Anchor

Epilogues Minis - Anchor

Note: this Mini takes place during the events of Adrift - Chapter 3

I hear the door click shut, keys rattling against the lock as the deadbolt is thrown closed. The apartment is almost eerily quiet now, and I get back to my large bowl of Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs. Don't judge me; nobody told me we were out of everything else when I went grocery shopping yesterday. Normally a plain raisin bran is good enough for this bear.

I take a deep breath, feeling several scars protest the stretching this induces, and hold it to fight back against the pain as well as desensitize them as best I can. Letting go, the breath shudders from my lungs, and I'm thankful no one is here to hear it. Chica and Bonnie both still worry far more about me than is justified, and neither of them have any extra energy to be spending needlessly.

At least neither of them have to bathe me anymore.

Feeling full at last, I get another little spike of pain as I stand, trundling over to the sink to rinse the bowl out before placing it and my spoon in the dishwasher. The clock reads just past two forty-five, and I contemplate heading back to bed briefly before determining my recliner to be the better option, as BonBon will be bringing Foxy home soon anyway. Flicking on the TV, I find the selection of recently-added music channels and pick out some light, airy jazz to potentially doze to. My mind drifts a bit as I close my eyes, thinking on just how far I've, hell *everyone* has come in the past year.

Bonnie's back to as close to full time work as he'll ever manage, Chica’s on a bit of an upswing lately, and even Foxy has been having more up days than down this month. A soft smile ticks at my lips as I think of the energetic little fox, of the deep bond we share after all these years together.

All things considered, life is good.

So why do I feel so incomplete?

Hell, even Mike, my human friend, no matter how weird that statement sounds, seems to have gotten back into the swing of life more easily in six months than I have in two years. He's even managed to pick up a girlfriend now, and they do make a rather fetching couple, truth be told.

Shifting a bit, I recline my chair just that last little bit, squirming to find that perfect fit for my always sore body. Taking another deep breath and holding it to stretch my hide, I exhale and relax, eyes closed against the feeble light from the kitchen.

“Fazil?” I hear; a hoarse, feeble query that somehow fills my heart with fear. My eyes flick open to see a hospital bed, somehow taller than normal, the mattress elevated to nearly eye level. With a start I realize I've somehow shrunk, both in height and girth, my paws and forearms rail thin in my view.

Just like when I was a boy.

“Are you there, my son?” Comes my father’s voice, frail and raspy.

“Yes, papa. I'm here.” I hear myself say, feeling very much a passenger in my own body now. I stand up from the uncomfortable chair and pace slowly to the bedside, afraid of what I'll find, yet knowing exactly what awaits me. The husk of my father lies there, no longer the robust, strong figure I've known my entire life. The sickness consumes his body still, but his mind has held firm, thankfully.

“It is good to see you, Fazil. How is school?” He asks, deflecting for his benefit as much as mine.

“It's good, papa.” I answer, voice wavering.

“Good.” He says, sighing softly.

“I'm scared, papa.” I admit, clearly not letting go of the topic at hand.

“Of course you are. I’m dying, Fazil.” He concedes softly, like I didn't know already. My father was never one to sugarcoat anything, something which I've grown to appreciate as I've gotten older, but which hurt immeasurably as a child. “We all die, my son. Some in the fullness of time, and some far too early.” He lectures gently.

“Papa…” I begin, voice cut short as I sniffle loudly.

“No, my son. No tears. Tears are for women and boys.” He begins, not a trace of scorn in the pronouncement of fact. “I am sorry that you must now be the man I know you would become in time. I love you, and your mother, and your sisters. They will need you to stand in my place for them. You will mourn me, you will miss me, as I did my father. But you will not cry for me. You will be strong. You will he hard. You will do so out of love. For your mother, and your sisters. You will be the rock upon which they stand in times of trouble. You will only cry, as I will, when your time on Earth is at an end, and you gaze upon the beautiful face of Almighty God as He welcomes you home into His loving embrace.” He says with a soft smile, gazing into the distance beyond the walls of this room. “Though I will confess I almost cried the day I first held you in my arms, Fazil.” he adds, feebly squeezing my hand.

