In From the Sad Day Out
" ... it's alright."
A small shudder-shake. Eyes screwed shut. Shutting out the streaming stars. Sight for night. Dark for dark.
"Calm down," was the repeated, whispered plea. Soft and tender. In the dimness, in their quarters, both of them in from the sad day out. "It's alright. Okay?" A soft, squeaky sound. As her paws slowly (so slowly) stroked through his grain-colored fur. "Okay?" she went again. "Emerson ... "
He opened his muzzle. "I'm ... I'm ... "
"Hey," was the whisper. "Hey, you don't need to ... "
" ... sorry. I'm sorry," he blurted, breaking down again. His cheek-fur matted (from the tears). And his whiskers all a-twitching, and tail like a nervous, wayward line (gone fishing). The anxiety wracking him, body and mind. Leaving none of his normal brightness to normally find.
" ... apologize. You don't need to. Hey ... I'm here, okay? You're fine. It's alright. It's alright," she soothed. Continuing. Keeping him, holding him close. And her paws deftly in his fur. Shushing sounds. Little, loving 'hushing' sounds. "I love you," Azalea told him. Her nose sniff-sniffed. Twitched.
A 'crying' sniffle.
"I love you," she cooed again, very quietly. A squeak. Another.
And another sniffle on his part. A swallow. And a tiny cough. "I ... I love you, too," he finally managed, sounding shaky. A deep, deep breath. He held it. And exhaled (just as deeply). "I love you, too," he breathed, his lip quivering. Whiskers quivering, too. Quiver. Shiver. Starting to shake again.
"Hey, come on ... alright? You don't need to ... "
He started sobbing again.
" ... cry anymore." A sigh. But she didn't lose her patience. Did not get upset. Did not react with anger or frustration. She, herself, was a mouse. She understood the nature of anxiety. Worry. Fear. Those things, multiplied. Those things, magnified. The ferocity of unchecked, feral anxiety, and how it gnawed at you, how it split you open. How you quaked. How you were at the mercy of intangible something after intangible something. How you survived with Mercy.
And she understood, as well, that male mouses were very emotional. Effeminate, delicate things. And, though she wished for him to stop crying (because it pained her to watch him in any sort of pain), she let him do it. For she knew he needed it. It was a necessary release. Which is why she implored him to, "Let it out ... let it go ... I'm right here." A breath. "I'm right here," she assured. Letting him feel her. Feeling him in return. Sharing warmth and heat.
"I ... I wanna go home," were his words, between shakes. Between sniffling, coughing breaths. "I wanna ... the countryside, and ... and ... and ... " Cough. "I need it." He stopped trying to talk. He wasn't sure what he was trying to say. It couldn't be worded, anyway. This kind of grief. This kind of being cut down like a timbering tree. This kind of vacuum-living. Space was vast, yes. And deadly, too. The old cliche, as it went: in space, no one could hear you scream. Or cry. And, sometimes, he wondered why he'd wanted to be out here in the first place. Why? Why risk it? Why venture? For curiosity? To explore? To feel bolder? To become an adventurer? Why had he done it?
Was it right for a mouse, so full of dangerous, double-edged scurry, to be moving through space at the speed of light? Faster than, even? Did this play well to his personality, his character? Was this what he really needed to be doing?
Why had he left solid land?
Why wasn't he in the fields? Where he belonged?
"We can't go home, Emerson," Azalea told him, stroking his head-fur. Her fingers stopping at the bases of his big, dish-like ears. His pink, fleshy lobes. Big, cute ears. Ears that went swivel-swivel. Stop. Swivel. "We can't go home," she repeated. Things back in Federation space were still too tumultuous. It just wasn't safe there. Governmental upheaval, power struggles. Economic, cultural chaos. There was no going home. Not for a long, long time. And maybe not ever. And, besides, they'd found a home on Yellowknife. With their friends, new and old. "And I don't think it's time for us to be settling on some ... colony," she managed. "We're still too young."
