Ringer - Chapter 4

Epilogues: Ringer - Chapter 4

The soft crunch of snow underfoot is the only sound you can hear now, the city deathly quiet in the wee hours of the… what time is it again? You pull your phone from your pocket, and the screen flares to life, dimly, a product of automatic battery saver mode.

Four fifty-seven.

“Damn.” You mutter, a headache still throbbing away at the back of your skull. The other thing throbbing are blinking notification icons, lots of red up top of your screen to deal with. Swiping your password pattern with some effort (you're still not quite seeing straight), you're greeted by the barest bones Robot OS™ home screen that Marion could find. You're not really one for games, even given the tedium of being a security guard, so there's not much here aside from a messaging client, email, web browser and VeeTube (funny cat videos are still a thing, even here).

“Holy shit.” You mutter, your text app alone showing you fifty-seven notifications from ten different contacts. You start scrolling through and catching up, getting the same question in various shapes and forms.

“Where are you?”

The concern ramps up in each (one-sided) conversation within a message or two, before they all taper off to silence by three a.m. Chiclet, Faz, Bonnie, Cheeky, BonBon, Rackham, holy shit, Chad? Really? Fred and April, too, huh? Apparently someone got hold of Marion, probably making sure your number was correct. Truth be told, you're unsure of who to answer first, and leave that question alone for a moment as another notification draws your attention with seventeen voicemails.

Glancing at the sliver of a red bar indicating just how much of your battery life isn't left, you open the app, and find a mirror of the text traffic, with one exception, the latest one, left half an hour ago. You take a deep breath, exhalation a plume of steam as to tap the play button on that one, pressing the phone to your ear.

“Hey, Mike. It’s Beanie.” She begins hesitantly.

“The gang’s really worried about you, monkey boy. I hope you're okay, and staying warm. I just… Come home, Mike. Please?” She asks, and you can hear her voice cracking under the emotional strain.

“I'm so sorry, Mike. For all of it. For setting you up. For *trying* to set you up. For leaving you behind. I… I panicked. I couldn't handle what you said to me, and I ran.” She adds, her voice growing soft with shame. “I know you're not him, Mike.” She adds, voice barely audible as if she's trying to convince herself more than you.

“I don't know where we'd be without you, Mike. But you're a part of this family, and we all love and care about you.” She emphasizes vehemently.

“Just please answer the phone? Let us know you're okay. Fred, Marion, Chad and my parents are all out looking for you right now. I didn't tell them what happened, just that we got separated.” Another pause before you can hear a hint of gallows laughter from the normally laconic rabbit.

“You know, I don't know which possibility scares me more. That you're laid up in a hospital somewhere, or that you just don't want to talk to us. I know it's fucked up, but I almost hope it's the first. That would mean I haven't royally screwed up one of the best friendships I've ever had.”

“I don't know why I'm so scared, Mike. I should be able to handle this.” She says, almost berating herself it seems. Several seconds pass, and you pull the phone from your ear a moment to check if the message has ended. Seeing a good half minute left on it, you bring it back to where you can hear again.

“You're my friend, Mike. I don't want you mad at me anymore.” She confesses, voice small and timid.

“And… As strange as it may be, I think I…” she begins.

“Battery low.” Comes the helpful synthetic Robot™ voice.

“Weird, huh?” she asks with a nervous chuckle, before you find yourself frantically trying to get increasingly numb fingers to scroll back the appropriate distance on the scroll bar to get back to where you left off. Failing miserably, you panic, nearly dropping your phone before recovering just in time to see the shutdown animation kick in as it dies.

“Shit.” You mutter, initially at the tiny mystery you've been presented, and then at the realization that you've just lost your navigation as well. Not like anyone is going to be out and about this time of night on Christmas Eve, and the buses have most certainly stopped running. You can vaguely remember where the railyard is in relation to home, and you begin walking down Fourth towards the nearest stoplight in that general direction, hoping to find a familiar street name at least.

The crust of wind-blown rime covering the sign for the cross street certainly doesn't help, especially given the fitful light from the street lamps, but somehow the intersection seems familiar enough that you keep on trudging. Not that you needed any prompting to keep your hands buried in your pockets, but the bank marquee helpfully reminds you it's 27 F/ -3 C as you walk by. And hey, maybe it really isn't too early to save for retirement. Odd thought, that. You're here for the long haul, certainly, and as murky as your past is, the future isn't much clearer. Settle down and get married? Have a career beyond permanent security guard? College? You don't know, and have been stuffing that nagging question into the deepest, darkest corner of your mind for months now.

