Scarred - Chapter 2

Epilogues: Scarred - Chapter 2

The first conscious thought you have is that of a sunset; glorious reds, and especially oranges, tinting your still-lidded vision. Your eyelids flutter open, slitted against the fading daylight streaming in through your still-open blackout curtains (a necessity given your work schedule), which has been mercifully filtered through the orange plumes adorning Chica’s slumbering head.

“Must have forgot to close them.” You mumble softly.

The third conscious thought that flits through your groggy, almost-conscious mind...is that? You gently squeeze, testing your initial supposition.

Yes, Mike, that's definitely a boob in your right hand.

Your eyes fly wide open at that, and you jerk your hand out from under Chica's flimsy excuse for a night shirt and resume station directly over her midriff, hugging her as chastely as you can manage as she stirs awake.

“Mmmmmmmm, I just had the most wonderful dream.” Chica purrs, rolling over to face you with a warm smile on her cracked lips. “Correction. I'm *having* the most wonderful dream.” She adds, leaning in and planting a slow, smoldering kiss on your lips. After the initial shock wears off, you return it eagerly, pulling the warm bird to you by the small of her back.

You finally part, and regard each other with soft, satisfied smiles. “So now what?” You ask, far more broad a query than your words might indicate.

“Welllllll, there's always...” she begins, trailing a solitary, and *very* ticklish feathertip through the sparse thatch connecting your navel to your waistband, your breath catching in response.

“Yeah, there is,” you manage through an involuntary chuckle, “but if you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have an excuse to keep condoms on hand.” You admit sheepishly.

“Didn't" she corrects with a saucy grin.

You gulp audibly. “So noted.” You reply with a nervous smile of your own.

“Soooooo...sloppy makeout session?” She suggests far more off-handedly than is warranted, but well within her sense of humor, which only endears the lovely female more to you.

“Sounds like a plan.” You agree with a smile, pulling her towards you, lips gently parted for a kiss that never lands as three sharp knocks on your bedroom door interrupt you.

“Mademoiselle Chica?” Freddy asks politely, voice muffled by the door.

“Yeah, Freddy?” She replies without thinking. Or not thinking quickly enough, it seems, the orange bird bolting upright in bed, her hands clasped over her mouth as her cheeks bulge almost comically.

“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” He answers back, ever the helpful chef. “And Michael?” He continues, eliciting wide-eyed, panicked head shaking from your bedmate.

“It’s my bedroom!” You mouth back at her, nearly as panicked before taking a deep breath and answering the gourmet bear with a quavering voice “Yes?”

“Selon vos souhaits, nous avons des crêpes Suzette pour le dessert ce soir avec un gâteau de forêt noire.” He adds, many culinary terms yet beyond his English vocabulary.

“Merci, mon ami!” You call back, your Fredspeak even more limited than his English but sufficient here. “Yes!” You utter much more softly, pumping your fist at the dessert menu. The elation quickly turns to dread as you turn back to Chica, her eyes wide in terror.

“He knows.” She hisses, looking to you, then to the door and back to you once again.

“That you're in here, yes.” You admit readily, projecting as much nonchalance as you can manage, given the situation. “Look, he's been gone all day, and probably been in the kitchen ever since he got back. Besides, it's not like we're doing anything wrong, babe.” You reassure her, the term of affection rolling off your tongue before you realize it even as your hand finds her cheek. She smiles and nuzzles gently into your palm.

“You're right, I guess.” She replies, breathing a sigh of relief, and ramping down for a second before her eyes snap wide yet again.

“But what about…?” She asks, a whispered shriek yanking your train of thought forcibly into the exact same station as hers, drawing a dreadfully mumbled statement from the hen.

“Bonnie's gonna kill me.”

Both of your hands find your face, your biggest screw-up yet now blatantly obvious. You've broken the heart of the most innocent girl you've ever met, fuzzy blue bunny or not. “Oh God, Chica.” You moan in despair.

“Mike?” She asks quietly, pulling your hands down to gaze into your eyes with an expression as worried as yours. “Do you think this is a mistake?” She asks, pleading for answers. If the eyes are windows to the soul, you can see straight into her fear and apprehension now, and it gives you pause even more, your struggle to find the right words harder still with the added pressure.

“Because we haven't gone too far I don't think, I mean, not that I didn't want to, and I'll still want to, you know, and…” she begins in a panicked ramble to cover your silence before she herself is silenced by a forceful, but tender kiss.

“No. This isn't a mistake, Chica.” You reassure her, gently clasping your hands over her downy cheeks, your forehead against hers. “We just have to keep this under wraps for a little bit, until we can break it to her gently, okay? I'm not ashamed of us, don't go there, babe.” You add in response to seeing her expression sour slightly. “I just don't want to hurt either of you, okay?”