"I want ... to settle down. To have years with you. Just us. In a house in the countryside, in the open, away from everyone ... then, when we're ready, we can have a baby, and ... " He trailed. "I want so much. I ... and it seems, lately, that I don't know what we're even doing here. Out in space. I feel like I just get in the way. The snow rabbits, they're good with all this technology. They're smart. And Talkeetna and Antioch and them ... they're bold and fun, and ... me? Just an ensign. Just an operations officer that organizes things. I organize things. I'm fastidious. And yet I always fall to pieces, and ... make such a mess for you in the process."
"You don't make a mess for me," Azalea assured.
"But I do."
"You don't. And, darling, life is messy ... love," she added, "is very messy. Love, intimacy, sex. All of it. You can only be squeaky-clean for so long ... sometimes, you can't avoid a bit of mess."
"But I'm being a ... "
" ... no. No ... hush, okay?" she told him, nose in his fur. An exhale. "Hush," she whispered. "You are not a burden. I don't wanna hear you talk like that. You know that ... "
His whiskers twitched.
"And I know that you want all those things. Those things you mentioned ... " She delicately traced the edges of his big lobes. "I want them, too."
"Sometimes, I don't know what I'm feeling," he eventually said. "Or, I do know, but it's just ... I can't explain it in words."
"You don't need to. I'm a mouse, too. I understand."
"I know you do. And ... I'm sorry," he whispered, swallowing, "that I ... I know you do," he said again. "I don't mean to imply that you don't."
She softly stroked his fur.
"I know we're the same species. But we're different, too ... you're stronger than me. More level-headed. You don't let your mind float away."
"Let's not get into our perceived flaws and faults ... neither of us is perfect. But that's a given. I don't expect perfection from you."
"But I wish I could give it," he confessed. "You deserve it."
"You do your best. And that's all I want ... "
A nod. And another nod. "I just ... I'm scared," he went, quivering. Almost breathless. "I get so scared, sometimes. And it doesn't make any sense. I shouldn't ... feel these things. Not like this. Not so fiercely. Not for no reason."
"I know." She kept saying that. But it was, as always, the truth. For she did know. She knew him. Intimately. How to read him. Interpret him. As he knew how to interpret her. A breath. Her fingers clutching at his soft, furry pelt. "But you're gonna be okay," she assured, closing her eyes. Her nose and whiskers sniff-twitched. Again. And again. And she swallowed, opening her eyes. They were, constantly, stepping through the streams and fountains of these sad days. Stepping into them. Stepping out. Sometimes, that sense of melancholy was pervasive. Sometimes, it ruled. But, still, she had to assure him that, "We'll be okay." Had to assure him.
For they would be.
For she knew as much.
For wasn't that His promise?
"Let not your hearts be troubled," He had said. "I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Yet a little while and the world will see me no more, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. In that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you."
Oh, the love of Christ surpasses knowledge.
And, oh, young, weary souls, may you be filled with all the fullness of God.
May you be.
You are.
"We'll be okay," Azalea repeated, breathing quietly, confidently. And holding to her husband. "We'll be okay."
And Emerson began to calm down. Bit by bit, settling. It had been a tough few months. The destruction of Reverie so many weeks back. The very recent battle with the Federation fleet on the snow rabbit border. The unfortunate, tragic (and accidental) foray into the mirror universe. So many things, in such quick, forceful succession. And it was getting to the point where the mouse was so scared of each and every day, afraid that it would bring a new horror. A new maelstrom.
And so it was that, at the end of this day, in the evening, he'd broken down in his wife's arms.
Overwhelmed.
Unsure.
Wanting to much. But what if those wants were misguided? What if he wanted too much? What if he needed to slow down? Be more patient? What if he wasn't trusting enough? Where was his sanity? His boldness? Where was confidence?
And so it was that she held to him and soothed him as best she could.
And so it was that he managed to say, "I wish I could rest."
"You can."
