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"So, what are you ... "

"I'm not ... "

" ... saying?"

" ... saying anything," she finished, giggling (at their overlapping words; at the brightness of the sky, and the melodies of birds). "No, Field," she said, letting out a deep breath. The breeze running its invisible fingers through her fur (and around her delicate winged arms). "I just want you to calm down, okay?"

The mouse looked puzzled. With whiskers all a-twitch. Ears at a swivel. "I AM calmed." He was sitting in the grass. Knees to bare furry chest. All of him bare. Sitting, sunning there.

She giggled, eyes shining. She wore a light, flowery dress, one befitting this Easter air. "Um ... " A giggle. "No. No, I don't think you are. Just ... here," she said, going to him, kneeling down ... and putting her paws on the sides of his arms. "Just stop moving about. You're all wriggling."

"I'm not wriggling," he protested.

"Squirming, then."

"Darling ... darling, I'm a mouse," was his excuse.

"I'm aware of that," she said, with a hint of cheeky undercurrent. "But I'm trying to paint your portrait. I need you," she said, holding him in place (for a few seconds more), and then getting back up ... and backing away, nodding slightly. "I need you to sit still."

Field arched a bit. Drew his legs closer to his chest. Tail thin and ropy and snaking through the grass behind him. Toes of foot-paws wriggling in the grass in front of him. It wasn't being bare in open air that was making him antsy (for they were in very rural confines, and there was no chance of being seen ... one could do that in the countryside: go bare in open air). And she had INSISTED ... that he be painted this way. In a cute, submissive pose. One that so matched his personality. So, there Field was. Knees drawn to chest. Arms round legs. Biting his lip. Looking up at her. He swallowed. "Okay," he whispered. And nodded again. "Okay ... " No, he wasn't antsy because she was painting him. He was, indeed, antsy because ... he was a mouse. It was in his nature to twitch. To be a bundle of (often unfocused) energy.

Oh, but she could tame him ...

"Not so hard, is it?" she asked softly. With a smile ... that was just as soft. As soft as her carnation-pink fur. That dusky-pink fur. And the feel of her. As soft as ...

" ... the background of this," Field said. "What's it going to be? I mean, what are you painting behind me?"

"Trees."

"Trees?" His eyes squinted.

"Just teasing, just teasing," she whispered, waving a paintbrush. "The fields, Field. I'm putting you in front of the fields ... " She chuckled to herself.

"Mm ... "

They were in a grassy pasture. Him and her. At the dusk of a spring day. The air was slightly chilly. Was cooler than the warm that it was before. And the evening would soon show the daylight ... the door. The tulips would soon draw their petals together (with the sun's setting). The night things would soon have reign. But not yet. Oh, not yet.

No, dusk wasn't yet.

"Are you almost done?" He raised his nose to the air. Sniffed. Sniff-twitched. Whiskers waggling.

"Not quite ... no, I'll have to finish up tomorrow." Her own ears, pointed and angular, cocked slightly ... forward. And then back. Picking up high-pitched sounds that even the mouse (with ears that dishy) could not hear. Adelaide was attuned to nature's echoes.

"Can you do that? Just stop and ... start again?"

"Of course."

"I just ... I don't get drawing," said Field, looking to the swaying blades of wild, green grass. "Or painting. I mean, I ... love pictures. Love to take pictures. But I can't draw them." Pause. "Wish I could."

"Well, it's been my experience that no one is qualified to master every art. If you're a great writer, chances are ... you can't draw. And vice versa. I can't write," she said. "But I can paint a decent picture."

"I bet you could. Write, I mean."

The bat just shook her head. Wearing a look of knowing on her blunted, sharp-toothed muzzle. "I've tired. I get ten pages in, and it falls apart. I can't sustain that kind of manic ... threading, looping creativity. Writing is so undefined, you know? With this, I KNOW what I'm doing. I can SEE it ... right here. With my eyes. Writing's all in your head. It takes a certain kind of mind," she said, looking to the mouse, "to be able to manipulate that kind of intangible energy."

"Well ... " The mouse let out a breath. Feeling he'd just been complimented, but never good ... at taking compliments. He never felt he deserved them. "This was your idea," was what he ended up saying.