“Papa…” I croak hoarsely, fighting back the flood, wanting so much for him to be proud of me. I barely register my claws digging into my palm pads as my young fists clench. I am the son of Hakim Tannuka; Father, Businessman, Deacon. I will behave accordingly. “I understand, papa.” I half-lie, voice even and filled with the conviction of a small child who does not comprehend what convictions truly are.

Father closes his eyes, sighing softly as he relaxes, knowing his charge to me has taken root. A gentle smile, weak but radiant with warmth, takes hold of his face as he gathers himself  to speak again. “I am not afraid, Fazil. I was before, but no more. Come. Watch the sunset with me.” He beckons, and I clamber up onto the bed, taking up the space his bulk of six months ago would have filled easily. His frail arm tightens about my shoulder, drawing me into a hug as best he can. “Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?” He asks, voice wistful now.

“At least ten times, papa.” I respond, the story nearly as ingrained into my memories as his own.

“Well, then, let me remind you.” He begins, a soft laughter beneath the words, joining my own boyish chuckle.

My eyes snap open, the jarring transition disorienting me momentarily. Looking over to the clock, I find all the aches and pains of my adult body returned, as well as an hour and a half gone from the day. I don't have time to adjust, as urgent pounding on the apartment door rings out to crash through the silence. Flicking the recliner lever forward easily, I stand up, joints and scars screaming in protest as I begin to move again. Several quick, silent steps bring me to the door, and apprehension grows in my gut.

Opening the door, my suspicions are horrifically confirmed, as Foxy dangles limply between BonBon and Mango, both of whom look as if they've seen a ghost.

“He had a seizure, really bad one.” The electric blue rabbit begins softly, almost ashamed somehow. “Nearly scared us both to death.” She adds needlessly. Without a word, I pluck the wiry fox from them both, cradling him as I would a child, my nose flaring at an unpleasant odor.

“Careful, Faz. I think he, uh, soiled himself.” Mango adds awkwardly.

“I'll take care of him. Thank you for bringing him up.” I say softly, my breath shuddering in frustration and anguish over Foxy’s condition once again. His normal would be anyone else's nightmare, but I'm all he's got.

I made a promise.

“I need to get back to the kids, Faz.” Mango adds, clearly grateful for the excuse to put the episode behind her and get back to something normal. “Though I can manage without Bonnie for a bit if you need help.”

“Just a little bit, yes. Can you go get a trash bag from under the sink, and there's a black vinyl apron in the hall closet next to a spray bottle of disinfectant. Bring both of those, please.”

“Sure.” BonBon says simply, glad to have something to distract her as well.

“I'm sorry, Faz.” Mango says softly, and I simply shake my head.

“Don't worry about it.”

“I'll come by later, if that's all right?” The short vixen asks, clearly feeling guilty.

“That'll be fine, Mango.” I reassure her, closing the door on her so that I can attend to the business at hand.

Soft footsteps carry us to the bathroom, and I sit Foxy down on the bench hearing a soft squelching noise as he shifts slightly against the tiled wall. Long accustomed to such tasks, I shuck my pajama shirt and roll the legs up to my knees, lest I get them wet. Directing the shower head into the corner, I turn the water on, letting the flow warm up as I unbuckle Redd’s belt, hanging it over the doorknob as what is probably the only uncontaminated garment he's wearing.

A knock at the door warns of BonBon’s return, and she hands me the requested items with a slight blush at my bare, heavily scarred chest. Amusing considering her general proclivities, but flattering nonetheless. “Thank you, BonBon.”

“No problem, big guy. Anything else?” She asks, genuinely helpful and concerned for Foxy’s well-being.

“Yes. Once I've got him stripped down, can you get his clothes washed? Just dump them out of the bag, add detergent and whitener for a heavy load, plus half a cup of the disinfectant concentrate in the hall closet, and start it on the high steam cycle.” I explain from rote memory, this task having been performed in this apartment more times than I can count.