Too bad, or perhaps thankfully, the only thing distracting you now is the muffled crunch of snow underfoot, marring the picturesque path behind you. Given the type of businesses you seem to be passing, this is easily the prettiest time of year for this part of town, as the snow does an admirable job of covering up the dirt. As best you can tell, you're at least an hour's walk away from home, maybe more, and you're not feeling good about how numb your toes already are. A nice cozy home, feet propped up in front of the fireplace, that's definitely a wonderful picture in your head. Home cooked meal maybe, a nice, soft nibbling kiss on your earlobe as your wife puts a big mug of coffee in your hands, her whiskers tickling the side of your neck, paws gently kneading your shoulders.

You stop cold, literally and figuratively, eyes blinking twice as you reassess that particular daydream. Shaking your head vigorously, you tamp that vision back down, but are left with yet another question instead as you resume walking.

Whiskers, huh?

The subconscious can be a fascinating, and dangerous thing, especially given your past, but perhaps this little nugget of information merits further scrutiny. There was a certain familiarity to that feeling, and you can almost picture her face before it slips back into the fog. Someone you already know? It's a short list, admittedly, especially when you take what remains of the unattached hens off of it. BonBon and Bonnie both are still crushing on you, right? Maybe, someday, you could get away from feeling like they're both your little sisters, but neither of them strike you as being particularly handy around the kitchen. Granted, that may just be a tint of fantasy creeping in, but you set them aside for now.

Beanie… yeah, no. Fun to banter with, great friend (tonight notwithstanding), but definitely not the homemaker type, and neither is Mangle, even if that brief imaginary massage did feel pretty nice. Also, you've never been one to pine after someone who doesn't feel the same, so they're both out. You're not gay, not that there's anything wrong with that, so that eliminates pretty much everyone else, though if that were the price for exclusive access to Freddy’s cooking… No, not even then. That just leaves you with Mango, who is a good friend; very motherly in sometimes idiosyncratic ways, but an absolute sweetheart. That you're totally not attracted to.

Maybe you're just making up some idealized amalgam of them all, or your subconscious is just fucking with you. In any case, you've got a bit of a schlep ahead of you, and you'd better get moving. Putting your head down, you turtle into your coat as much as you can manage, trying to keep as warm as possible.

You hear a vehicle coming up behind you on the street, and give it a sidelong glance, making sure that you're in no danger of getting hit, and continue trudging onward. The sedan drives by you slowly before stopping and backing up to stop next to you. Beanie did say the gang was out and about looking for you, even if you're not sure you want to be found right now.

“Hey, you doin’ okay?” Comes an unfamiliar male voice.

You look up and with a start, realize the patina of slush and snow is covering a police cruiser. “Yeah, I got lost, but I think I'm on the right track now. Just walking home.” You answer in a weary voice.

“Where’s home?” The cop asks, his tone unreadable for now.

“1123 Wilson Way, Apartment 87B.” You say evenly.

“Damn, buddy. You're still lost, looks like. I know that complex, used to be an industrial park. About four miles back that way.” He clarifies, and you can barely make him out hooking his thumb back over his shoulder.

“Shit.” You offer meekly, shoulders slumping.

“Ya know what? I'm about to go on my meal break anyway. There's a diner over that way should be open. Hop in, man.” He says warmly, moving a few pieces of gear around in the front seat to make room for you. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, nor utter that phrase aloud, you reach over and pull the door open, only to discover you're actually dealing with a gift *bunny* here. A midnight blue lop rabbit buck perfectly blends into his uniform, and the shadows as well, you'd wager. If the dome light weren't on, you couldn't tell he was even there.

“That shouldn't be too bad, at least not for a short hop across town.” He says, assessing your fit into and among various cases, clipboards and other tools of the trade. With a brief pause to ponder the optics of you clambering into a patrol car, you slip into the seat, closing the door behind you.

“Thanks, Officer…”

“Sergeant, actually. Paul Bonaventure. But you can call me Bonnie.” he says jovially, offering a darkly-furred paw.

Because of course you can.

