Scarred - Chapter 1

Epilogues: Scarred - Chapter 1

The rattling of keys in the apartment office’s front door startles you out of your fifth reading of the funny pages, and you stand up, straightening your light jacket as Marion trundles backwards into the building, weighed down with a stack of cardboard boxes towering over his sparse frame. You quickly step towards him just as he begins to teeter on the edge of losing his balance, steadying him before plucking the top two boxes from his arms.

“Thank you, ah, Mr. Schmidt.” He says, a little out of breath and clearly a lot relieved.

“No problem, boss.” You reply, barely stifling a yawn.

“All quiet yet again, I assume?” He asks you, setting the rest of his cargo down on his desk.

“Like a library. Not to look a…” you were about to say gift horse, but wisely stop yourself. You've been getting better about that, but animal-based idioms are still part of your vocabulary. Best to not have a repeat attempt to explain exactly what you meant by harebrained. “Favor...the wrong way. But it's always quiet around here. I'm beginning to wonder if you even need me. I don't want to be a charity case, Marion.” you firmly assert.

“Oh, heavens, no, Mr. Schmidt. Your presence alone is what, ah, ensures the peaceful slumber of our residents. Why, Mrs. Presto just the other day mentioned how reassured she feels knowing that someone is on the clock, as it were. There's something to be said for deterrence, after all.” He concludes with that awkward smile of his, tenting his fingertips as if he's spoken the gospel truth.

“All right, I suppose. You need anything else, boss? I've been struggling to keep my eyes open for the last hour.” You say through a half-yawn.

“Ah...no, that'll be quite all right, Mr. Schmidt. Pleasant dreams!” He adds in his best attempt at warmth you've seen yet.

“Thanks, boss.” You reply briefly, collecting your peaked blue cap from the hat rack by the door, perching the ill-fitting haberdashery on your head, rather than carrying it by hand the whole way home. Granted, you can see your front door from here, but that doesn't make the convenience any less relevant.

What does, however, make it less relevant is the stiff gust of wind that blows it off your head the moment you step outdoors. Several seconds of fumbling later, you've managed to both catch the offending headgear, and hip check Bonworth into the wall.

“You okay there, Mike?” The lavender rabbit asks, genuine concern tingeing his voice even though you are obviously at fault.

“Yeah, damn thing got away from me again. Marion kept saying he'd reorder the right size, but the company went out of business before he could.” you grumble, helping Bonworth off the wall and to his feet.

“Well, Marion's been busy with planning building fourteen’s renovations. You should see it, Mike. Gonna be a gym dandy! Quite literally, I might add!” He tacks on, ever the showman.

“I'll take your word for it. Say hi to the gang for me?” You ask, knowing full well he'd do it even if you didn't.

“Sure thing, Mike!” He replies, his trademark goofy grin back in full effect. “Oh, speaking of gyms, do you know if Chiclet had some other commitment this morning? Cheeky said she wasn't in the hen house today.” he asks, more curious than concerned.

“Not that I'm aware of.” you reply, your own curiosity piqued.

Bonworth merely shrugs in response, before turning and entering the office door. "Catch you later, Mike!"

"Likewise, Bon."

You coolly survey the apartment complex common area, squinting slightly as the sun peeks over the city skyline. The cold autumn wind rustles through empty branches; the soft, scrabbling rattle of a large leaf dragging along the sidewalk the only sound. There's a peace here, which given the events of last winter, is most assuredly welcome.

And if you're a part of that peace, so much the better.

A short lived peace, as it were, as your phone reestablishes a connection and buzzes in your pocket like an angry hornet’s nest. “Damn office reception.” You grumble as you fish the gadget from your pocket.

Two saucy texts from Cheeky, go figure, including yet another pic of her in a bra asking if you think the workouts are doing any good. One from BonBon offering to wait for you to join her working out. Yeah, right. Not in your condition. One from Fran asking if you've seen one of Bonson’s favorite toys on your rounds. A quick reply tells her no, but you'll keep an eye out. Twelve miscellaneous noise complaints from Mrs. Presto. You politely tell her you'll look into them, rather than politely suggest that she needs to look into treatment for her blatantly obvious insomnia. Short query from ChiChi, asking if you still want to get with her later for more cooking lessons. This one you beg off, pleading fatigue, but regretful nonetheless. The last, and most recent is from Bonnie.

“Headed to the dr’s and then grocery shopping, you need anything?”

You pause to consider before pecking away on the finest decade old phone Marion could provide you. “Nothing comes to mind. Freddy still going with you then?”