“Okay. I'll just be in the hall waiting.” She adds, clearly not wanting to infringe upon Foxy’s dignity any more than necessary.

“Of course.” I reply and she gently closes the door behind her as I don the apron to protect myself from what is to come. I flip the switch for the exhaust fan, hearing it hum to life with a light rattle thrown in for good measure.

Carefully, I begin to strip my russet roommate, the first thing to go being the pirate-themed (what else?) T shirt he's wearing, which is indeed stained below the beltline at the tail split.. It appears to be very loose, which is bad news for the clothes (the runny stuff tends to stain a lot worse) but good news for the two of us, as cleaning Redd up is going to be much easier without having to scrub him too much.

Placing the shirt under the water flow for a few moments to rinse out what I can, I deposit it in the trash bag. “Up you go, sailor.” I say softly, lifting him into a hug of sorts, one arm supporting the lightweight fox while the other fumbles with the tail strap on his pants and then his fly. Undoing both, I stand him up unsteadily, watching for the slightest hint of a wobble from the rattled pirate, and I hang his hook from a grab bar for extra insurance.

Sliding down, I strip off his cargo pants, and I'm immediately thankful for my ruined sinus cavities as the stench hits me fully. The pants are not so easily removed, given that they're now looped around Foxy’s ankles, and soaking wet to boot, but I manage, as I always do. The pants likewise get a thorough rinse before getting dumped into the bag.

Returning my gaze to Foxy, I can't help but snicker at yet another one of his eccentricities, that of his lime green underwear, only one step removed from a banana hammock. Why he ever thought these to be the best choice, given his condition, is beyond me, but they do fit his body type well, if I'm being honest. Certainly not something I could ever get away with.

Taking the shower head in hand I start to rinse him down, Foxy’s coat shedding water easily for some time before finally succumbing and laying down. He's even scrawnier now, and my heart sinks seeing him bedraggled, covered in his own shit, quivering slightly. I know Redd, the *real* Redd, better than anyone, and at best this is a cruel mockery of him.

Sighing softly, I release my near death grip on the shower wand and resume washing Foxy with the gentlest care possible, finally stripping him out of his underwear, rinsing and placing it in the bag. I knock on the door and hand the bag off to BonBon after a moment. Having rinsed out as much as possible, I put the wand aside, squirting a liberal helping of body wash into my paws before I start to lather him up. The rich foam smells of lime and coconut, but does little to cover the reek of waste now permeating the steamy air.

Working the lather into his pelt, I feel first hand that despite his condition, there is still a vitality there; a wiry strength just beneath the surface, hidden under fur and facade. I can also feel the soft tics and twitches still wracking his meager frame, and I take a deep breath to steady my nerves before I lose control entirely. My massive paws cover ground gently, thoroughly, intimately, knowing well how his fur can hold on to odor and stains. I don't blush or comment as his foxhood reacts slightly to the stimulation, hardly a conscious reaction, even if he was conscious to begin with right now.

Rinsing thoroughly, I repeat the process twice more, ensuring that he's thoroughly clean and extending the final wash to his entire body, finishing just as the water temperature begins to drop. Shutting off the shower, I pluck two of my own gigantic towels from the rack, making sure to dry Foxy thoroughly without having to resort to a fur dryer. I don't know how he'd handle that thing in his current state, even the extra quiet one Bonnie and I pitched in on. Chica had to get her own that had all the avian attachments and was gentle on her easily irritated skin.

The last thing I dry is my arms and calves, the apron having done an adequate job of keeping me mostly dry. Sitting Foxy back down onto the bench, I roll my pants back down, hang the apron from the shower head and slip my shirt back on. Retrieving the spray bottle of disinfectant, I give the shower a thorough coating of the lemon-scented stuff. The miasma now mostly subdued, I gently lift the towel-swaddled fox into my arms, hugging him close and feeling his trembling ease at my touch. “Let's get you comfy, sailor.” I say softly, getting a possible nod in response. I can never be entirely sure when he's like this.