“Mike Schmidt.” you offer, taking his paw in a firm, cordial pawshake before clicking your seatbelt into place. Reaching down, he pulls the radio mic from its cradle.

“Charlie two four dispatch, ten forty-three?” He asks in an even and practiced voice.

“Charlie two four, negative, board is clear.” Comes the curt, efficient response.

“Ten four, show me ten forty.”

“Ten four Charlie two four, time is oh six twelve.”

He drops the mic back onto its cradle and throws the car into gear, easing back into the road proper with nary a slip or slide. “You're good at this.” You comment, seeing the ease of his motions on the treacherous road.

“I teach driving at the academy most of the time, but we don't have a class in session right now, so I'm working shift to help cover for some of the guys with families.” he says matter-of-factly.

“What about your family?” You ask, unsure of whether you're overstepping your bounds with a rabbit you've only just met.

“Divorced. Kids are up and out anyway, spending Christmas with my mom while they're on break from college. Thankfully, it's only an short drive upstate once I get off in a couple hours.”

“We'll, that's good I suppose.”

“What about you? Headed home for the holiday?” He asks affably.

“Well, I was trying to, but got lost. My family's kind of a weird conglomerate, really. Bunch of us living together in the complex just kind of gelled. Doing Christmas with each other at eight thirty when Faz gets off.”

“Graveyard shift?”

“Yeah, me and him both. He calls it port and starboard. One of us covers the other's days off.”

“What do you guys do?”

“Night watch at the complex.”

“Certainly convenient.”

“Yeah, but the commute’s murder.” You deadpan, getting a soft chuckle from your companion.

“So where's home for you then?”

You'd pedantically point out that you just told him, but you understand exactly what he's getting at. “Colorado. And no, I don't miss this crap.” You interject before he asks the same question everybody else has this winter. “This is like home, minus the pine trees. There's a reason I don't live there anymore.”

“Heh, I gotcha. Not a big fan of snow myself, but I get the attraction. At least it's a novelty 'round these parts. Only the second winter in the last ten we've had it.” He adds.

“Definitely an improvement then.” you add, finding yourself enjoying the conversation in spite of your mood, and your headache.

"So how long you been working there?”

“Almost five months.” You reply, then stop yourself, a little bit of a wry smile ticking at the corner of your mouth. “You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were interrogating me.”

“Force of habit after twenty-seven years, I suppose. Sorry.”

“It's okay. You like the job, I take it?”

“Wouldn't still be here if I didn't. Got about four years 'til retirement.”

“Then what?”

“Don't know. Might still teach cadets. Get to go fishing more, that's for *damn* sure.” He says emphatically.

You only offer him a smile and a soft chuckle for his humor, and for some reason you find yourself rather liking the old bunny. Certainly the most even-keeled rabbit you know outside of Carrol Rabbinson, it seems.

You both fall into an easy silence as you cruise through a green light, and you take a moment to unsuccessfully try to decipher the myriad of switches and buttons on the center console of the cruiser.
“Took me two years to understand every single one of ‘em.” Bonnie says almost conspiratorially.

“I bet.”

“Wanna run the siren?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good, damn thing's loud as hell, even in here.” He replies, and you convulse in laughter only to have the sloshing of your brain inside your skull immediately snap you out of it with a pained grimace on your face.

“You okay, Mike?” He asks, immediately shifting into a more serious tone.

“Yeah.” You grunt. “Fell and hit my head earlier.”

“You need medical attention?” He queries, all business now.

“Not right now. Friend’s mom is actually my doctor. She'll be there I think.”

“All right. I have to ask.” He states, immediately settling back into the warm conversational tone of ten seconds ago. “So is this doctor lady seeing anyone?” He asks with a halfway sly tone that makes you wonder if he's just playing around or actually serious.

“Happily married.” You declare flatly, despite not knowing exactly how true that statement is. Never seen or heard anything to the contrary, certainly.

“Well, can't fault a guy for asking. My lieutenant married a doctor. Back when he was just my rookie. He definitely won the lottery with that one.” He assess with a hint of admiration. “Job's murder on a marriage.” he adds bitterly.

“Sorry.” Is the only thing you can muster.

“Nah. Water under the bridge. I don't blame her for leaving. Still love her, if you can believe it.”

“You keep in touch?”