“Yeah, said something about a special dinner for you tonight? Something about Annie Vairsair? Am I even spelling that right?”

Holy hell, it really has been a year, hasn't it? “Close enough, I think. As long as he makes those crepes with the orange, I'd be happy with a Humburger.”

“You don't want to know what his reply to *that* was”

“I can imagine…”

“Take care, and get some sleep. You've been looking really tired lately.” Bonnie states, giving you pause again. Winter’s been closing in, robbing your life of daylight minute by minute. Another two weeks and the sun won't even be up by the time you're in bed. That has to be it. Some sort of a seasonal affective whatsit.

“I will, ttyl, Bon” you send back, moving to slip the phone back into your jacket pocket and trudging up the stairs to 87b.

“Oh, and check on Chica? She didn't seem well at breakfast this morning” comes a late reply, causing you to nearly drop your phone as you juggle it, your massive keychain (where eighty percent of the locks these go to are located mystifies even Marion, who nevertheless insists they're all important) and your cap.

A double fumble of your key in the lock only serves to reinforce Bonnie’s assessment. You really need to get some rest. The door creaks quietly on its hinges as you enter, hanging your cap and coat on the rack in the foyer.

“Honey, I'm home!” You call, a recurring joke after four months of midnight shift. The apartment replies with dead silence, thinking it slightly less funny than your roommates. Though in truth, do you really even think of them that way? They fit the textbook definition, to be sure, but with all the trials and tribulations you've been through together, they're the closest thing you have to a family now. The fuzzy memories of your childhood notwithstanding, these people, not just crazy weird animal people anymore, have seen you at your best and your worst.

And you're more than okay with that; you're glad to be here, for perhaps the first time in your life.

A soft smile tickles at the corner of your mouth as you admit it to yourself, a soft sigh flaring your nostrils as you resolve once again to always do right by your family, even as crazy as it can be sometimes.

All right, most of the time.

A twisting, turning sensation in your gut reminds you of the fact you haven't eaten since dinner, having neglected to grab anything more substantial than a candy bar out of the vending machine during shift. With that in mind, you head to the kitchen to see what Freddy has left for you. He's been doing his best to not let your diet suffer in relation to the rest of the apartment, but sacrifices have had to be made. The kitchen is cast mostly in shadow, but you're able to make out a glass cloche over a plate with a croissant (likely sourced from ChiChi), butter and tangerine marmalade (Freddy’s latest obsession has been jams and jellies) and what looks like some sort of summer sausage, already sliced for your convenience. To top it off, there is a small place card perched atop the marmalade.

Good morning, Michael it reads in flowing script, Freddy's customary greeting delivered by proxy today, it seems.

That gets a slightly bigger smile out of you as you think upon how close you and the strange bear have become. You've been teaching him, slowly and arduously, enough English to start to be able to get by in common situations without a go-between, and he (with ChiChi’s help) has been teaching you to cook, even letting you take care of dinner for the apartment last month. Whether everyone was putting you on when they said they enjoyed it is still debatable, but you didn't think it was bad at least.

As you turn back from the counter to take your seat, with a start you realize you're not alone.

“Chica?” You ask tentatively, a hard knot forming in your stomach as you immediately sense something is wrong. A quick flail of your left arm gets the light switch, and your suspicions deepen. The normally energetic bird is hunched over the table, head in her wings, and the light begins to elicit stirring from her clearly slumbering form. She's dressed rather sharply, a cream colored sweater hugging her curves well, modest, yet still quite sexy, her hips sporting a calf-length denim skirt with flairs of chrome studwork for decoration. As she raises her head, you recognize the splash of color around her neck as Mangle's birthday present to her three months ago. Unfortunately you also recognize the nearly empty bottle of tequila she is embracing like a drowning man clutches a life preserver.

“Oh, hey, Mike. Fancy meeting you here.” She says groggily, whether she's joking or legitimately thinks you're both in a bar is, chillingly, debatable.

“How you doin’, Chica?” You ask, trying to project as much warmth and concern as you can muster, and probably failing miserably.

“I'm just fine aaaaaand dandy, Mikey.” She replies, clearly not believing it.

An awkward pause follows, before you both blurt out.

“You're dressed pretty classy for break…”

“So what are you doin’ home…”

You both pause again, as the gears are clearly turning in the brightly-plumed hen’s head.

“Shit.” She summarizes succinctly, quickly pivoting her gaze towards the clock before flinching away immediately as she discovers it's on the same line of sight as the overhead lamp. Rubbing at her eyes, and knocking the bottle over in the process, she wearily asks “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty-seven.” You reply sheepishly.