“Okay, Mike.” She replies, trusting you and giving you another peck on the lips before she rolls out of bed. You follow suit, creeping over to the door as silently as you can manage. You open it and pop your head out, looking down the hallway towards the living room and kitchen. The kitchen is the only area with a light on, which seems strange until you look directly across the hall and see a light under Bonnie's door, flitting shadows indicating that she's up and about at least. You duck back inside, turning to your lady, once again struck by how little is left to the imagination by her outfit. Your eyes rove up and down and back up her body, hoping to God you never screw this up, before you finally find yourself looking into her wryly smiling face.

“My tits are down here, Michael.” She says saucily, flipping up the hem of her shirt.

“Huh?” You blurt before what she's said hits you like a ton of bricks and you frantically flick your gaze downward just in time to have her cover them again.

“Too late.” She says mischievously, a saccharine-sweet smile on her face.

“Tease.” you remark testily.

“Preview, loverboy.” she replies coyly, winking with a fiery gleam in her eyes.

“I'll hold you to that.” You shoot back, your face wearing a wry smirk.

“Likewise.” She says, her smile almost predatory as she gives you an intense visual inspection as well.

Chuckling softly, you lean in and give her one more kiss before returning to the door to check the hallway again, Chica's warm feathers draping over your bare back as she leans in behind you.

“Okay. It's dark, Bonnie's still in her room, and Freddy is in the kitchen. Just a quick dash and you'll be safe.” You whisper to her before you feel her fondle your backside once again.

“One for the road.” She whispers warmly in your ear. “Wear something nice to dinner?” She asks politely, implying that she'll do the same.

“Top and tails?” You suggest snarkily.

“Don't be silly, Michael.” She shoots back, clearly feigning offense. With a deep breath, she ducks past you and into the darkened hallway, making the five yard dash to her door quicker than you've seen anyone move before bolting inside and shutting the door as quiet as a church mouse.

Are mice noted churchgoers in the land of the cartoon mascots? Yet another question for Faz.

Once your girlfriend is safely behind her door, you close yours quietly and breathe a sigh of relief.

That's when the panic hits you like a bomb.

How in the hell are you gonna break this to Bonnibel? A gentle, sweet, fragile little girl, and now what? You sure put up a good front for Chica, but you've got no one shoring up your conscience now.

“Shit.” You mutter softly, sitting on the edge of your waterbed for a moment before you flop backwards onto the sunrise orange linens. Your head rocks back and forth as you spiral into despair for your misdeeds, balled fists pressing inward at your temples. Your eyes flick open at the sound of a knock, not on your door, but someone else’s.

“Chica? Can I come in? I need to talk to you for a minute.” Comes Bonnie’s voice, rather clear and loud, especially for the timid waif of a rabbit. A few seconds later you hear the door open and close again, and you're panicking even more, hearing your friend's voice bringing on even more guilt and shame. Times like this are when you wish Freddy hadn't saved you after all.

Your pity party is broken by another knock, this time at your own door.

“Michael?” Comes that soft, sweet voice.

“Yeah, Bonnie?” You manage to answer through a near-sob.

“Dinner’s ready. Don't want everyone's food to get cold.”

“Be there in a minute, Bon.”

“Okay!” She replies with an innocent cheer that slips an icy dagger into your heart.

Sitting up, and remembering Chica's request, you find the nicest, or at least cleanest, pair of jeans you have, exchanging them for your pajama pants. You yank a never-before-worn striped shirt in orange with (relatively) broad blue pinstripes out of your closet and quickly work the buttons and tuck it in. The ensemble is completed with the exceptionally ornate, but tasteful, tooled leather belt that Bonson, of all people, made for you at summer camp. That boy sure has taken a shine to you for some reason.

Slipping your shoes back on, you stand and move to the door, trying to steady your nerves before going out to face your three roommates. You open the door and take a deep breath, partly to calm yourself, but mostly because of the Game.

Something ChiChi has been teaching you is that we taste with our nose first. So every meal, you've tried to sample the aromas coming from the kitchen, and put together a picture in your head of what the talented bear is making. After a month you were getting good enough that Freddy started broadening the menu, to everyone else’s delight, mind you. Closing your eyes, to concentrate your other senses you begin to slowly walk the very familiar eight paces to the kitchen, sampling the aromas along the way.

Fresh bread, that's an easy one. So’s the hint of bacon. Tart, tangy... tomato! Sauce? Herbs, definitely basil, is that fennel? Another browned meat, certainly, pork? Sausage! That's where the fennel is. Earthy note has to be mushrooms of some sort. Faint nutty aroma...parmesan? Peppers and onions, no mistaking that combination.

Wait a minute.

“You made *pizza*?” You dumbfoundedly ask Freddy as your eyes open to utter darkness.

“...the fuck?” You mutter, even more bewildered than you were a second ago, before all hell breaks loose.

“SURPRISE!!!” is screamed by over a dozen members of your makeshift family as all the lights in the kitchen and living room blast you in the face like a shotgun.