A sniffle. "I can't. I'm ... "
" ... able," she assured. "You are more than able. And I will help you," Azalea promised, "to find your rest." The two of them, together, could find that rest. That divine rest, in the arms of Christ, in the basking glow of the Holy Spirit.
His whiskers twitched.
Her tail snaked. Behind her. Like a rope. Her tail not the same, exactly as his. For he was a field mouse. And she was a western jumping mouse. But, still, they both had long, silky mouse-tails. His very pink and bare, side-winding on the sheets. So that their tails tangled. Like silly snakes wriggling all around each other, entwining. Not letting go.
"You ... your tail ... "
" ... is playful," she provided. "It wants to get all coiled with yours. Get all knotted and stuck. And then, our tails all tied in a knot, we'll be together forever and ever. We'll never have to part. Even for a moment."
"That's ... silly," Emerson whispered, in his weak, wispy voice. He wiped at his eyes with his paws.
"Is it?" A soft, soft smile. Whiskers twitching. Pink nose sniff-sniffing.
A sniffle. "Mm-hmm," he managed, own nose sniffing, now. His energetic 'mousey' motions slowly coming back to him. Slowly coming back to life. "Azalea ... "
" ... yeah?" she ran her paws over his bare, furry chest. His trim chest. The warmth he radiated. The body heat. And, oh, the thump-a-thump of his ever-pumping heart.
"When we get to the station," he whispered, trailing. A few breaths. Picking up with, "I wanna ... just stay in bed. All day. And ... and I don't know. Get off the ship," he managed. "And ... I gotta get off this ship. Just for a bit."
"I know," she assured. "We'll go down to the snow rabbit planet. Dress up in winter coats and tail-socks and ear-mittens ... " A chitter-squeak, and a smile. At the thought. At the image of them in 'winter-wear.' "We'll have a few weeks. We'll get some rest, okay? I promise." Yellowknife would, indeed, be docked at a snow rabbit space station ('S7,' to be specific) for several weeks. For repairs. And rest. And, when all was done, reassignment.
"And no storms come?" Emerson asked, innocently. All wide-eyed. And whisker-twitching.
Azalea smiled warmly, and nodded. And nodded again. Whispering back, "And no storms come."
"They offered me a promotion."
"Who? The snow rabbits? The ... "
" ... High Command," she said, affirming it. With a nod. A sigh, and she slipped out of her uniform. She looked at herself in the mirror, admiring her luxurious, auburn-colored fur. She smiled. I don't look so bad, she thought. "I turned them down."
"Why?" Antioch wondered, already undressed. Sitting on the edge of their bed, in their dimly-lit quarters.
Her uniform off, the red squirrel padded to the bed. And slowly leaned against him, to a sit in his lap. Putting her cheek against his. So that their whiskers brushed. Her big, puffy tail between her back and his chest. And the marmot had to use his paws to move it aside a bit (for it was tickling his muzzle a bit too much).
"Mm?" the marmot went, waiting for an answer. His paws on her shoulders, now. Rub-rubbing.
"Mm. Well," she breathed, sighing softly. "I just ... don't want it. That kind of pressure. Right now. And ... besides, I'm not sure that they really meant it."
"Well, why would they ask?"
"Cause they had to. I think it was just a formality. A way of ... recognizing me. So they can say 'well, we offered a captaincy to a rodent,' but ... you know, it was more a show. They knew I didn't want it. If they had seriously believed that I would've accepted, they wouldn't have asked me." A breath. "But they were impressed. I could tell as much. Just ... you know, after I took command during the battle. When Graham went down." A pause. "But, yeah, I'd be the first non-snow rabbit captain in the High Command. It would be too much," she admitted, "for me. I ... I like this ship," she said, turning her head a bit. "And this crew. I want us all to stay together."
Antioch kissed her cheek, smiling.
"What was that for?"
"The kiss?"
A whisker-twitching nod.
"I just wanted to, is all."