“Fuck.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I've missed the bus on the first day of school. Need to get Bonnie her meds, and…”

“She's gone for the day. Freddy is taking her to the doctor and grocery shopping after. I presume she either took her meds voluntarily or Freddy sorted her out.” You add, trying to help.

“Never shoulda come to that, Mike, I just…”

“You’re just having a bad day, Chica. You're not the only competent person in the universe you know,” you softly chide, “some of us can actually tie our own shoes.”

“Pfft, I've seen your shoes.” She fires back, her sense of humor slowly showing itself.

“I thought you liked it when I was a knotty boy.” You reply smoothly, relishing having the upper hand in this exchange for once.

“I'm hung over, not drunk, Michael.” She immediately quips.

“Ouch, Chica.” So much for the upper hand.

“Sorry, that came out a little harsh, didn't it?”

“A little, yeah.” you reply softly, before shifting gears. “You wanna talk about it?”

Chica pauses, regarding you warily through half-lidded eyes. “Nothing much to tell. Just another chapter in the love life of the horribly disfigured. I should know what my place is in the universe by now.” she concludes grimly, retrieving the bottle and swirling it before chugging the dregs.

Your good mood now all but evaporated, you try and find the words, but your roommate barrels on ahead before you can catch up. “I mean, is it too much to ask for just a little more than being just a walking bear-to-English dictionary who doubles as nursemaid to a hair-trigger rabbit?” She demands of no one in particular, voice cracking much like the thin veneer of banter she's maintained until now.

“I'm just... no that's not fair to either of them.” She relents, chucking the bottle nearly into the trashcan and propping her doubtless throbbing head in her hands, feathers obscuring her face completely.

You retrieve the bottle, correcting Chica’s errant toss before sitting down next to her, lightly throwing your right arm over her shoulders. You can feel, not hear, her sob, and scoot your chair forward to give the bird a proper hug. She leans gently into your embrace, and you can feel now the high quality of her garment under your fingertips; warm, soft, and definitely not a thrift shop find. The puzzle is still blurry as hell, but another piece has dropped into place.

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” You cautiously ask.

You hear her take a deep breath, then another, before she looks up, allowing you to see her face close up for the first time. Her expression is one of resigned disappointment, frustration, pain and regret all rolled into one. But more than that are her eyes. They look, for lack of a better word, dead. More than just bloodshot, what little you can see of her eyelids is red and puffy, her eyeliner smudged and running down her cheek a little.

“Damn Mangle for talking me into getting on Kindling.” She says at last, her gaze averted. She looks up after a few seconds, only to see the quizzical look on your face. “Dating app.” She clarifies, almost ashamedly. “Swipe up, swipe down?” She asks of your still-confused face.

“Oh. So I take it you found someone?” You cautiously venture.

“Yeah, and who'da thunk it? He turned out to be a total shitbag.” she concludes grimly. “Oh he didn't say anything, not explicitly, but it was all there. He just wanted to shag me, and knew he was doing me a favor by even offering.”

“Sorry, Chica.” you commiserate, squeezing her shoulder for emphasis. “Don't let one guy ruin it for you. There are plenty of guys out there who’d be privileged to get to know you.”

“Don't you get it? That's the point. No, there aren't.” She says with finality. “No one wants anything out of this butterface but maybe a quick fuck with a bag over my head.” she mutters angrily, her frame tensing up noticeably.

You can't come up with a quick response to that, and so just pull the bright orange hen towards you, getting a facefull of headfeathers in the bargain.

“I don't get to pick and choose, like some people I could mention.” She says softly, her voice muffled by your shoulder.

“Was that directed at me?” You ask cautiously.

Chiclet practically bolts out of your grasp, leaning back into her chair before addressing you sharply. “Pfft, you've got two bunnies mooning after you, a third who won't admit that she is, two hens who've got more hands on time with you than I could ever dream of…”

“Wait, what?” You unsuccessfully interrupt, bewildered in the extreme.

“...not to mention a fox who’s definitely gotten *more* than her fair share of fondling you.” She concludes, angrily folding her wings in front of her.

“Wasn't aware I'd become community property.” You shoot back, probably cooler than you should have, based on how immediately deflated Chica becomes.

“Sorry, Mike.” She says after a long silence. “I'm not really in a good place right now, if you couldn't tell. I'm just gonna head to bed and sleep this off.” She says dejectedly, rising unsteadily from her chair.

Thanks to her slow pace, you're able to grab a wingtip before she passes you by completely. “Wait. That was really harsh of me to say, Chica. I'm sorry.” You apologize, genuinely wanting to help her through this.