Opening the door, I plod softly into the living room, finding BonBon watching TV quietly. “Oh! Hey, Faz, how's he holding up?” She asks softly, voice ratcheted down several notches from her typical hyperenthusiasm.

“Been better. But he's in good paws now.” I add, reassuring the energetic bunny.

“Good. You need anything else?” She asks, and I know that she's far more sincere than appearances would dictate. She's the only one besides Mike from outside the apartment who really gets Redd, which can be a Godsend on days like this.

“No, thank you, Bon. You've already done more than enough.” I sum up, eternally grateful for her care of my best friend.

Or what's left of him, anyway.

She pops to her feet, shutting off the television before bounding towards me and wrapping as much of both of us as she can manage into a gentle hug. “You call me if you need anything else, okay?” She states more than asks, and I nod slowly in response. She turns slowly and walks to the door, and I hear it click shut behind me.

Silently I pace to Foxy’s bedroom, each step under even his light weight a near agony for me. Setting him down on one of the twin beds, I retrieve his pajamas from the second drawer of his dresser, the chocolate brown fabric adorned with a repeating print of ship’s wheels, compass roses, and life preserver rings. “These pajamas are impossible.” I mumble softly with a smile, especially since I bought them for him. Unwrapping the vulpine burrito and tossing the towels aside for the moment, I slip his pants on first, then his shirt, avoiding hooking anything with eased practice. Turning and reaching into the closet, I retrieve his blanket, the worn purple dotted with silver stars as much of his new identity as the pirate decor that dominates the room.

Pivoting back to the bed, I chuckle softly, seeing Foxy laid mostly still on his back, the tip of his foxhood poking through the button fly of his pajamas. Lifting the waistband up as far as I can, I gently poke him back into place with a solitary finger. I don't need him chafing, especially when rubbing *that* with lotion would be ten kinds of wrong. Draping the blanket over him, I set about tucking the edges under his supine form, getting a soft moan or grunt every now and then in response.

I can see now that his eyes are blinking, if still half closed, his head turning this way and that as his brain seems to be rebooting now. A good sign to be sure, I place a paw over his shoulder and a good portion of his slight chest, giving a gentle squeeze. “Welcome back, sailor.” I begin with as much of a smile as I can muster. “You've had a rough day. Get some rest.”

I can see his eyes flirt with locking on to me, his gaze sliding off my face no matter how hard he tries, like trying to hold on tightly to an egg white. “Rest easy, Foxy. I've got the watch tonight, but I'll be back in port for breakfast at first light.” I reassure him gently, getting a more focused fox in response, if a single, drawn out consonant can be considered focused.

“Ffffffffffffffffffff…” he begins, clearly struggling.

“First light, aye.” I repeat before my heart nearly explodes in shock and joy.

“...fffffaaaaazz.” he finishes, his eyes crossed but riveted on my face now.

My breath catches in my chest as I'm overtaken with both trepidation and hope. “Redd?” I ask hesitantly, voice soft as I can't believe this is actually happening, especially given his state not half an hour ago.

“Hhhhheeeyyy.” He replies, his trembling, tiny paw coming to rest over mine. “Buh-been a while.” He states more than asks.

“Yeah.” I reply, trying to smile as best I can, despite knowing that 'a while’ is, in fact, fourteen weeks. The gaps are getting longer, but I dare not burden him with that if he doesn't somehow know already.

“Sandra?” He asks, voice nearly breaking at such a painful topic for him.

“I relayed your message, word for word.” I begin evenly, reliving the anguish of that phone call once again. “She said she'd try.” I continue, seeing the tears well up in Foxy's eyes.

He closes his eyes for several seconds, fighting them back much as I am right now. But I will be his rock, his foundation and his strength.

“Haaa-aaa-ave to do, I s’pose.” He says after a brief silence. I see him take a deep breath, squirming slightly against the soreness in his wiry frame. “Bad one this time, wasn't it?” He asks, assessing the situation with an accuracy born of tragic familiarity.