“Gahhhh!” You blurt incoherently, stumbling against the wall and clutching your now doubly-panicked heart as everyone laughs uproariously for several moments. The laughter dies down quickly, as everyone rushes forward to welcome you to the party, or revel in your embarrassment, take your pick.

“All right.” You gasp, regaining your bearings. “Whose idea was this?” You growl in mock anger.

“Mine.” A sweet, innocent little voice peeps up, already sounding browbeaten, and breaking your heart in the process.

“Oh, Bonnie, I'm not mad, c’mere” you plead, kneeling with arms open to hug the pale blue waif, who is dressed in a pretty white sundress with a sunflower print. It suits her quite well, to be honest. She shuffles hesitantly toward you until you envelop her in a tight hug, which she returns quickly.

“Thank you, Bonnie.” You mutter softly into her ear.

“You're welcome, Mike. If we're celebrating your arrival, why not get everyone who's thankful for your presence?” She adds sagely, wisdom beyond her years shining through once again.

“You're like the little sister I can't remember if I ever had.” You say softly, something of a running joke, and true sentiment, between you two, but never have you uttered it in such a heartfelt manner.

“Is that really how you see me?” She asks, looking slightly down into your face, her voice pleasant and upbeat, but her expression curiously unreadable.

“Well of course, why shouldn't I?” You reply, cracking the warmest smile you can manage.

“Oh.” She says neutrally, looking past you for a moment. “No reason, I suppose.” She concludes, her voice almost sounding like immediately-after-medtime Bonnie. Well, she did have a doctor's appointment today, right? Bummer she had her cocktail switched up again tonight of all nights.

You give her a fierce, but definitely affectionate hug, which she barely returns. “Umm, Mike. I…really…” she begins, voice faltering even as you continue to embrace the tiny rabbit.

“What is it, Bon?”

“I *really* need to pee.” She finally admits, voice a low whisper.

“Oh!” You bark, releasing her like a hot potato. “Sorry” you apologize sheepishly.

“It's okay, Mike. We all make the ones we love uncomfortable sometimes.” She replies, leaving your brain in knots trying to figure out if there's some cryptic message buried in there somewhere. For her part, she plants a fuzzy peck of a kiss on your forehead before turning to patter off to the bathroom.

“Hey now, missy. That man's taken!” Comes a shout from the back of the room that you immediately recognize as Cheeky. You look up at her in time to catch a lewd wink from the over-mascara’d bird.

“Good to know I have someone looking after my virtue, Cheeky.” You fire back good-naturedly.

“Yeah, even I can see how well-in-feathered-hand *that* is!” Beanie snarks loudly from next to her, her elder brother visibly uncomfortable with both ladies getting this bawdy already as he tries in vain to loosen his collar.

Rising to your feet, you finally take inventory of everyone present, who have devolved into several knots of conversation between the kitchen and living room. There are several open boxes of pizza on the kitchen table, with paper plates and plastic cups for the large bottles of soda on the counter, Fred Fazbear serving up food with his typical restaurateur panache, looking smart in a navy blue long sleeve shirt with a white collar and cuffs. First in line is Haddock, who nearly loses control of a three liter of cherry fizz before you step in to help him.

“Th-th-th-thaaaaaaaaaank ye, cap’n” he says at last, raising his barrel mug in salute.

“Captain? I thought Faz was the captain 'round here?” You ask, perplexed.

“Differnt ship, s-s-s-same navy.” He clarifies matter-of-factly, his gaze quickly darting over to the table.

“Oh.” You reply simply, unused to the fox having such direct logic. “Hungry?”

He only nods eagerly in reply. His motor function is clearly working better than his speech center today and he knows it.

“Pepperoni?” You ask, and he nods eagerly again. You pull two slices for him onto a plate before grabbing a pair for yourself.

“Brand new recipe, perfected I think.” Fred says as warmly as you've ever heard the no-nonsense bear. “Give me your honest opinion.” He asks eagerly, a little nervously even, as you realize no one pie is the mate of any other, presumably the full menu here in pizza form. You set Haddock’s plate down onto the lone corner of the table that's clear enough for him to eat at, and help him up into a chair before taking a bite yourself.

“Damn, but that is some fine pizza, Fred.” you admit unabashedly. “Best I've ever had.”

“I'll put you down as a 'yes’ then.” He replies, clearly relieved.

“Catering an event full of test subjects? Shrewd move, sir.” You say, quite impressed to see the erstwhile playboy's business acumen on display.

“Focus group. Test subject makes it sound so... cold.” He says gruffly, sounding almost...insulted? “I am merely gauging the reaction of a core group of people who one, are intimately familiar with our previous recipes and quality, and two, who I trust implicitly, yourself included.” He adds, ticking off both points on his fuzzy digits.

“Fair enough I suppose. You have a name yet? Heard you were opening in a couple weeks.”

“Yes, Golden Bear Pizzeria!” He announces like a true showman.