"Field," she whispered, dabbing the end of her paintbrush in the brown, and then dabbing it in a bit of the white. Mixing them to make a sort of tan color. "Field, do not," she whispered, putting the brush to the canvas. " ... do not be difficult." She used her best "serious" voice. Trying to hide the smile that was welling beneath.

"I'm not being difficult," he protested. Unable, as always, to let any comment go ... always needing to counter it. Counter anything. Addicted, as he was, to words.

"Shush ... mousey, please," she whispered. "I'm trying to work."

The mouse bit his lip. Nodding. "Sorry," he whispered, and he took a deep, deep breath. And let it out. And took another breath ... to fill his lungs. And he closed his eyes. Sitting here, breathing. Beneath the prairie skies. An extension, as he was ... a physical, mental extension of the land, in some ways. And this Hoosier homestead. A part of this place. Yearning, striving ... for Grace.

"I'm making an impression," she told him, "of you. Like, impressionistic art. You know, I don't ... that's why I like painting and drawing. I mean, if I wanted this to be a totally realistic portrait, I would've just ... used your camera," she said. "Taken a picture. But ... I want to make the colors bolder. And the lines, the curves ... the shadows. I want everything to melt. Melt together, color and form and motion ... to create something that's ... very whole. Very," she whispered, dabbing the brush at the canvas. Again, again ... again. "Very spiritual. An expression," she said, "of how vibrant you are ... to me. Not a capture. Not something that freezes time. But something that bleeds through it ... with more emotion than anything else could muster."

The mouse sniffed his twitching nose. "Well ... " He blushed, staying quiet. "Well ... " He shrugged, looking around. Listening to the bugs. The insects and things. "Well, you don't have to."

"You're my mate. I want to. I love you," she said. Without hesitation. Without having to think about it. She loved him. And she wasn't going to argue it.

The mouse drew a shy breath. "I love you, too," was his returned whisper. "I just ... you don't owe me anything. You don't have to draw this for me ... " He blushed, sat up a bit straighter (or tried do), and sniffed a bit. Letting out a breath. He felt the sun on his shoulders, easing some kind of warmth into his muscles. Into his blood. And he imagined, for a moment, that he must be like a flower. They must all be like flowers. If you didn't water them ... if you didn't give them sunlight. If you didn't give furs these elements, they would not grow.

Field wanted to be like a beautiful flower. Wanted to be as bright as the daffodils.

"You told me," Adelaide said, squinting at the painted canvas, and then down at her easel. Mixing some blue with some white. Making a sky-blue. A periwinkle color. "You told me," she said, lifting her brush again. Dab-dabbing the top of the portrait. Scuffling her bare foot-paws in the grass. In the slightly damp soil (it had rained the day before last). "The other day, you said, 'no one's ever drawn a picture of me' ... you said no one's ever wanted to. Well, I want to, and I am ... after all ... all the stories you've written about me. For me. All the love poems." A wide smile melted onto her muzzle. "And all the pictures you've taken ... of us," she whispered. "I mean, all the energy you use ... all the creative output," she said, "that you give to us. To me," she stressed. "It's ... very selfless. Very loving. All that energy you pour into your art just to make me happy. And you DO," she stressed, "make me happy, Field. All that energy ... I want to give some of it back. I want to match it. I want to do something for you." She took a breath. "And I can't write, and you're the photographer, not me ... so, I will draw you. It'll be my contribution to the evidence of our love. Paint you in strokes of dreamy color. In bold strokes. I want to be the first," she said, "to paint you ... nose to tail," she whispered.

The mouse, quiet, flushed. Bit his lip. His ears swiveled slightly at all the country sounds. All the rural noises. Of the birds and bees and ... the leaves in the trees. And the breeze in the sky (oh, that beautiful, inverted sea). And he nodded quietly. Touched. And gave her a shy, thankful smile.

She returned it. And then grinned, and then giggled, saying, "So, just sit still a little while longer, and ... I'll try and finish it by nightfall. Okay?"

"Okay," he whispered softly. In an almost child-like way. Feeling as light and wispy as the white-seeded dandelions. Caught in the eddies of the burgeoning spring. Of this fading day.

The land would soon be an evening-land. Lamp lights and open windows with screens in them. And cricket sounds. And maybe distant thunder. Was it going to storm tonight? The weather was never right.