A smile. "Mm. Well, it was nice."
"It was only a cheek-kiss."
"Cheek-kisses can be nice. Lip-kisses don't have a monopoly on good kisses."
"I suppose they don't, at that," the marmot admitted. And he took a breath, putting his nose in her neck-fur. Closing his eyes. Breathing of her familiar, rodent scent. Which smelled, to him, of comfort. Of bed. Of intimacy. Of so many positive things. "I'm glad we'll be staying ... but you don't need to turn down a captaincy just for ... "
" ... it's not just for the others. It's ... it was hard, you know? To adjust. At first. To go from being a captain to being a first officer." At first, she hadn't taken well to it. She had clashed with Graham on more than one occasion. Tense, quiet moments. Little, personal stand-offs. But, slowly, as the weeks had gone by, she had melted. And grown accustomed to her new role. And had grown to like it. Add that to the fact that snow rabbit ships worked differently from Federation ships (in terms of how crew interactions went).
"Not a first officer. A 'sub-commander'," Antioch corrected, a bit cheekily. He liked saying that. It sounded so much better than just regular 'commander,' didn't it?
"Yes, a sub-commander," she said, giving him a squinty-eyed smile. And she swallowed, leaning back.
He leaned back with her, arms hugging to her as they fell, slowly, to the sheets. To their sides on the bed, both of them squirming to get all the way on, foot-paws and all. To a side-by-side, 'in the fur' lie-down.
Talkeetna continuing, "But ... you know, once I got over that, I found that it was a relief. In some ways. I mean, I love having my own ship. But I don't NEED my own ship to be happy. Not right now, at least. Not in this ... situation." A pause. "Were we back home? I think I would feel differently if we were back home. I would want a ship." A breath. "But, uh ... we're not back home. We're living with snow rabbits. And I don't feel ready to command one of their ships. Not when there are still so many unresolved issues with the Federation and other things, and ... " She trailed. Picking back up with a whispered, "I feel like I'm making excuses."
"You're not," Antioch assured her. "You just have things that are more important to you ... than your career. You're more than 'the job'." A nose-nuzzle, and a marmot-whistle. And another. "And I'm glad for that. You have perspective. You're ... so full of life, and ... " He trailed, nibbling on her fur.
She closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm worried about Graham."
"I think we all are."
"He really needs some rest. I hope Ada can ... give it to him." A pause. "But I don't think Ada will be enough. I think it's up to God."
"Up to Graham, you mean. I think God's rest is always there. It's already there. Graham just has to choose whether to take it ... or to keep punishing himself for all that's happened."
"A lot of it wasn't his fault. I mean, it ... yeah, there were ... he went off the rails," the red squirrel whispered, "but ... that was because of the stress. He snapped. And we should've seen that coming. All of us. At the first sign of instability, I should've gone to Aspera," Talkeetna said, "and asked her to relieve him of duty. She has that authority. She could've done it, and ... "
" ... he wouldn't have let you."
"He needs to heal," Talkeetna continued. And a sad, sighing pause. "We all do. We ... I hope we can."
"We will," the marmot assured. And, again, he nibbled on her. And, again, a soft, little sound.
"Do that," she whispered, "again."
"Do ... "
" ... that whistle-sound. I like it when you ... "
Marmot-whistle.
" ... whistle," she breathed, "in my ear."
His muzzle to her ear, now. Soft, soothing whistle-coos.
"Oh," the red squirrel sighed, stretching a bit on the bed-sheets. Giving a happy squeak, and turning, throwing her arms around her husband. And smiling widely. "I bet I can make you whistle louder."
Antioch chittered with mirth. "You can, huh?"
"You know," she breathed, "I can."
And, oh, did he ever.
"I see our breeding party ... our former," she corrected, quietly, "breeding party ... "
" ... yes?"
" ... is disbanding."
Seward blinked, standing with his back (slightly) to her. In the fur. His frame appealing. His fluffy, white bobtail flickering like a restless flame. "Because of us?" he asked.