“Not as much as when the kids were still at home, but yeah. She's happy with her new husband, I'm happy with my job. We've got our own lives to live now.” He declares, sounding like he's had to say that far too many times, and doesn't quite believe it himself. “What about you? Anyone special in your life?” He fires back, instantly setting you on your heels.

“Girlfriend? No. Too busy with work, to be honest. And the schedule doesn't help, either.”

“I feel ya there, Mike. But that's not what I asked.” Bonnie prompts, not letting up on his interrogation.

“I don't see how…” you begin before he cuts you off.

“Special doesn't come along every day. And blaming work is a bullshit excuse. Trust me, if we both had wanted it to work, we'd have made it work. Cute fades. Lust fades. But special… that's what dreams are made of.” He says wistfully, and you wonder just how the two of you have managed to wander into this conversational territory. Oddly enough, you're not creeped out by it. Bonnie's easygoing, earnest demeanor is quickly growing on you.

“You know, I was just thinking about that, actually. Several close friends. Family, really. I just don't know that any of them would ever be more than friends.”

“Never know til you ask.” He adds, prodding you to...what exactly?

“I'll keep that in mind.” You say cautiously, knowing full well what a powderkeg the whole situation is.

“You don't wanna be old and single, wishing you weren't. Sucks out loud.”

“You seem like a nice enough guy, Bonnie.”

“Maybe. Nice doesn't exactly pay the bills, if you know what I mean. Especially once you start getting grey around the muzzle. And no, I've never been able to find a fur dye that matches. Curse of being something of a genetic outlier, I guess.”

“Know how you feel.” You fire back, even if it's drawing attention to your personal genetics from an authority figure. Damn, but this guy's good.

“Here we are.” he says, pulling into the parking lot of a nondescript diner you didn't even know existed, despite its proximity to home. Clambering out, you're again reminded of winter's chill, but only briefly, as the deserted lot has afforded you parking right in front of the door. An electronic chime sounds as the door swings open, Bonnie leading the way like he owns the place.

“Bonnie! Haven't seen you in an age, how you been?” Comes the cheerful call from behind the counter, a busty hen with plumage far more salt than pepper wearing a throwback waitress uniform in bright red, complete with whatever you call that that head cover...thing.

“Been stayin’ busy, girlfriend. How's business?”

“Doin’ all right. You picking up strays again?” She asks pointedly, looking directly at you.

“You know me too well. Mike, this is Chica, Chica, Mike.” He says warmly, and you can barely make out her name tag, which says 'Charlotte’.

“Pleasetameetcha.” She says pleasantly enough.

“Likewise.” You manage, finding the bird off-putting for some reason you can't put a finger on.

“Coffee?” She asks unnecessarily.

“Yes, please.” You both answer in unison, getting an amused smirk from Charlotte before she turns to pull the carafe off the burner. You and Bonnie take seats at the bar, turning the well-used ceramic mugs upright and getting expert pours from the clearly practiced hen. Peeling open three little cups of coffee whitener, you dump them into the mug, watching silently as the swirls of darkness and light mix and mingle. You follow that with a nice helping of sugar, careful to stir it slowly as the two additions have the mug nearly overflowing.

“I’ll have the usual, Chica.” he says without even glancing at the menu, your inner debate raging over whether it’s better to save some cash or grab a snack to tide you over til you get home. Certainly more of a debate now, given your timely (or is that last minute impulse?) purchase at the game store last night. Ninety bucks isn’t exactly pocket change these days.

“Foxy shut the grill down an hour ago, sorry, Hon.” Charlotte says apologetically. “Want a sammich?”

“Nah, kinda wanted something warm and sweet.”

“Been here all night, Bonnie.” she shoots back easily, drawing a chuckle from the personable bunny. “All we got left in the dessert case is half a pie. I can warm it up in the microwave for ya.”

“Pie? What kind?”

“Apple rosemary. Got a new cake lady, lives just down the street.”

“Apple...rosemary…” Bonnie begins dubiously before you conversationally mow him down.

“Two slices, warm please.” you say emphatically. Seeing the look of disbelief on his face, you continue. “My treat. Besides, if you don’t like it, more for me.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Neither did you. Merry Christmas, Bonnie.” you add with a smile, hoping you’ve made a friend.