She pulls up short, staring at the floor for a long moment. At last, she sighs softly. “Maybe it was a bit harsh, but you're not wrong.” she admits, breaking free from your gentle grasp to go sit on the couch, leaning against the padded armrest. After a moment, she pats the cushion next to her. “Couch is more comfortable for a good cry.” She says, offering you a wan, slightly cracked smile.

Returning it with one of your own, you amble over to join her, nearly tripping over the transition from linoleum to carpet.

“You okay? Look like a damn zombie.” She asks as you settle in next to her.

“I'm good, just a long night.” you reply, waving her off.

“You're full of it, Mike. I've had to come wake you for dinner every night this week. Freddy's beginning to think you don't like his cooking anymore. You're still going to bed as soon as you get home, so I can't figure it out.” She adds, neatly deflecting away from her own troubles. “Speaking of, shouldn't you be heading to bed?”

“Nope, next four nights off. You'll have to make do with Faz.” You say, a mite proud you were able to persuade Marion that the private contractor he had running things on your days off wasn't as efficient as someone who knew the complex and its denizens much better than some rent-a-cop, and that the increase in ability, and reliability was well worth the slight increase in budget.

“God help any dumbass stupid enough to try anything on his watch. He's capable of scaring people to death, the big lunk.” She adds, clearly in awe of the massive bear’s abilities as you are.

“So yeah, we were talking about you, Ms. Pardee-Birb.” You verbally nudge, eyebrow raised.

“Well, shit.”

“Yup.”

“I know this sounds hollow right now, but I'm gonna be okay. Promise.”

“Until the next time. You know what, hold that thought.” You say quickly, rising and walking over to what used to be your bedroom door.

You hope Freddy doesn't mind, but the greater good dictates your actions for now. Opening the door, you cast a brief glance about before spotting Freddy’s portfolio. You again hope the massive bear, one who you've personally witness crush tin cans with his bare hands, to say nothing of a certain humanimatronic, doesn't take umbrage at you borrowing one particular sketch. Flipping through the burgeoning body of work, you're shocked it includes more than a few artistic female nudes of indeterminate species or face, but definitely the same subject.

“Who's been modeling for you, mon ami? Lucky bastard.” You mumble to yourself before you find what you're looking for and carefully slip it out so as not to smudge the charcoal.

Trotting back into the room, you find Chica reclining, eyes closed, comfortably on the couch, massaging her temples slowly, feathertips bent at a seemingly impossible angle. Taking up station behind her, you set the charcoal sketch on the easy chair behind you before easing her own fingers down and replacing them with yours.

“Mmmmmmmm” is her only verbal reply as your fingertips work at the knotted muscles beneath her bright orange down. Several minutes pass as Chica enjoys her impromptu massage, and you run through various ways of getting back to the subject on hand, most of which end in disaster, including one scenario ending with you somehow getting shot by Nisha once again.

“the fuck?” You mumble at that one.

“Didn't think you were into birds, Mike.”

“No, I didn't…” you stammer

“At least that's what Cheeky said.” She adds, a saucy grin on her face. She's back to her usual self for now, it seems.

And that's the problem.

“Chica?”

“Yes, massage boy?” She replies warmly.

“I need to show you something.” You state calmly, no need to inject more emotion than you're about to already.

“Is it the drink menu? I could really go for a bloody mary right now.” she adds, polishing the facade some more.

“No, sadly. It's actually a mirror.” You say calmly, placing the sketch into her hands. A brief moment later she gasps softly, clearly recognizing the subject matter. She studies the sketch silently for a full minute, her face neutral, but eyes clearly brimming as you take a seat, lifting her legs up and into your lap.

“This is Freddy's work.” She finally says softly.

“Check the date,” you reply, “bottom right corner.”

She brings the sheet of heavy gauge paper closer before setting it down in her lap, counting something silently on her feathertips.

“He drew this the month he moved in.” She replies to your unspoken question.

“I figured as much.” You state evenly. “He saw right through you, probably the day you met. Language barrier aside, or perhaps even because of it, that is one perceptive bear. I'm ashamed it's taken me a year to do the same.”

“Mike, I…”

“No, Chica. Let me finish.” You say quietly, holding up a hand. “You have this whole act down pat. You're the life of the party for everyone but yourself, and frankly I think that's a shame. I'd rather have you along for the ride too, pretty lady.” You add with a soft smile, trying to not come across too harshly.

“You don't understand…” she begins, before you cut her off.

“Because you don't let me. Or anyone for that matter. Help me to understand you, Chica.” You practically beg of her.