"Partly. And Attu," she added. A pause. A singular whisker-twitch. Attu's death was seared in her mind. She'd been right beside him when it had happened. In fact, her injuries came from the same explosion. The ruptured plasma conduit. The spewing debris. The falling piece of bulkhead. And he'd been killed. And she was still alive. And that was something she tried very hard not to think about. "But I talked to Teller. And he said they were choosing to disband. Rather than merge with one of the ship's other parties."
"So, they will ... what?"
"Pair off, presumably."
"But there are three femmes and two males ... one of the femmes will be left out."
"I do not know," was all Aisling said. "It's ... it is not our problem," she said, "to worry about." And yet she'd brought it up, anyway. For she was worried about it. She was no longer a part of that 'party,' no. Neither was Seward. But they'd been intimate with those snow rabbits (the males, for her, and the femmes for him, anyway; and they'd all been close friends). It was hard not to be concerned about what happened to them. After all, they were still her officers, on her engineering staff. She still saw them every day. Even if they somewhat resented her and Seward for marrying.
You couldn't expect to become physically intimate with someone without giving yourself to them. Without leaving a part of yourself with them. Casual 'love' was the most dangerous kind. It clawed at you. It gave you pangs. It gave you pain. And she was realizing that, now. She was realizing that. Now that she'd found love. Now that she'd given into it, choosing to drop her shields. Now that she'd taken this leap, she could look behind her and see, very clearly, all the ugly scars.
She had killed.
And had seen killing.
She had loved not wisely. Not wisely, no.
And, now, she was loving all too well.
Aisling had to wonder who she really was, inside. Certainly not the snow rabbit she'd believed herself to be. Who was she, instead? What defined her? The traumas? Or the successes? What mattered more?
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Get out of my head, she pleaded. Trying to drive her memories away. Get out, get out.
Please, get out.
You are hurting me.
"Well ... " Seward paused. " ... more drink?" He had a bottle in one paw.
Aisling almost jerked. Almost gave a start. But she took a deep breath, eyes opening, and nodded. "Please," she whispered.
"Are you alright?" he asked, immediately. He noticed her discomfort.
"I will be," she told him. Though, truth be told, she wasn't so sure. But what was she to say to him? She did not wish to worry him.
So, he poured. More for himself. And some for her, as well. Before gently putting the bottle down, and returning to bed with two glasses. The deep-blue liquid sloshing about inside. He gave one to her, and then sipped from his own. Sitting on the bed, now, beside her. Sitting up so that his back was resting against the headboard.
"Aspera told me ... that I no longer have to visit her for daily check-ups. She said my wounds are completely healed."
"That is very good," Seward said, tenderly, "to hear." A sort of an eye-smile, and one of his paws reaching out for one of hers. As his other paw brought his drink-glass to his muzzle. Where he tilted it. And took another sip of alcohol. A swallow, and a lip-smacking sound. Squeezing her paw. "The soreness is gone, then, as well?"
She nodded. "Yes. And the bruising."
Seward took another sip. And mentioned, "When we get to S7, I was thinking ... we should go planet-side. Take a vacation."
"A vacation?"
"Yes." A pause, looking to her. His head at a tilt, and his tall, slender antenna-ears going waggle-waggle. "Why not?"
"I have never 'vacationed' before. I do not know," she admitted, "what that would entail, or what we would ... "
" ... do? We would," he elaborated for her, in a tasty, little whisper. Controlled, though. Restrained, of course, by his freeze. But there was a readable sensuality in his tone. No mistake. "We would simmer in isolated intimacy ... and talk all the day long."
"Talk?"
"When we are not breeding," he added, with an over-obvious eye-smile.
"Talking and breeding?" Aisling said, hiding her own eye-smile. "That seems rather ... limited."