“Merry Christmas, Mike.” he says with a soft smile, before fixing you with an intent gaze. “You know, I can’t help but think we’ve met before.” he says, whether out of simple curiosity or suspicion you can’t quite tell.

“Pretty sure I’d have remembered.” you reply cautiously. Despite a few passing interactions with the police while you were homeless, you’ve never been arrested before.

“Ehh, maybe I’m just seeing things. Haven’t been on mids for a few months.” he says, brushing it off in precisely the way that leaves you with the impression that he isn’t. Before he can press the matter further, you receive your pie, a familiar and beautifully flaky latticework crust topping real apples sprinkled with fresh rosemary. The piney, floral notes of the herb are center stage in the bouquet of the dish, and you take in all in with a huge smile on your face. Sergeant Bonaventure, however, remains dubious, his slightly askew whiskers matching the skeptically raised eyebrow.

“Seriously, try it.” you reassure him with a smile, before digging into your own, the sweetness counterpointed by the woody, almost medicinal notes of the rosemary to hit another plane of deliciousness entirely. You close your eyes to savor the moment, before hearing the click of fork on plate next to you, followed shortly by a muffled grunt of pleasure.

“Oh that’sh good.” your companion says reverently with a mouth full of pie.

“You’re welcome again.” you reply with a smile.

“*You’re* the new cake lady?” he asks with that skeptical eye again.

“No, I just helped her with it. Friend of mine.” you clarify with a hint of pride.

“Don’t suppose she’s available?”

“Nope.”

“You just enjoy killing a guy’s dreams, don’t you?” he says with an amused sigh.

“Just don’t want you getting your hopes up is all. If you get a chance to swing by after work, I’m pretty sure she’s got a full slate of baked goods for the food spread later.” you say, and immediately regret it. Not for the invite, but the reminder that there are people still out looking for you. People who are going to be there. In spite of yourself, and in utter disrespect for the deliciousness before you, you wolf it down, chugging your coffee as quickly as you dare. “I really should be getting home.” you say curtly. “One block over puts me on Wilson, right?” you ask Bonnie.

“Yeah, but hold on and I’ll drop you off. Quicker, and warmer.” he says reassuringly, perhaps sensing something wrong. Ultimately, you can’t argue with his logic, and so stay put while he finishes. Sliding the ticket over, you regard the twelve dollar balance and set a pair of tens underneath it on the counter. It is Christmas, after all, even if you’re not feeling particularly festive at the moment.

With a ringing clatter, Bonnie’s fork hits the plate, and you can see there’s nary a crumb left on it. “Hated it.” he declares facetiously, managing to draw a chuckle out of you even now. “You ready?” he asks, clearly not a rabbit to waste time. Giving him a simple grunt of affirmation, you rise simultaneously with him, padding off towards the door.

“You don’t be a stranger, Bonnie, m’kay?” Charlotte calls after you both. “And you neither, Mike!”

“Yes, ma’am.” you both reply simultaneously, and you eye each other warily for a split second after. Shrugging, you follow Bonnie back to his squad car, wincing as the cold bites into your ears again before you remember to put your watch cap back on. The interior of the cruiser itself retains the barest hint of warmth, as does the motor, thankfully, the heater coming back online as soon as he starts the car.

“Charlie two four dispatch, show me ten eight.” Bonnie says into the radio mic with practiced, professional ease.

“Charlie two four ten four.” Comes the terse reply.

“She sounds like the life of the party.” You say with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

“Who, Freddy? Nah, that's just her dispatch voice. She's an absolute riot off the clock. Curses like a damn Marine.” He adds, and you can already picture a rough, carousing sow bear (what else would a Freddy be?) in your head, and you chuckle a bit. “She’s saved my ass I can't count how many times. She can hear it. When a call’s going bad, even before we realize it ourselves. She's a freak of nature, in the best possible way.” He adds with genuine admiration.

“Sounds like you two get along well.” You say, overstating the obvious for the sake of conversation. You're really not liking having to think about coming home right now. Everyone's been up all night looking for you, and you've been...napping and eating pie. Granted, the nap wasn't exactly voluntary, but still.

“Yeah, even when I was a dumb rookie, she would straighten me out.” He says with a wistful smile. With a start, you realize he's talking about events that happened before you were even born. You think for a moment, sharing a *non*-awkward silence for once tonight, imagining how much Bonnie has to have seen in twenty-seven years. You're also struck by how, well, un-police-like he seems. Not once has he been patronizing, or called you 'kid’, despite being old enough to be your father.