She regards you quietly for several moments. “Mike,” she begins hesitantly, “it's not that simple. It can't be, not with everything in play here. There's Bonnie, and Freddy isn't exactly fully functional either.”

“No, Chica. We're talking about you here. What do you need? I can't help you unless…”

“I want a normal damn life!” She shouts, frustrated, not angry. “I was going to change the world! Or at least my own little corner of it. I don't know, maybe settle down, hatch a couple kids. But now, that's never gonna happen. No one wants me, not like...this!” She adds, both index feathers pointing to her face. “Instead, I'm stuck being a spinster, or...settling, for shitheads like Chad.” She concludes bitterly.

“I'm sure there must be someone you know, that knows the real you, that can look past…”

“Believe me, I've thought about that more often than I'd like to admit.” She says, an admission in and of itself that you thankfully don't point out.

“But what about…?”

“Freddy’s like a brother to me, Faz too. Fred is too much of a workaholic. Rackham is pining after ChiChi, even if he doesn't have the balls to pull the trigger. Peanut...bless his heart, but no. Bonworth is too busy for anything, believe me, I've asked. Foxy is obviously out. And Marion, just eww.” She adds superfluously, echoing pretty much every female opinion you've heard on the matter.

You're doing a mental inventory, feeling like she's skipped someone, but you're not sure who.

“And the only guy I'm even remotely interested in has half the complex nipping at his heels.” She mutters bitterly, before the realization of what she's said hits both of you.

Your mind is scrambling to find an exit to the awkward silence you both find yourself in, before you latch onto the one thing you do well. “So, why do all these other women have a better chance with this guy than you do. He's not seeing anyone, or you'd have said.” You're not sure if she's legitimately buying your dumb Mike act, or if she's just grateful for the out, but the shocked expression fades.

“Well, BonBon has a dynamite body, drools every time he walks by, and is certainly very vocal when it comes to telling her man just how good she's feeling.”

Your cheeks burn at that memory, before you tamp that rumor down once again. “I gave her an ear massage for her birthday, Chiclet. Nothing more.”

“Suuuurrrrrrre.” She replies, dipping back into saucy for a moment. “Besides, the term ‘fuck like rabbits’ didn't come out of nowhere.”

“Ehh, BonBon is too high energy for my tastes, truth be told.” You reply honestly. “That girl would be the death of me. But that's just me.” You hastily tack on, maintaining the charade for now.

“Mangle, well, what man isn't she capable of wooing if she puts her mind to it.”

“I dunno, I'm not into gals with a ton of mystery around them. Never know exactly where you stand with her.”

“Bonnie's been crushing on him since day one, Goose and Cheeky would gladly fall into bed with him, and they're a beak up on me, literally.” she says flatly.

And there it is.

“Chica, I know I'm not a bird, but I don't see what the big deal is.” You offer, trying to pull more out of her.

“You wouldn't understand, Mike. I’m literally missing a part of me.”

“I'm missing eighty percent of my *life*, Chica.” You reply, trying to forestall her heading down that path rather than one-up her.

“What would you do if you lost...your nose!” She excitedly settles on after a moment of searching.

“I don't know, but I wouldn't want to lock myself away from the world and throw away the key. I'd still be me, just, you know, without the nose.” You hastily add.

“It's different for a bird, Mike. You wouldn't understand.” She repeats, clearly more for her benefit than yours.

“Maybe not. But you know what I do understand? That you are just as beautiful now as you were when you had it.”

“How…?”

“Saw the photo in your bedroom once.” You interject before she derails you yet again. “All I'm saying is that you're still you. Nothing about your beak changes that. Not for me, anyway.” You add, stopping short as even you don't realize where that particular sentiment came from.

“Mike… you don't have to humor me.” She says cautiously, seeming to hope that you truly aren't.

“Who said I was?” You reply softly, mind still whirling a bit. This isn't at all going to plan, and you're not sure how you've lost control of yourself, let alone the entire conversation. “Chica, I want you to do me a favor. Close your eyes for a minute.”

“Michael, what are you up to?” She asks coyly, clearly intrigued.

“Just do it, okay?” You reply warmly, waiting until she complies with a wry smirk. “Now, I want you to picture yourself as you were, three, four years ago. Before the accident.” You clarify, seeing her smile fade slightly.

“I thought the point was…”

“Now, tell me, does having a beak make this feel any different?” You ask, slowly beginning to massage her feet. Her breath catches a bit, and she fidgets some, squirming in your lap.

“Nope, still ticklish.” She replies, stifling a giggle.