"Well, we could walk. It is spring," he said, "in the Northern Hemisphere. Where we are both from." Spring, on the snow rabbit Home-world, just meant less to little snow. But the chill was still there. It never really got 'warm,' and it certainly never got 'hot' on the snow rabbit Home-world. Spring was simply chilly. Summer was cool. Autumn was nippy. And winter was frigid. "We could walk in the wilderness. Wander. Lose our thoughts, and our ... worries," he whispered, taking another sip of his drink. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his black, sniffing nose. And, when his eyes opened, he turned his head and met her gaze. "I just want to get away," he told her, "with you. I am told, by Antioch, that ... when furs marry, they generally take 'honeymoons' to ... "
"'Honeymoons'?" Aisling asked, furrowing her brow. She had never heard the word. "Honey ... moons? I do not ... "
" ... it is just a romantic word. A ... when furs marry, the first thing they do is to go off somewhere. No work. Just play. For a week. Maybe more."
"Why?" A blink.
"To celebrate their union."
"And Antioch and Talkeetna did this?"
"He said they wanted to. But they never got the chance ... because of their duties." A pause. "But, as things would have it, we are approaching our home. And we have two weeks of leave. And we are recently married. Shouldn't we, then, take a 'honeymoon'?"
She had to eye-smile at this. As she took a little gulp of her alcohol. And took a deep breath. Feeling her head get slightly fuzzy. Just slightly. "You do have an impeccable sense of ... logic," she told him.
"I would not be a true snow rabbit if I did not."
"No. But ... your logic seems to be ... "
" ... more logical?"
" ... appealing," she said. "I believe I shall go along with it."
"So, we shall vacation? Together?"
"On the planet," she said, nodding. "The only question, then," she said, taking a deep breath, "is where to go, exactly?"
Seward hesitated on that one. "We ... I am not saying that we stay with them, but ... we owe it to our respective parents, our families to ... " He trailed. And then sighed. " ... to explain our union. To visit them."
Aisling said nothing at first. But knew he was right. "Yes." A pause. She looked at her drink, and then to him. "My parents do not love each other. They simply love ... breeding with each other. I do not think they would understand the concept of true devotion. Of ... Christian faith." A pause. "They believe in what can be analyzed. They are both engineers, like myself. If they cannot see things, enough to tinker with them ... on their own," she said, "then they do not register it. They would not accept that God is necessary."
"Nor would mine. I did not say I was eager to tell them. I am simply saying that, at some point, we will have to." A breath. "But we can wait until ... a few months. Until later." A pause. "And, no matter what they would say ... He is necessary. I do believe. I cannot explain love ... otherwise. Or life. Or how we are together. Or how we survived the battle. Or ... it is a feeling," Seward said. "I have come to believe it." A consideration. "More importantly," he added, "I have come to need it."
After a moment, she added, "As have I." It was somewhat scary. Being a new believer. Because, as a young, new believer, you faced so many questions from those around you. Challenges. Your faith was still building, still growing. It hadn't yet endured years of trial, years of testing. And that made your faith particularly vulnerable. All believers, new and old, stumbled. But stumbling was much more discouraging when you were still learning to walk. Still trying to find your balance. Which was why fellowship was so important. Fellow believers helped build you up. Kept you from stumbling. Kept you accountable. And she knew this. And said, "I will ... seek out Ada. And ask for her advice."
"I will talk to Antioch," Seward said.
A pause.
"I do love you," was the next thing he said. His tone insistent. Tender.
And she leaned against him, whispering, "As do I ... love you, as well." And she closed her eyes. And breathed. And finished off the contents of her glass. And whispered, "I am feeling ... dizzy."
"As am I," he confessed. "We must be getting tipsy."
"Yes. We must be." A breath. And a sigh. "Though it is not entirely unpleasant." And, then, she said, quite tenderly, "I ... believe I would like to lie down," she whispered, "with you ... "
Seward nuzzled her. With his nose. Putting his glass (which was also empty) on the bed-side stand. "Then let us lie down," he offered, happily.
So, that is what they did.