had two scent glands at their tail-base. One for sex-scent (the pheromones) and another for defensive spray (the bad smell). The former was mind-blowing. But you never wanted to smell the latter. Bullying a skunk was a bad, bad idea. And most furs knew it. And having that defensive spray gave skunks an air of cool, silky confidence. Knowing they had such a feared natural weapon.

A toothy grin at her husband's statement. "Good," Seldovia stated, echoing his earlier wording.

"It's still a draw, by the way," Mortimer said, pulling loose from her grasp. He fished around, nosily. Black nose sniffing, masked muzzle poking about. "A stem bolt!" he went. Like a child in a candy shop. "A stem bolt ... look."

"A stem bolt?" The skunk raised a brow.

"It must've come loose from the chair ... " He picked up the bolt. "Yeah ... see?" He pointed to where it'd come loose from. "He must've used the chair a lot."

"What could you do to a chair to make a stem bolt come out?"

"Hump it," Mortimer said, unabashedly. And he put his paw on the back of the chair. "Look, the material's plushy, very soft ... if you straddled it backwards ... "

The skunk didn't know whether to laugh or nod. She just let out a breath. "Uh ... okay." A slow nod. "I didn't know you an expert on humping chairs ... "

"I'm not," was the frown-faced, defensive response. "I'm just saying: he was alone in this shuttle for a week ... what else is a fur gonna do, huh? I'm a male. I know. Your paw ... oh, I see. I see ... "

"What?" The skunk blinked.

"No, see, the computer screens ... if you turn the chair backwards, straddle it ... you can hug and hump the chair while you watch yiffy videos on the screens. Yeah? See ... "

" ... oh."

"He probably got carried away while watching them. Being he doesn't have a mate and all ... "

"Well, that explains the stem bolt, then." A pause. Looking around. "I'm feelin' really guilty about this, Morty. He'd be so embarrassed if he knew we were in here."

"We're all mature furs. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Mouses are very shy and modest," the skunk said.

"Mm," was all Mortimer did. "Whatever he was watching, it'll be in the main computer ... " A few beep-a-beeps, a few button-taps. " ... but I guess we shouldn't look at those."

"Going into the Commander's shuttle is one thing, but accessing his personal files ... no. No way." She gestured with her paws, making a ‘no good' signal. As if her husband had just missed a field goal.

"I said I wouldn't." The raccoon held up his paws, backing away from the controls.

The skunk made an unhappy sound. "All we know about the Commander is that he's a mouse and likes sex. That doesn't tell us anything. Let's just leave, okay?"

"Come on, Seldovia ... there are more clues here, I'm sure."

"They're not OUR clues to find. Come on. Let's go ... are you gonna put that stem bolt back?" Seldovia asked.

"What? No! If I put some lemon juice on it ... " He held it to the light, sighing. " ... oh ... see? There's a great shine in this bolt! I just have to bring it out." Another sigh. "I'll add it to my collection."

"That collection's startin' to take up a bit of space, you know."

Mortimer didn't seem to hear her. He kept turning the silvery, metal bolt over and over in his furry fingers.

The skunk just smiled, giving a soft sigh of her own.

Mortimer, after a moment, looked to her. He blinked. "What?"

"It's cute. This ... fixation," she said, nodding, "with shiny things. You go wild at finding a stem bolt? Cute!"

The raccoon tried to put his sarcastic face on. "Is not."

"Is. You're cute. Cute!" the skunk purred.

A sigh. Mortimer, looking around, said, "I don't see anything else ... any bags or anything. Or ... " He squinted. " ... a picture." He padded to it. It was in the back of the shuttle, on one of the cushioned seats. "It's a mouse. A femme mouse." He picked it up.

"She's pretty," Seldovia said, looking over her husband's shoulder. "Field mouse? That honey-tan fur?"

"Probably." A pause. "But what kind of mouse would that make Peregrine?"

"Meadow mouse," Peregrine said.

Seldovia and Mortimer, both barking in surprise, spun, wide-eyed. Startled.

Peregrine's whiskers twitched. He was in the shuttle's doorway. "Quiet as a mouse," he whispered, tail wavering. He swallowed, eyes darting. His gaze going back to them. "More than a saying, you know?" Whiskers twitched.

"Um ... uh, C-commander, sir ... uh," Seldovia said. A breath. "We were going to ... "

" ... move your shuttle," Mortimer supplied. "Uh ... you know, regulations. Not supposed to leave shuttles on docking pylons."

"Because we're just brimming with traffic, and this pylon," Peregrine said, quietly, "is in such high demand?"

"Uh ... well ... we were just gonna move it to the launching pad for you. Launching Pad C," the raccoon said, nodding.

"We were engaged," Peregrine said, eyes distant. His posture demure, weak. As if he'd been battered. And he had been. By memories. "The mouse in the picture. She and I," he explained, looking to his two new officers.

They both fidgeted, feeling ashamed. As if they'd gotten caught with their paws in a cookie jar.