“So noted.” You say, filling that tidbit away for later and swivelling her legs off of you and onto the floor. “How about this, better one, better two?” You ask, using your best optometrist’s impression as you wrap an arm around her lower back and lay your head in her lap.

“Same, you dork.” She chuckles softly, her rising mood, or perhaps the fact that you're operating on maybe six hours of sleep… for the week, emboldens you further. Lifting your head, you release Chiclet, standing up for a brief moment, before sitting back down into her lap, wrapping your arms about her shoulders and pressing your cheek to hers, whispering softly into what you hope is the general vicinity of what passes for an ear on a hen.

“Awwwww... ooooooh” she protests at first before her pitch rises to a near-delighted squeal.

“How about now. Better, worse, no difference?” You ask, your hot breath gently ruffling feathers that immediately stand on end in response.

“Mmmmmmmm, same?” She replies playfully, clearly getting into it, or still just slightly tipsy. After a brief moment to consider, you find yourself not caring, which should bother you...but it doesn't.

As if to reinforce your choice, you feel Chica’s feathery arms wrap softly about you, hands resting in the middle of your lower back before a mischievous giggle echos through your own ear, and one of those hands snakes farther down, getting a nice handful of your right butt cheek and squeezing firmly.

“Same!” She adds playfully, and you can feel her cheek shift against yours as she smiles widely.

“Wasn't necessarily going to go there, but…”

“Now I'm even with Goose and Cheeky. Can't believe it took me a year to do that.” She grumps softly, clearly regretting her lack of initiative.

Deciding to get things back on track, or rather off track, but in the direction they had been going, you shift your lips downward, your nose plowing gently through her feathers and grazing her skin as you nuzzle gently at her neck. Humming softly, you work the tip of your nose back and forth against her delicate skin, eliciting a soft moan from your feathery friend.

“Mmmmmmmm, I'm not sure, maybe a little while longer, let me really study it.” She finally says, her hand kneading your rump once again.

“Uh-huh.” You reply, feigning skepticism. “Okay, concentrate here, this one is important. Eyes closed?”

“Yessir! Eyes closed, sir!” She playfully barks out.

You, for one, can't believe this is happening, let alone what you're about to do. This is either going to fail miserably, or succeed, and then what?

Here goes nothing.

“Now tell me Chica, same, worse or better?” You ask, pulling away briefly, but long enough for curiosity to set her senses on edge. With the gentlest of touches, you lean forward and press your lips to hers, smiling slightly as you feel her jerk slightly at the unexpected sensation. For your part, the uneven surface of Chica’s lips doesn't feel bad, per se, just different, the smooth scar tissue not soft like any of the other set of lips you've kissed, none of which you can truly remember aside from Bonnibel. Cracks and crevices form a unique landscape that is all Chica, unforgettable even without taking the remarkable bird's personality into account.

After what seems an eternity, you break the kiss, leaning back slightly and smiling softly at the look of wide-eyed shock you've instilled in the normally unflappable hen.

“Well?” You ask, your warm smile belying the fact that your heart is pounding away a mile a minute in your chest. You've gone too far this time. You've been doing so well since you got out of the hospital, and now you're trying to figure out how quick you can get packed up. Surely Bonworth would take you in, if it comes to it. You were so helpful with Haddock, and your newfound cooking skills are a valuable asset to anyone who needs a roomie, though you'll have to take your classes over at Fred's from now on, if Freddy doesn't outright murder you for sexually assaulting Chiclet, not to mention what everyone else in the complex is going to think…

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit

“Better.” She finally replies softly, feathery arms tightening about your shoulder and neck to draw you back in. This time, Chica is fully into it, kissing you with a fiery passion you didn't know the sexy bird capable of.

She suddenly pulls away, a look of shock on her face again. “Tell me this isn't a dream. Tell me I'm not dreaming!” She demands frantically.

“I was going to ask you the same thing, Chica. Are you okay?” You ask, cupping a cheek in your hand and wiping away a tear.

“Michael, do you love me?” She asks unsteadily, the playful facade crumbling like ash.

“Of course I love you, Chica.” You gently reassure her.

“No, not as a friend." She demands, her gaze boring into yours. “Because if this is just some put on, some joke…” she trails off, not needing to spell out the dire consequences for toying with her emotions.

You return her stare warmly, softly smiling as you rack your brain and search your heart for the words.

“I don't know, Chica.” You reply honestly, her visage darkening before you continue. “But I look forward to finding out.” you add, kissing her once again, briefly this time.

You pull back to find the normally self-assured bird’s face plastered with a nervous grin. “So now what?” She asks, genuinely lost in the moment, forcing you to rack your brain once again.