“If you had it to do over again, would you?” You ask him, interested to find his view on a matter you've thought on yourself from time to time ever since you destroyed every shred of evidence of your former life. Surprisingly, he barely hesitates before answering you.

“In a heartbeat. It's cost me, sure. I've had to tell a little kid their parents are dead. Twice. Got stabbed once. End of the day, if not me then who? So many people wanna bitch about cops, and sure, there are some idiots wearing a badge who shouldn't. And the odd outright scumbag. But those guys are the exception, not the rule, Mike.” He concludes adamantly. “Sorry, got a little preachy there.” He adds abashedly.

“Don't worry about it.” You reply, feeling for the rabbit. “Gets lonely out here, doesn't it?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“I know the feeling. Eleven and a half hours with no one to talk to for half of it.”

“I know, right?”

“At least you've got… what do you even call them? Euphemistically, I mean.”

“Well, according to Department policy, the correct, technical term is 'scumbags’.” He says sagely, getting a strangled snort of laughter from you. He joins in the mirth for a moment before getting a little more serious. “But seriously, yeah. Most of the people I deal with have issues you and I can't even begin to comprehend. And that's just the perps. Victims, that's a whole 'nother can o’ worms. You do what you can, when you can, where you can. That's what keeps me going. *That's* what makes it worthwhile.” He adds sincerely, and you can detect no doubt in the statement whatsoever.

Rather than try to live up to that line of conversation, you allow his words to go unchallenged for the time being, watching the blocks slip by far too quickly for your tastes. Without another word spoken, you're turning into the parking lot, and Bonnie stops the car in front of building 8.

“Thanks a lot, Bonnie. Seriously, swing by 93A later, and I'll make sure you're taken care of.” You say, hoping that the crew hasn't lynched you before you can make good on that promise.

“I'll see what I can do. Say, Mike.” He says, fishing in the inside pocket of his jacket and producing a business card. He reaches across the cabin, handing it to you. “Just in case you run into something you need help with on the job. Something you don't need to dial 911 for. Also has my personal number, if you get bored.”

“Or if *you* get bored.” you reply with a smirk.

“See? I've got guys with ten years on the job can't see through bullshit like that. You're a natural.” he adds warmly.

“If you say so, Bonnie.”

“Seriously. Department's hiring. Gotta pay better that what you've got going now.” He pitches, and you have to say you're at least tempted a bit by the prospect of real, disposable income.

“I'll...think about it.” You offer him, unsure of whether you'd even be able to get something like a regular job. You don't have a driver's license, for starters. Any background check on you is going to be insanely suspicious, given that you didn't even exist in this world until last year.

“Oh, almost forgot.” He adds, procuring another business card for you and handing it over.

“You already…” you begin.

“In case your doctor, or the cake lady, comes back on the market?” He clarifies sheepishly. Out of politeness, you pocket this one as well. If nothing else, maybe Faz can use it.

“Dispatch, Charlie two four.” Comes the business-oriented voice of she-Freddy.

“Charlie two four.” Bonnie answers before turning to you again.

“Looks like they're playing my song. Catch you later, Mike.” He says as the dispatcher relays the call.

“You too, Bonnie. Merry Christmas!” You shout as you close the door and he drives off.

And with that, you've got nothing left but dread for the coming reunion. It's Christmas for fuck's sake, and everyone else is spending a merry old time with their families. Yours probably wants to throw you off a building right now. Your mood does little to right itself as you trudge through the snow towards your apartment. The stairs are slick, but not quite treacherous, as Goose’s near fall last month finally prompted Marion to pony up for some non-skid stair treads. Digging into your pocket for your key, you're puzzled that it's not where it should be, and you take several moments as your pace slows along the balcony to unsuccessfully inventory every pocket.

“Well, shit.” You mutter, another crappy chapter in your crappy day. Looking up, you spot a small figure seated inside the tiny alcove in front of your door, wearing a faded, well-worn red hoodie, arms wrapped around her knees. At your words she looks up, bleary eyes not believing what they're seeing apparently.

“Hey.” You say softly, almost afraid to spook the clearly rattled rabbit, your face a mask of bewilderment.