Night continued to fall. Continued to grow deeper (and steeper). The air held that dainty chill. That slight, shivery chill. As if some vestige, some tendril of winter had crept within the door of pre-summer. Was messing with the minds (and bodies) of all. Was messing with the world.

The weather was ever-changing here. One only had to wait five minutes, went the saying, and the Indiana weather would change. Would go from this to that. It would.

Field and Adelaide were inside. Were bare, exposed to the warm living room air. Exposed to the warm, dim lights.

And the mouse, sighing (a sigh of contentment), closed his eyes. Nose sniffing and twitching (as it always did). But in a soft, slightly-heard way. His heartbeat seemed to be slower than it normally was. Than it normally should be. He was on the couch. She was kneeling on the floor ... in front of him.

"I think," Adelaide said. Quietly. "I think ... " She was running her fingers through a spot of blue paint. "I think I missed a spot."

"Did you?"

She giggled. "I think." She nodded. "Yeah." And she stretched ... and put her fingers to the mouse's ears, and she traced around the edges. The sensitive, slim edges. And painted his ears blue. The outlines of his ears ... were now blue. An ocean blue.

"This washes off," he whispered, "right?" He touched his ears, and some of the paint came off on his paws.

"With water." She stayed his paw. "No touching ... don't make me put a 'wet paint' sign on you."

He giggled. Squeaked. Squeak!

She chuckled. Let out a breath. And put her other paw in some paint. She had little cans of paint on the coffee table. And she was coloring her mate's fur. For no good reason. Other than she felt it was something ... fun. Something they hadn't done.

They were painting each other. They were adding color to each other.

Field giggled, eyes darting ... as the bat put a green squiggly line across Field's forehead. As she painted the fur there.

"What are you doing?" The mouse wished for a mirror.

"Drawing little waves on your forehead. For all the energy your mind is leaking."

"Mm ... " The mouse fished for the paint. The blue paint. And covered his entire right paw-pad with it, and ... giggling, said, "Turn ... um, turn around."

She giggled. "Why?" she demanded.

"Just do it," he whispered airily. Wispily. The mouse, often, came off as more obviously effeminate than she did. In expression. In motion. "Just ... darling, come on. Come on ... "

She slowly turned around. "What are you doing, Field?"

"Nothing," he said ... slowly ... putting a painted paw on one of her rump-cheeks. Below her stout, short bat tail. Her pink rump-cheek. Leaving a paw-print on there.

She twisted her neck around and tried to see. Giggling. "I've been goosed!"

Field giggle-squeaked and leaned back on the couch, pulling his legs and foot-paws up onto the cushions. Giggling.

"I've been goosed by a mouse!" she exclaimed. Grinning. And she locked eyes with him. "Mm ... messy mouse."

He gave a wide-eyed shrug. A look of feigned innocence.

She went back to her knees on the carpet in front of the couch, slipping between his legs ... and looking up at him. Looking of such warmth.

"What?" he whispered, suddenly self-conscious.

"No, I just ... nothing. You just ... " She smiled and let out a breath. "You're so relaxed and ... makes me happy, is all. You're retaining your confidence. You're ... "

" ... grateful," he whispered. "For what you've done for me."

"I've done nothing you haven't done for me in return. Nothing that love doesn't entail."

"No, you've done more," he assured. "You always do."

"Well," she whispered. With a voice so gentle. So assured. Looking right into the mouse's eyes. Her carnation pink eyes locking to his blue-greys. Seeming to shine of the promise of future days. "Regardless of how we've grown and why we're growing ... we're STILL growing," she whispered. "And it fills me with such hope. Our love is ... symbiotic, Field." The bat had telepathic abilities. Had the capacity to link their minds (in certain ways, at certain times). "You have a special mind. You are unique in the most gentle and ... most unexpected ways. You add to me, and I add to you. We grow and we learn and we feel," she whispered, "together." Pause. "And I don't feel that we shall ever stop." She squeezed his paw. "I love you. Even when your ears are painted blue."

The mouse giggled so softly ... and the sound of it was as delicate as tissue. Was fragile (as he, inside, was). As if his heart could be torn apart by any errant arrow. He was so vulnerable. So confused. Still mending, still healing ... from the darkness of his past. He had never meant to stray. He had never meant to leave the straight and narrow. But he had. Had been burned. And, as a result, was left defenseless. But enter Adelaide. The bat and her wings. They were shields. She was his shield. She was his ...