You haven't thought that far ahead.

“Well, umm, I don't know. You're not exactly dealing with someone particularly good at this. I think. Truth be told, I don't remember.” You admit, crestfallen. “I just want you to be happy, Chica.”

“Likewise, Michael. You've done so much for so many people, I just want you to be happy, hopefully with me?” She concludes with a bright smile, her scars doing absolutely nothing to diminish her expression. “Why don't you lie down, Mike?” She asks, motioning to the rest of the couch beside her. “You look like I feel.” She adds, reinforcing Bonnie’s earlier text.

You can't argue that, and take the proffer of a comfortable lap to lay your head in, reposing and relaxing as Chica gently strokes your forehead with a feather light touch. “You keep that up, I'm going to fall asleep on you.” You state, neither chiding not complaining, just informing your...girlfriend?

Is that what she is now? Is that bad? Have you screwed up yet again?

“Well, if you do, I'll be right here with you.”  She reassures you. “Somebody has to draw the dicks on your face.” She adds, giggling softly.

“Of course.” you say flatly.

“Oh, I'm just kidding, Mike. Relax.” She shushes you, placing another hand on your chest, right over your still-fluttering heart. “Truth be told, you need the rest. I know you're not sleeping well.”

“You too, huh?” You ask in gentle accusation.

“You tried to pour dishwasher soap into your cereal bowl yesterday, Mike.” She observes dryly.

“Oh. Yeah.” You concede softly.

“Your new bed not doing the trick? You certainly paid enough for it.” She chides, not knowing the half of it. Three months’ salary, and a steal of a deal from one of Fred’s contacts, but it's definitely worth it. In theory anyway.

“It should. Comfortable as all get out.” You affirm. “Don't get me wrong, I can sleep just about anywhere. Hell, I spent a month in a cardboard box, after all.”

“But…?” She prods.

“I don't know, Chica. When I first took the job it was fine, for the first month or so. But ever since, it's like I can't seem to find that quiet place.”

“I don't see why not, you don't have a roommate any more, you can go to sleep whenever you want to without interruption. I've been trying to keep the television down at a reasonable level, everyone has been as quiet as we can manage, Mike.” She says, concern and trepidation tingeing her voice.

“I know, Chica. You guys have been awesome, no complaints here, seriously.” You reassure her, clasping your hands over hers and squeezing gently.

“Okay.” She says simply, smiling down at you, which makes your heart skip a beat. You return the smile and snuggle into her lap some more, earning a soft, humming sigh from Chica.

“When you were...homeless…” she begins, clearly afraid of bringing up the past, “did you have sleep issues?” She asks earnestly, trying to help as much as she can.

“Kind of hard to sleep out in the cold, dodging cops, crazies screaming at all hours.” You admit, unashamed of where you were, because of where you are now.

“Hmm. So when you got to us, you slept well?” She asks, clearly on to something.

“Yeah, even though the top bunk was a little claustrophobic. Em’s little surprise sure didn't hurt either.” You respond, genuinely curious where the orange bird is going with this.

“And over at Bonworth's? You mentioned once about Foxy keeping you up playing with his treasure.” She adds inquisitively.

“Yeah, but it was never a problem, really. I was usually up before everyone else, well rested.”

“And down at Mr. Fazbear's?”

“I think you know full well how that went.”

“But you were stuck on the futon in the office, right?” she clarifies.

“Yeah? Where are you going with this?”

“And when you stayed downstairs, you were rooming with Peanut, right? How'd that go?”

“Oh gawd, that guy snores like a damn chainsaw.” You fire back, exasperated. “But I got used to it eventually.”

“And the hospital, you were telling me about all your different roomies the other day.” She presses on, clearly having a goal in sight now.

“Yeah, not like I'm rich or anything. Private rooms aren't cheap.”

“But you slept?”

“Half the time I was doped out of my gourd, but yeah.”

“And then when you finally came back to us, this wasn't an issue, even with the new schedule?”

“Not at first, no. Like I said, wasn't until about a month later…” you reassert.

“When Mangle moved out and you got your own room.”

“Yeah, and?” You ask, clearly not following her train of thought.

“When you lost your memories, you lost so much of what makes you, how do I put this?” She asks, tapping her chin with a solitary orange feathertip. “You feel like you're so alone because you've lost so much. To the point that you can't sleep well by yourself.” She concludes, rubbing your chest affectionately.

“I...well…” you stammer, trying to sort through her logic, as well as the fog of fatigue, and find a flaw in her conclusion, and coming up short. “I don't know, Chica.” You say skeptically.