“And Bakery, damn it!” Barks an upset ChiChi who stomps over to stare down the much larger bear.

“And Bakery, yes. Forgive me, Chica, it was a late addition to the business plan.” He says, trying to placate the temperamental hen.

“But brilliant nonetheless. You and April both admitted as such. Pizza ovens don't even get turned on until ten at the earliest, and a good baker is halfway done with the day by then. Besides, who the hell wants pizza for dessert when they have a better alternative?” She adds, neatly summing up her previous sales pitch apparently.

“Mike, I'd like you to meet our executive pastry chef...”

“Partner.” The golden hen seethes.

“...*and* partner, ChiChi Madeleine-Byrd” he finishes, bristling visibly at the interruption.

She turns around smartly to you at last. “Pleased to meet you!” She pipes up, cheerful as the day you met, offering a wingtip for you to shake, but instead you put your pizza down and step into a hug of the golden hen. “Ooof!” She squeaks in surprise.

“Congratulations, ChiChi!” You say to her, embracing the feathered chef warmly.

Until your eyes open and you spot Rackham looking right back at you, prompting you to cut physical contact with ChiChi abruptly enough to be rude, all things considered. The russet fox smirks before walking the few steps it takes to take up station to the hen’s side. “Relax, Mike. I know for certain now I don't have to worry about you stealing my Chica. Isn't that right, sugar?” He asks, nuzzling her cheek.

“Mmm, yes, darling.” She coos back.

“Seriously?” You ask, “that's so awesome, I'm so happy for you guys!”

“Best part o’ bein’ a pirate are the wenches!” Haddock pipes up enthusiastically “Ain't that rrrrrright Cap’n?”

“Ab-so-lutely, sailor.” Rackham answers, saluting with his new, though still obviously prosthetic, hand.

“An’ where be *yer* wench?” He asks, grinning wide like only he can as he pokes your side with the thankfully blunt side of his hook. “I be wuh-wantin’ wwwwwwwords with 'er, on how to treat a Cap’n puh-puh-puh-proper.”

“I'm...sure she's around...somewhere.” you reply, humoring his odd request without really knowing where it came from.

“Yeah, Mike.” Rackham continues, “I finally came to the realization that if I could make a suicide run to try and buy my friends time to stop an army of rampaging murderbots, I could finally tell my beloved how I've felt about her for the last seven years.”

“Yeah, 'finally’ as in right after one Fred Fazbear 'FINALLY’ managed to bludgeon it through my thick skull.” Fred clarifies through gritted teeth, ChiChi's dubious sidelong glance confirming the truth of that statement.

“Uh, yeah. What he said.” Rackham mutters, barely audible, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly and glancing away.

“You're welcome.” The big bear growls through a smile.

“But anyway, point is, I've found my peace. Looks like you've found your peace too, Mike.” He adds, snickering slightly.

“I suppose I have, Archie.” You say with a smile, which elicits a snort of laughter from the erstwhile cranky fox.

“Sorry, ticklish.” He says softly. You look down and see ChiChi’s feathery hand wrapped around his side.

Shrugging it off, you address the hen once again. “Sorry I had to beg off class today, I really needed my beauty sleep.” You apologize, eliciting another snorting response from Rackham.

“Is that what you're calling it?” He asks before giggling softly.

“Don't be rude, Foxy.” She chides, digging her fingertips into his rib cage until you see him twitch in discomfort.

“Yes, ma'am.” He relents at last.

“And don't worry about it, Mike. If you had, the black forest cake I brought wouldn't have been a surprise, now would it.”

“Fair enough, sounds delicious. Say, speaking of partners, where's April? Is she here?”

“No, sadly, though she would have loved to have been, she’s in the hospital.” Fred replies.

“Oh, no.”

“Don't worry. Something happened with her doctor's schedule, something fell through, yadda yadda. Practical upshot is that her latest round of reconstructive surgery was moved up two weeks. Hopefully the new fur graft procedure will have her looking almost like new again. Doctor Sebastian seems quite optimistic, and Carroll is quite impressed with his credentials and experience. She's missing the party, but should be there for the grand opening on the fifteenth of next month. You're all invited, of course.” He adds, without ever needing to, truly.

You wouldn't miss that for the world.

“Anyway, if this is my party, I suppose I'd better go mingle.” You say, grabbing your plate again and taking your leave of the group and wandering back into the living room.

Rounding the partition wall, you nearly trip over the local fashionista as the fox scurries deftly aside in the nick of time.

“And you'd better take *damn* good care of that hen of yours!” You hear Fred bark out behind you, protecting his partner, friend and business asset it would seem.

“Well, hello, Freddy!” Mangle beams, eyelashes fluttering at you playfully. She's elected to go minimalist this evening, a jet black billowy, parka-style jacket that you can tell by the way it moves isn't nearly as overpoweringly warm as appearances would otherwise dictate. Her lipstick, excessive, though not sloppy, this evening, is a deep plum, setting off the near golden hue of her blush and eyeshadow.