"She was under my command, and ... I was the commander. First officer on a star-ship. I always headed the away teams. She was on the away team that day." A pause. He bit his lip, whiskers twitching. A shaky breath. "I, uh ... she was hurt. And, uh ... " He looked to the carpeted floor, to his bare foot-paws. He dug his toes into the carpet, not looking up. "I risked the lives of the away team, and the safety of the ship ... I ignored every regulation," he said, "to save her. And ... " He cleared his throat, looking up. "I failed."

Seldovia bit her lip.

"She died, and ... I was reprimanded for endangering the rest of the crew for the life one fur. Others could've died. I allowed my love to get in the way of my duty, and ... but, you know, they understood. My superiors, they understood. Which is why I wasn't discharged. Which is why I wasn't punished. Instead, they sent me to counseling, therapy, and ... then the civil war came, and I did odd-jobs, desk-work. They feared I couldn't handle being in space again. They didn't trust me to command. But they needed someone to fill this job here, and ... so, they sent me." A breath. "But that, uh ... I lost her two years ago. I was twenty-one at the time. I've gotten over it," he assured. He'd accepted her death. She was in heaven. God was in control. It was okay. He would see her again. She was still alive. Her soul. "I just fear that, if I love again, I'll lose," he whispered, "again. What if it happens again? It hurts too much. If I lost someone like that again, I'd ... " He trailed.

"Peregrine," Seldovia whispered, eyes watering.

"Don't say you're sorry," the mouse whispered, swallowing. Whispering. "She's in heaven. She's fine. Nothing to be sorry for ... it's ... just ... " He took a breath. " ... I just wasn't meant to live my mortal life with her. Things happen," he said, as much for himself as for anyone, "for a reason. For a purpose." A breath. "I have faith. So, uh, don't be sorry." His effeminate voice airy, almost floating away. Whispered as it was.

The skunk bit her lip, nodding. Wanting to give the mouse a hug. But knowing that, if she did, he'd start sobbing. He looked to be on the edge. And she knew that, as a commanding officer, he didn't want to cry in front of his subordinates. He was a mouse. But he was trying to be so tough (which wasn't very mouse-like). He was almost trying too hard. Pushing himself. Maybe punishing himself?

"I, uh ... " The mouse took a few breaths, clearing his throat. "I came to get the rest of my things. I'm on my lunch break."

"We, uh ... we already took ours," Mortimer said, lamely.

The mouse looked to his paws. "You can keep the stem bolt."

"Uh ... "

" ... we can always get a new one for the seat. Keep it."

The raccoon nodded dumbly.

The mouse forced himself to smile, trying to lighten the air. Not wanting them to pity him. "Your cleaning going well?"

Mortimer just nodded.

Seldovia said, "It's, uh ... it's going."

"Good. Well, keep at it, and ... tomorrow, we'll go down to the planet. You have runabouts?"

"Two," the skunk said. Runabouts were a bit bigger than shuttles. A bit more multi-purpose.

"We'll take one of those." Peregrine gathered his things, everything he'd left behind. "You'll move my shuttle to the launch pad?"

"Yes," Mortimer said, not able to make eye contact with the mouse.

"Thank you," Peregrine said, politely. He looked to the chair, his ears going rosy-pink. Knowing they both knew why the stem bolt had fallen out. "I, uh ... I couldn't help myself. I was a bit tipsy, and, uh ... watching, uh ... you know ... felt good at the time. Seems silly, now."

"Not silly at all," Seldovia assured, gently.

Swallowing, whiskers twitching, the mouse let out a breath. "Well, uh ... I'll see you later."

The skunk and raccoon nodded as the mouse left.

And Peregrine made it around the first bend in the corridor, well out of sight and ear-shot, before he allowed the anxiety to surface. His paws shook. He dropped his things, including the picture. He tried to catch his breath, but he couldn't. He had to slump against the wall, eyes screwed shut. The fear. The pulsing, racing fear. A few squeaky sobs.

Dear God, calm me down.

Make it go away.

Please.

A breath.

Please.

Another breath. Until, bewildered, he bent down and scooped up his things. And left for his quarters. He had to paw, eat lunch. And go back to Ops. Petra was interesting to talk to. He never would've thought he could be friends with a rat. But she wasn't that bad. She had asked him to dinner tonight. Her quarters. He'd said no.

She'd insisted.

Somehow, she'd changed his answer to yes.

But he was so tired right now. And he wasn't sure he would make for good conversation. Most of all, though: he was scared of where this dinner would lead to. He was scared of letting himself be vulnerable only to have his heart ripped out. Only to get hurt. It had taken him two years, but he'd finally let go of his old memories. He felt was on the verge of getting truly better. And maybe this assignment would help him grow.

Too much to think about.

Too much to feel.

Too much.

He squeaked as he entered a lift. He squeaked again, sighing.

The computer chirruped. "Command not recognized," it stated smoothly.

And Peregrine, eyes opening, squeaked again.

"Command not recognized."

The mouse gave a soft, tired smile. "Habitat ring," he said, verbally. "Section ten."

And the lift whisked him away.