“Only one way to find out.” She replies with a mischievous grin.

“I don't think that Freddy is going to let us borrow his bunk beds.” You answer playing dumb once again.

“Not what I meant, Michael Schmidt, and you know it.” She chides, tousling your hair playfully.

“Oh, well, your place or mine then?” You ask, cheesy pick-up line not going unappreciated.

“Yours, I wanna try out this new bed you got.” She says, smiling wide before easing you up out of her lap. “Go and get ready for bed, stud. I'll be by shortly, need to change into something more comfortable.” She adds with a wink, patting your backside as you toddle off.

The short walk to your bedroom passes in a daze, the last half hour catching up to you all at once.

I can't believe this is happening.

Story of your life, Mike.

You close your door behind you out of habit, and begin to strip down for bed, shoes haphazardly tossed under the small desk Em left behind, and your shirt and pants finding their way almost to the hamper, not being particularly aerodynamic things.  You fumble about in your underwear trying to find your pajama pants, before seeing a scrap of flannel under the dresser. On hands and knees, you manage to get a finger on the elusive garment, beginning to drag it from hiding before you jump nearly out of your skin.

“Daaaaaaaamn, Mike. Loving the view back here.” Chica leers, playing it up more than anything else.

You turn around and your jaw hits the floor, as the orange-plumed bird is wearing a neon blue thong and the shortest cut off t shirt you've ever seen on her, short enough that you can confirm she isn't wearing a bra. “You're one to talk, sexy.” You shoot back, clearly awestruck by the stacked beauty at your door. You stand, pulling on your sleepwear before extending a hand to your girlfriend.

There's that word again.

She takes your hand in hers, allowing you to lead her to the side of the bed and sitting down on the edge. Clearly unprepared, as it were, as she nearly topples backward into the mattress, a gentle sloshing sound heard as the waterbed stabilizes slowly.

“Oh, wow” she says, prodding the quilt with a finger, watching the entire surface ripple slowly.

“Yeah, I laid on Cheeky’s bed for, like, ten minutes and was sold.” you state matter-of-factly.

“Oh, is that all you can last then?” She quips salaciously.

“As even she has told you herself, nothing happened that night. Besides, only one way to find out.” You echo her earlier innuendo.

“Mmmmmmmm, maybe not tonight, sexy, we're both dead on our feet.” She says, slightly disappointed.

“Yeah, I guess. C’mon then.” You invite her, pulling the quilt back to reveal the bright orange linens beneath. “They were the only ones left on clearance. Damn bed cost an arm and a leg, had to make the difference up somewhere.” you protest, trying to forestall the inevitable ribbing.

“Suuuurrrrrrre.” Chica replies with a wide grin before rolling awkwardly into bed, doing her best to strike a pose for your benefit, hiking an arm up over her head and exposing even more of her glorious cleavage for your enjoyment. “You're right, this sure is comfortable. I don't think I'm ever going back to a regular mattress again.” She sighs softly, squirming a bit to feel the water beneath her move in response.

“Well, it's an investment, they're definitely not cheap.” You reply sagely.

“Guess I'll have to find some hot guy who has one of his own then.” She responds with a gentle smirk. “C’mere, you.” She adds, patting the space beside her.

You crawl into bed beside her, and find yourself quickly wrapped up in orange feathers, arms holding you tight, legs intertwined with yours. You respond in kind, hugging the sexy hen to you.

“Mine.” She says softly, before leaning down to kiss you again. This one is slow, languid and hotter than anything you can recall experiencing. Breaking to allow you both to catch your breath, she nuzzles at your neck instead, and you return the favor, squeezing her feathered body to your bare chest.

“I think you're right, Chica. This was a good idea.” You rumble softly, a contented almost-purr creeping into your voice.

“I know.” She replies, a smile on her lips as she clutches you tightly. “I usually sleep on my left side, so if you wanna…”

“I’d like that.” You say warmly, letting her turn over, slipping your left arm under her pillow, and wrapping her up with the right, her feathery hand lifting your arm and placing it closer under her breasts than you had originally chosen. Pulling her close to you, Chica squeals in delight, wiggling her rump into your already-burgeoning erection. “Chica…” you begin.

“I know, I know. Sleep.” She says softly, snuggling into your warmth once again. You kiss the back of her feathered head, the both of you sighing softly as sleep rapidly overtakes you. You are both at such peace, gently floating into your dreams, that you cannot imagine any other place you'd rather be.

Your last conscious thought is one of revelation.

Home really is where the Chica is.