“You're looking rather lovely this evening, Em.” You reply pleasantly.

“But of course I am, darling. And you…” she trails off.

She looks you up and down, assessing your (probably poor) fashion choices as you see the corner of her mouth twitch once in frustration (maybe, Foxglove can be so hard to read) before she speaks again.

“...look like you're just bursting with sunshine.” She says, her typically garish and mysterious smile coming back. You've long since given up trying to make sense of the enigmatic vixen, but you trust her general motivations.

Most of the time.

“I see my old bedroom is treating you quite well. You look like you're quite well rested, Bonnie. More than usual, I would say. What *is* your secret?” She asks pointedly, teeth bared in a nearly predatory grin.

“Guess I finally got a good enough bed.” you lie, glancing away briefly and seeing Bonworth in conversation near the front door with Freddy who raises his hat to you, combing his paw through his scalp twice before replacing it. You wave back to him before looking back to the sharp-eyed vixen once again, her raised eyebrow telling she doesn't believe a word of it, but is too polite to call you on it.

“So how goes business?” You ask, squirming on the hook and latching onto the first out you can find.

“Steady, but nowhere near where it should be, Christmas is coming up soon, but the hot item this year is Ukks, apparently. Appropriate name for those ridiculous...boots,” she at last spits out, disgust obvious in her tone, “I want to ukk every time I see them. I mourn for the soul of society sometimes.” She groans melodramatically.

“I've been told they're pretty comfortable.” you softly counter, more to get a rise than anything.

“So is a comforter, you don't see me going around wearing one.” She snaps. Seeing you begin to raise a finger, she clarifies, “In public. Perfectly acceptable garment when at home with friends and family.” She huffs indignantly at the merest hint of a fashion misstep on her part.

“Besides, suede? What year is it, 1832?” she grumbles in irritation, arms folded.

“Well, Fred is serving pemmican in there.” You reply nonchalantly, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. From the set of Mangle's vulpine jaw and the raised eyebrow, you can tell she's not amused. “Or at least the nearest modern equivalent.” You add, slightly chagrined.

Her expression visibly softens as you hear a rather unladylike rumble from her tummy. “Well, I suppose some sustenance may be in order then.” she concedes, before the both of you are interrupted by the doorbell. Freddy steps quickly to open it for the new arrivals, letting in Mango followed by Fran, Bonson presumably hiding behind the bears in there somewhere.

“Ugh. Not in the mood.” Mangle grouses upon seeing her curvy counterpart. “If you'll excuse me, I've got something to discuss with Cheeky. You know where to find me, Foxy.” She says cheerfully as she pads away as surreptitiously as she can manage.

You look down briefly, and realize one of your slices of pizza is missing. As Freddy would say, “plus çe change, plus la même chose”

Returning to the matter at hand, you put on a smile to greet the new arrivals. “Mango, Fran! Glad you could make it!” You begin, a genuine smile on your face.

“Would have been here earlier, but Bonson was still having trouble understanding the difference between associative and communicative” Mango says in a way that makes you feel like a moron for not understanding what she's talking about.

“Despite the fact that he’s effectively homeschooled, Bonnie has fifth grade standardized testing next week, and I wanted to make sure he was ready.” The boy's mother clarifies for you. “I didn't exactly receive an invitation, but Ms. Mango assured me you wouldn't mind.”

“Of course not, Fran. There's pizza and soda in the kitchen, help yourself!” You reply warmly.

“Awesome!” You hear from the boy, a blue blur as he darts his way through the crowd towards the food.

“What do you say, young man?” Both Fran and Mango shout after him.

“Thank you, Mister Mike!” You hear shouted back over the din.

“I'll teach that boy manners yet.” His mother huffs, a cable knit sweater in charcoal grey contrasting rather nicely with her snowy pelt. “So, Mr. Schmidt…”

“Please, Fran. Mike is fine, I promise.” You gently interrupt, an ongoing battle with this particular bear.

“Mike, then.” She concedes with a toothy smile. “Mango says this is an anniversary party?” She asks, genuinely curious it seems.

“Well, today is officially one year since I've moved in here,” you pronounce, sounding a bit more proud than you intended, “though I've bounced around quite a bit since.”

“Oh, so it's not an *anniversary* anniversary.” She clarifies, more for her own benefit.

“Oh, no. Not even married.” You explain, showing her your left hand as proof.

“I see. So how long have…” she begins before being interrupted by the industrial strength blender that is Freddy's one true kitchen extravagance. Beanie once showed you a VeeTube clip of that particular model pulverizing a cell phone. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms that it's merely Freddy working on his ridiculously delicious crepe batter.

“...together?” Fran concludes as the gourmet bear (there's a food product line in there somewhere) turns the appliance off.