“Hey.” She says, tone mirroring yours, even of you can see a wan smile on her face. Whether that's relief, exhaustion, or some amalgam thereof, you're not sure.

“How long have you been sitting here?” You ask, trying to keep the conversation calm and civil.

“A while.” Beanie replies, offering you a toneless sigh. “You didn't answer your phone. Everyone's really worried about you.” She says quietly.

“Phone died.” You say simply, answering that question even as she pulls hers out, pecking away briefly before pocketing it again.

“What happened?” She asks, barely audible now.

“Fell and hit my head. Homeless guy I know took care of me til I came to.” You say truthfully, not going into specifics at the moment lest you rattle your friend even more than she is.

“Sounds bad. Have mom take a look at it?” She says numbly, seeming to intentionally play down a concussion rather than face any culpability she may have for it. “You wanna come inside?” she asks meekly, neither one of you seeming entirely comfortable with this conversation for different reasons.

“Not yet. I need to tell you something.”

Beanie looks up at you warily, looking as if she's bracing herself for the worst.

“I'm sorry, Beanie.” You say softly, sincerely.

“What?” She asks, even more confused now.

“You were trying to be a friend, and asking me to do the same. I overreacted, and I really didn't mean to drive you away like that. You're one of the best friends I've ever had, and I want to keep on having you. As a friend.” You add awkwardly before she turns the inopportune phrasing against you. For her part, Miss Rabbinson stares at you for several seconds, mouth open, expression unreadable before she finally speaks.

“Holy shit, you're serious, aren't you?” She asks dumbfoundedly.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because this was on me, Mike. I used you. I used you to get what I needed, and then I just passed you off onto a lecherous bird, thinking that made it all better when it was just making it worse.”

“Beanie…”

“Damn it, let me finish!” She snaps at you, shutting you up. “If I really wanted to make things right, I would have done you properly myself.” She says vehemently before her eyes go wide in shock. “Done properly by you, damn it. Get your mind out of the gutter, monkey boy.” she admonishes, and you'd swear you can see her blushing through her fur.

“Beanie. You are, and always will be my friend. As long as you wish it.” You say solemnly, trying to rebuild, or at least reinforce, this bridge.

She gives a half-hearted derisive snort, burying her face in her paws. “Why the fuck do you have to be so perfect?” You hear her barely mutter. You're not even sure you were supposed to hear that, so you leave it unanswered for now.

“I'm going to still be your friend, Beanie. Will you be mine?” You ask, extending a hand to her and not even bothering to correct yourself this time. She knows full well what you meant. For her part, she looks up at you, eyes slightly glossy, blinking gently, looking very much the fragile little bunny she adamantly refuses to be compared to. She places her shaking, (or is it shivering?), paw into your hand, and you immediately decide it's the latter, her grip somewhat weak for her, and cold as ice.

“Holy shit, you're freezing!” You exclaim breathily, racking your scrambled brain for the most immediate solution.

“Like I said. A while.” She deadpans, her eyes going wide as you haul her to her feet and immediately unzip your coat. “Mike, what did I tell you about you always having to be...oh.” she stops as you open the front of your garment and envelop the rail thin rabbit inside. Your arms encircle her, taking some effort but finally getting about a foot of zipper refastened.

“Well, according to my first aid training, the best option in cases of hypothermia would be to strip the both of us naked and stuff into a sleeping  bag.” you add with what authority you can muster.

“Yeah, that ain't ever fuckin’ happening.” she declares flatly.

“Harsh, Beanie.”

“Sorry.” She says quickly, seemingly cowed. After a few moments, comfort wins out over decorum, and she wraps her arms around you, drawing a soft hiss as her frigid limbs make contact with bare skin where your shirt’s become untucked.

“Sorry.” She again mutters into your shoulder, and you silently squeeze her a little tighter to you, letting her soak in what warmth she can from you. After several silent moments, you feel her shake, slowly and definitely not a shiver. It takes you several seconds to discern the cause, until she breaks her silence with a soft, phlegmy sob into your shoulder. Wordlessly, you shush the girl, rubbing her back platonically, feeling first hand that below her thorny, confident facade right now is indeed a frail, frightened bunny. She says something into your shoulder that you can't quite make out.

“What was that?” You ask.

“I said I thought we'd lost you.” She says ashamedly, definitely not liking being exposed like this. All you can think of at the moment is how it sure sounded like she'd said “I’d”.