“Yeah. But you're better now, that's all that matters.” I say, trying to encourage him, but he knows me, and himself, far too well for that to work.

“I'm drowning, Faz. Drowning in this...shell.” He begins, echoing his message to Sandra the last time we spoke. “Tryin’ te tread water with an anchor tied t’me tail.” He says, and I hear his inner pirate creeping into his voice before it fades again. “I can't keep this up. So tired. So tired.” He says wearily, voice anguished as he repeats himself.

“Redd, you can't ask me to…” I begin, dreading where this conversation is going.

“I'm not asking you, Faz, I'm *telling* you.” He interrupts, voice quivering with frustrated rage. “If you were ever my friend, if you ever loved me, you'll let me go.” He growls, as much as a fox can anyway, head raising off the pillow to try and emphasize the point by physical proximity alone.

“I made a promise, Redd.” I reply evenly, despite wanting to hold, shout at, hug, and throttle him right now. “You've got me. You've always got me.” I reiterate to him once more, squeezing his shoulder again.

“And I'll always be dragging you under. I don't want you to lose the rest of your life because of me.” he counters, an argument I've heard more times than I care to count, and not always from him.

“What kind of bear would I be if I broke my promises?” I ask him, a counterargument he's likewise heard before. A pregnant pause engulfs us both, and I feel him sigh as his shoulders slump.

“It's not fair, Faz.” He mutters, shaking his head more than just a twitch.

“I never asked it to be.” I reply softly, my heart heavy but resolute.

“You could have a life.” He offers weakly.

“Not if I can't live with the price of it.” I immediately fire back. “Besides, who's going to want some scarred, broken husk of a bear lurching around all the time?” I offer bitterly, trying to tamp down that emotion as quickly as I've said it.

“Hey, stop that.” He chides me, trembling as he sits up. I look him in the eyes and see him more focused, more intense than I have in two years. His gaze is sharp, almost playful now, as a wan smile plays across his muzzle. “You, sir, are still one handsome bear.” He says, a line that stirs memories I thought I'd long since shoved aside; the banter between us from before our accidents near legendary within our circle of friends. I will admit, that I haven't uttered the proper reply since those happier days either. Even back then it was never said with anyone else present.

Scarcely believing it, my lips begin to move out of a strange alchemy of reflex and hope. “And you, sir, are still the most beautiful fox I've ever laid eyes on.” Come my words, soft and warm, much like Redd’s lips as I lean forward to plant mine gently upon them. Seconds stretch into an eternity, and I barely register the gentle caress of his paw on my cheek as my arms encircle him into a gentle, passionate hug.

I lift him gently, easily, up and over, rolling onto the bed with him in my arms still. The frame creaks in protest at our combined weight but holds as we both come up for air. I draw Redd even closer to me, feeling his small form melt into my own as I nuzzle the top of his head. “I love you so much, Redd.” I say softly, breath gently ruffling a pointed ear.

“I love you too, Faz” he mumbles softly into my scarred throat.

I draw the blanket over both of us, more for his benefit than mine as I feel the last of his tremors ease away in my loving embrace.

“You’re the only thing that kept me going through all of this, Redd. I'm never giving you up.” I reassert, reminding him of how much he means to me with a tightening of my embrace.

“I know.” He replies, seemingly frustrated and reassured by my statement. “It's just so hard, being trapped beneath the ice, only able to pick out fuzzy images, scraps of conversation.” he confesses, confirming my suspicions as to just how much he remembers once he's gone under.

“I know. Just remember I'm up here, looking for a hole in the ice.” I reply softly, craning my neck back to kiss my love again. In this little world, my aches are gone, my pain forgotten as his scrawny arms struggle to wrap around me. I break our kiss again, squeezing Foxy tight to me, the both of us sighing contentedly at this intimate embrace.

At last hearing him in the soft buzz of what passes for his snore, I close my eyes, knowing that no matter how the winds howl and the seas roll, we'll always both have an anchor to keep us from becoming lost.