“Hmm, let me see…” you begin, quickly (if sloppily) doing the math in your head and swallowing against the mouth watering dessert has already induced. “I wanna say six and a half months?” you say, only mostly sure of yourself.

“Any plans for the future?” She asks, jarring your train of thought slightly. But then again, you don't know the pale bear nearly as well as anyone else present, and since pretty much everyone who lives in the complex is there for a reason…

“Nothing yet, I think I'm pretty happy where I'm at now.” You reply, meaning it far more than even you might have believed yesterday, let alone a year ago.

“Good to hear. If anything changes, let me know, I might be able to help.” She adds warmly, black lips curled into a warm, if rather toothy, smile.

“Thank you, Fran.” You reply, unsure of what, exactly, she's offering, but grateful nonetheless. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“I believe you said something about pizza?” She adds hopefully.

“Yes, kitchen is just around the corner.” You offer, stepping aside as best you can in the hallway.

“Thank you, Mis...Mike.” she corrects herself with a curt nod.

“So, one year down, eh? How's the asylum treating you?” Mango asks, as cheerfully as ever, a pale cream-colored cashmere sweater floofing out her already ample curves like a giant cotton ball.

“Pretty good, actually. Work is relatively quiet, pay is decent enough, especially with the break I get on the rent because of it.” you add with a hint of pride, even if you're beginning to realize that Marion is quite a bit more reasonable than most people give him credit for.

“And your home life? I know shift work can really put a strain on relationships.” She says with genuine concern, placing a warm, furred paw over yours.

“It's good. No problems there that I'm aware of. And my schedule’s changed up as well. Twelve hours a shift instead of ten, but now I'm working four on, four off, port and starboard as Faz calls it. Really allows me to not have to rush things every night, unlike before.”

“Well, that's good to hear. Just remember to stop by whenever you need to bend an ear that isn't attached to the situation. Or a cup of coffee, I do miss our chats.” She adds with a warm smile. “Oh, speaking of, I almost forgot!” She says excitedly, lifting a plain red gift bag that's been adorned very tastefully with gold ribbon, contents concealed beneath a darker gold tissue paper.

“Oh?” You ask, more than a little surprised, taking the proffered bag and immediately feeling the substantial weight of it. Fishing through the flimsy paper you grab a large metallic cylinder, unsheathing a large, heavy duty thermos bottle like the sword from the stone.

You can almost hear an angelic choir in the background as you marvel a bit at the otherwise plain container.

“Thank you, Mango, really.”

“That's from all of us downstairs, actually. And it comes with free refills whenever you stop by, Mike. I did the handle myself.” She says with a hint of pride.

Turning it around, you find that the regular, and breakage prone, if you remember this particular model correctly, handle has been replaced with woven parachute cord, intricately interlaced white into black to spell out MIKE in a rough, but legible font.

“Oh, wow. Really, thank you, guys.” You say, humbled once again by the love shown you, stooping a bit to hug the short stacked vixen.

“Yeah, once BonBon pointed out how you were missing workout because you were too tired, we all saw it. Well, most of us.” She titters. “We were going to wait till pajama party night, but Peanut is going to be out of town at his grandmother's for that this week, and Goose isn’t always in the mood for that kind of thing, so tonight seemed as good a time as any!” She concludes affably.

Before you can answer a light, yet hyperactive weight crashes down onto your shoulders from behind. “So how do ya like it, Mike?” The predictable question comes from BonBon directly in your ear even as her paws squeeze your shoulders.

Turning to face her and keep Mango in frame as well, you see the electric blue bunny is not alone in her curiosity, Beanie smiling softly at some amusing tidbit of information known only to her, standing immediately behind her animated best friend. BonBon, for her part gives you a quick, friendly hug, with a surreptitious sniff of your neck thrown in for good measure.

Like you didn't just notice that.  With a sinking feeling, you hope that your girlfriend actually didn't.

The bouncy bunny takes a step back giving you a smile that twitches down nigh imperceptibly after a moment before her train of thought is broken by her co-worker and partner.

“How did everything go?” Mango asks, as BonBon is now handling the fox's youngest, as yet unsuited to real school, clients from time to time, or when she's overbooked.

“Oh Webby was fine, and her mother showed up on time...for once.” BonBon grumps, clearly a recurring sore spot.

“Her?” You interject. As far as you knew Webby is a boy.

“Yeah? Webbigail Andersen-Drake.” She answers like it's the most normal thing in the world.

“But what about…?”

“Oh, you mean Webster? With the leg braces?” Mango suggests helpfully.

“No, Webby. Green duck, really bad ADHD?”

“Oh, that's Webley.” BonBon corrects you. “Totally different kid.”

“Oh.” You say forcing a smile as your brain is silently screaming for the umpteenth time.

HOW DOES NOBODY ELSE NOTICE THIS!?!?

“Oh my gosh, Mike, she is just the most adorable thing, you just *have* to meet her!” BonBon gushes, clearly a fan of the child, if not the parent.