“I'm sorry, Bean. Truly. I didn't mean to scare you like that.” You say softly into the vicinity of her ear. You think. Hard to tell with her hood up all the time.

“No, Mike. You didn't scare me off. My own stupid fears did. I just couldn't handle those words.” She says, voice whimpering slightly. In spite of your concussion, several pieces of the puzzle snap violently into place.

“That's what he used to say to you, isn't it?” You ask softly, a moment's pause passing before you feel her nod slowly against the side of your face. You squeeze her tightly to you, eyes squinted shut as you fight back tears yourself. “I am so. Sorry.” You reassure your friend, a hand cradling the back of her head and finding her hood mostly off. Opting to try and relax the nervous wreck of a rabbit in your arms, your cold-bitten fingers gently stroke one of her ears. Nothing too intense or aggressive, just a reassuring touch of gentle affection. Platonic affection. Completely platonic. Yessiree.

“Every God damned night, Mike. That fucker would swing by every. God. Damned. Night.” She begins, your hand continuing to relax the rabbit in your arms, who is on the cusp of a catharsis it seems. “Those cables are unsafely coiled. Hate to have to report that. Just looking out for your safety. That spilled coffee is a slip hazard. Hate to have to report that. Just looking out for your safety. Monitors set that bright in a dark room can cause eyestrain. Hate to have to report that. Just looking out for your safety.” She says, voice increasingly agitated and bitter with each iteration. “That sweatshirt isn't fire resistant. The chair you're sitting in is missing a caster.” She continues, voice beginning to show cracks now. “I swear that fucker was obsessed with me. Even the other people who worked security didn't have him hanging around like a lovesick puppy.” She adds, stirring up all sorts of unpleasant memories in your own head.

“I can imagine.” You mutter softly, immediately regretting it as Beanie freezes, then leans back to look you in the eye, a fire rekindled in her apparently.

“Fuck you, Mike. Don't you dare try and patronize me like that!  You don't know what it was like!” She practically shouts, trying unsuccessfully to push you away. You open your mouth to answer but the words can't make it past your lungs before you're both interrupted by the neighborhood ninja.

“Yes, he does, Beanie.” Faz intones from behind her, causing her to whirl about awkwardly, still caught in your coat. You can feel more than see her wilt under his gaze, which is tinged with fatherly disappointment. “Michael.” He says calmly, producing your shared keyring and disconnecting your apartment key from it, handing it to you. Answers that question, you suppose.

“Thanks.” You mutter, before coming to the horrifying realization that Beanie’s small, pert rump is planted firmly in your crotch, with predictably burgeoning results. Stop that, you're going to get us both killed you think, silently hoping she doesn't notice.
“We need to talk.” Faz pronounces softly, the barest ripple on the surface of deep, still waters.

“Can I get a rain check, Faz? It's been a long night, and I'm…”

“I wasn't talking to you, Michael.” He says with the mildest hint of annoyance at your interruption. “Though on second thought, you might be able to help shed some light on the topic at hand. In any case, downstairs in the office in five minutes, young lady.” He concludes sternly before turning and shambling off. You're both left watching him leave, thoughts even muddier than before.

“The fuck was he talking about?” She asks after you're both sure he's out of earshot.

“I don't know, Bean.” You mutter. You thought you knew Faz well enough by now to be able to hazard a guess, but you're at a loss here. Numbly, you start fumbling with your coat zipper, only to find it stubbornly refusing to move.

“Let me do it, I can see better.” She says irritably, leaning forward and exacerbating your problem, as you can feel her fluffy tail twitching right around your belt buckle, tickling as it slips under the hem of your shirt. You snigger softly, jumping a bit at the sensation. “This isn't funny, Mike.”

“Sorry.”

“Damn it, hold on.” She grumps, squirming back around to face you again before slithering down your front. With no small amount of effort, and potentially suggestive grunting, given that her face is inches from your crotch, Beanie finally works free, straightening her hoodie with a scowl.

“Let's go see what the fuck ‘dad’ wants.” she grouses, stalking off down the catwalk, your eye drawn to her purple tail, twitching irritably. The human eye is drawn to motion, right?

Stuffing that strange feeling away for the time being, you follow after her, wishing you still had some painkillers left over. This headache feels like it's going to get a lot worse.