“I dunno, Bonnie, Mike might fall in love and want to hatch one of his own.” Beanie snarks with her characteristically unreadable smirk.

“Poor dear really is the sweetest thing, but keeping track of all her allergies has got to be a nightmare.” Mango intones sadly.

“Yeah, can't even have her in the same room as peanut butter.” BonBon elaborates. “You have any idea how many things peanuts are in these days?” She asks you, having clearly researched a subject you cared nothing about until ten seconds ago, but now you're actually quite curious.

“You know, I'd never have thought it, but orange looks really good on you, wouldn't you say so, Bon?” The lilac snarkmeister asks her hyperactive friend.

BonBon shoots her a sidelong glance that could kill a water buffalo at twenty paces. “And what, precisely, would be wrong with blue? It would really bring out his eyes.” she says in a murderously calm voice. You're now feeling hideously uncomfortable, yet you have no idea why, but you're thankful that you can be pretty sure it's not your fault for once.

“Now, Bonnie. I think he looks quite handsome no matter the choice of accoutrements.” Mango says warmly, trying to stop a mysterious blood feud before it starts. “Wouldn't you ladies agree?” She asks, a slightly forced smile hoping to elicit the same from the pair of rabbit does.

“I'm pretty sure Mike already knows exactly how I feel on the matter.” BonBon says wistfully.

“Yeah, he looks all right for a stupid monkey.” Beanie agrees, smiling even wider now.

“Well, then, if you'll excuse me, we're having pizza for dinner!” she adds cheerfully, giving you a quick hug before trundling off to the kitchen.

“Soooooo, Mike.” BonBon begins, and you already have a good idea where this is going. “Whatcha doin’ in say, seven and a half weeks?”

“Not going to HumieCon.” You answer flatly.

“Oh come ON! I swear you're a shoo-in this year!” She pleads more than declares.

“Nope.”

“They've removed the judges from the equation entirely! It's going to be all app and social media based now. SkinAffinity forums led a successful revolt for once. Usually end up fizzling out in two days once people start quibbling over stupid shit, but DancingMunchie really rode herd on this one.” She clarifies, clearly disgusted by the fandom she's a part of sometimes.

“Oh really,” you ask, a small measure of vindication for last year's debacle tempting bait, not to mention repaying the effort of some random internet person who you are pretty sure you've actually met for once. Also, the prize money might actually come in handy, now that you've got someone to buy things for. You smile a bit at that thought, which BonBon takes as her cue to try and set the hook.

“Besides, it's gonna be so easy getting your costume together! I've still got your Bobulator downst…”

“Absolutely not.” You pronounce coldly, shutting the electric blue bunny down in her tracks.

“But why not?!?” She whines, having been so sure she could convince you it seems.

“Because after nearly a year, I've finally got this the way I like it!” You bark, pointing up at your hair with both hands. Your tone is apparently a little too forceful, as you can see genuine hurt in BonBon’s eyes, not to mention even Beanie is looking a little offended.

“Sorry, Bon, I didn't mean to be hurtful. Besides, Legend of Bob was cancelled, remember? No one is going to want to see old news.” You try and console her, and to get her to see logic.

“Nooooooooo, not *that* Bob, Mike. You're going as Bob Legendmann: Certified Public Accountant!” She announces breathlessly.

You blink.

You blink again.

“What?” you say dully, your brain desperately clawing for another five years of time somewhere during this conversation to figure out exactly what the hell she's talking about, but somehow already dreading the answer.

“So anyway, you know Animation Station? The network? They premiered this late night programming block for more mature audiences.” You can barely stifle a derisive snort at that notion, given the speaker. “Called it Grown-Up Skate, anyway, they're doing all original programming, even if most of it's just stupid stoner humor.”

“But?”

“They bought the IP rights to a bunch of defunct humie cartoons…”

“I thought they weren't cartoons.” Beanie interjects unsuccessfully.

“LoB, Human Rider X, Soldier Comet, a couple even *I've* never heard of, and put all the characters into kind of a workplace comedy. Everyone still has their powers or whatever, but it's all played for laughs; a LOT of meta humor going on, TONS of in jokes if you're fans of the old shows.” She clarifies, proud of her discovery apparently.

“Tell him the best part.” Beanie prompts, clearly having heard this pitch before.

“BALLOON BOY GETS MURDERED LIKE EVERY OTHER EPISODE!!!” She practically screams, drawing a few glances from the other partygoers before they realize the source of the crazy and carry on. You, for one are warming to the idea of the show, at least. “Last night, Bob blasted him through a wall with the Bobulator because he miscollated the ID-10-T forms again” she adds, a maniacal glee evident in her voice.

“I'll give it a watch.” You reply cautiously, knowing full well how dangerous encouraging the blue blur can be.

“Tuesday nights at eleven, if you really want the live watch experience.” She says, knowing full well your sparse cable package, given how much she complains about it when she's over here. “I've got every episode on DVR if you can't make it, though.” She adds, knowing your work schedule can play havoc with social engagements.

“So noted, Bon.” You acknowledge.

“And what about HumieCon?” She asks, persistent as ever.

“I'll think about it.” You concede, wondering if that thought process will take more than two seconds, before you give yourself an out, melting BonBon’s ecstatic smile in the process. ”Two things though. I don't know if I'll even be available with my work schedule. And we need a room with two beds, if not separate rooms.” You add, knowing full well BonBon’s budget probably won't allow for that.

“Aww,” Beanie coos, wrapping you up in a more than friendly hug, knowing full well that mock sexuality is usually an express ticket to Awkward Mike City. “You don't want to spend the night in bed with two young, nubile bunny does again?” She asks, voice dripping with disappointment and husky desire. Even BonBon is getting a little creeped out by how good Beanie's getting at this.

Too bad you're not biting this time.

“One: broken ribs or not, elbows and knees still hurt.” You begin, knowing full well that both of them are *very* active sleepers. “And two: I don't want anyone getting the wrong impression.” You conclude, truly the crux of the problem, especially now.

“And who, praytell, are you trying to keep your bedroom escapades a secret from, Mikey dearest?” Beanie presses on, really laying it on thick now, a fingertip trailing down the center of your chest.

“Your brother damn near had a seizure when BonBon casually mentioned it two months ago.” You fire back dryly, and Beanie's facade shatters as she bursts into hysterical laughter. “Caterwauling about safeguarding your honor, how was he going to face your father…” you add, hilarious as all get out *now* but a massive blow-up at the time. Even BonBon is laughing along now as Beanie relents and lets go of you.

“As much as I'm tempted to have a repeat viewing of *that* little episode,” Beanie begins, wiping a tear from her eye, “I have a solution to your second point. I already have a suite reserved in my name for ‘Con.” She says nonchalantly, buffing her fingernails on the front of her hoodie.

“I know business is good right now, but I didn't know a professional Stronghold Master paid that well.” You add, having researched the prices at the Caterham after the last convention out of curiosity, and a desire to spin the event into something positive.

“It doesn't, but that's not a problem. This year, I'm a muhfuggin panelist, biotch!” She informs you both. “Tabletop Renaissance: Living the Dream” she sells breathily. “I expect you both there, front row. Need someone to witness my glory and give tell of it to the local peasantry.”

“Translation: you need a friendly face in the crowd so you don't have a panic attack.” BonBon of all people snarks back.

“Gerry Gyrax is on the panel!” She nearly squeals, obviously an important figure you've never heard of. “Guys, seriously, it would mean a lot to me.” She says, calming down a bit. You add a mental tick to the very small, but growing, tally of sincere Bonita Rabbinson sightings in your lifetime.

“You know I'll be there, Beanie.” BonBon says instantly, wrapping up her lilac friend in a hyperkinetic hug.

“I'll...see what I can do.” You at last relent, wondering if Chica would even be interested in the whole affair. Having a tall bodyguard with a potentially strong possessive streak might be an asset with that crowd.

“And all you need is some black slacks, a white shirt and I know they have the tie down at Lacy’s department store, some glasses from a thrift shop and you'll be all set.” She adds, clearly having thought about this. A lot.

“That's it?”

“Oh, and the hair, of course”

“Of course.” You echo dryly. Chica gave you no end of shit about that mohawk for months afterward.

“Please, Mike?” She practically begs.

“I'll look into it, Bon.” You concede, knowing full well now isn't the time to take a hard stand. “I've got commitments now, and those can't be ignored.” You add, letting her draw her own conclusion in regards to what, exactly, you're referring to.

“All right. Anyway, I hear the siren call of pizza!” She says excitedly, giving you a quick hug before wandering off with Beanie in the direction of the kitchen.

Before you can take a route back into the living room, Freddy rounds the corner, blocking the hallway with his considerable frame.

“Michael, un moment, s’il vous plait?” He asks with his typical warmth, gesturing with a massive, can-crushing paw towards the front door.

“Oh, sure, I guess it is a little loud in here.” You concede, communication with the ursine enigma difficult even under ideal conditions. You both step out into the late autumn chill, a puff of vapor letting you know just how warm it isn't. “Whatcha got, Freddy?” You ask cheerfully enough, before a feeling of dread washes over you like a tidal wave.

Freddy is holding a charcoal sketch in his paw, the sparse light on the catwalk more than enough for you to identify which one it is. His face is even more unreadable than usual, but you can't help feeling that your very life is hanging by a thread.

“Iiiiiiii can explain that.” You begin, your brain racing in ten different directions at once. For his part, Freddy's left eyebrow shifts upward nigh imperceptibly, whether in doubt, or a simple prompt to elaborate further, you can't say.

This is it. This is how you die.