" ... love. I only paint the ones I love," she confessed. Her paint-covered paw ran down his side. Coloring the strands of his honey-tan fur. Coloring them greens and blues. Matting his fur.

"Well, I ... love you, too," was his shy, confident reply. And he kept his muzzle open, as if to utter poetry. But he faltered for any more words. Instead, let out an airy giggle. And sighed. And just drew her into a hug. Drew her up off the floor and into his arms. Against his chest. He leaned his head on her shoulders nose to her neck ... and whispered, "Darling ... " And said nothing more. For nothing more need be said. For everything was felt. Everything was there (with them). In the air. And her mind brushed his, briefly, and she nosed his neck (as he nosed hers) ...

... and she whispered, "We're gonna stain the couch."

"Yeah," was his reply. Through his half-opened eyes.

"We should get in the shower."

Another weak and willing, "Yeah."

And so it was that, in a heady, drunken daze (drunk on touch, on each and every gaze), they found the bathroom. Found the light switch. Found the water. Turned it on ... and allowed it to warm. Kissing as the water warmed. As the water began to steam.

As they stepped under the jetting stream.

Her fur seemed to turn a slightly darker shade of pink when the water soaked it. It matted and ran in droplets and streams down her furry form. It went in rivulets down her filmy wings (that stretched from her arms to her sides).

And his fur, in turn, also matted, also soaking ... darker from the wetness. His fur mingled with hers. Strands meshing with strands. As the fingers of their paws meshed with each other. As they swayed in the warm shower. As they swayed in the lateness of the hour.

It was the mouse's muzzle, at a tilt, that kissed her deeply ... on the lips. Soft and sucking.

She wished to wilt ... as her nose flared. And as her eyes, half-open, managed to see through the steam and the curtain ... and to the mirror on the wall. Seeing them as blurs. They were blurring. They were melting in her vision.

So hot were they. So on fire. Even this water could not put them out.

She kissed back, closing her eyes now. She kissed back, wrapping her winged arms around his back. Pressing him to the white shower wall.

The mouse huffed. Squeaked and huffed. Sufficiently worked up.

And Adelaide, instinctually, was licking at the mouse's neck. She found a spot on his neck, and began licking it. As if her saliva was prepping it for something. For her bite. Before a bat would bite, she would lick the intended spot. To make it tender. To numb it.

Field didn't know how it worked. Didn't know how the science of this ... could do anything but hurt. But it did. It did everything. Without hurt. Without pain. He closed his eyes and caught his breath, heart hammering, now, in anticipation. Waiting. Wet and waiting.

Her fangs slid through the short fur on his neck. Slid, slid ... stopped. Pressed.

Field swallowed. Squeaked weakly ...

... as she bit!

And the pleasure that immediately flooded him ... made his knees weak. He wrapped his arms around her neck (in submissive fashion). She kept him pinned to the shower wall, and continued her bite (in dominant fashion). It normally went this way. She always took the lead. He always submitted. And neither felt it odd, this reversal of roles. It felt so right. And the bite ...

... caused the mouse to shiver. Her fangs were releasing little white droplets. Liquid. Her mating milk. Which sent little electrical pulses and surges through the mouse's blood. Through his nervous system.

Through her bite, she linked their minds. Their bodies. They thought as one. Felt as one.

One ... kiss. One breath. One ...

... caress of her breast.

One ... warmth. Pressed to his chest.

One minute ... before, fangs still in his neck, Adelaide had shuffled her wet, soggy foot-paws around, around ... positioning herself against the wall. Huffing, huffing ...

... knowing that Field knew what to do.

Mentally, she sent him the count. One ... two ...

... three!

She lifted one leg, one thigh ... and he put a paw under it. She did the same with the other. And his other paw held it. And she latched her limbs around his waist and his neck. Her legs and arms. With her back to the wall. And with her teeth still latched to his neck.

Field's eyes had watered shut (and not from the water coming from the showerhead). And he whimper-squeaked as she urged him forward. Urged him on.

Into her.

Wet and warm as it was ... he needed no more bidding. As, firm, he slipped between her.

She sighed. Heavily sighed. Huffing her hot breaths against the fur of his neck, which only drove him on.

The mouse's movements were erratic. As his hips went back and forth. Standing in the shower wasn't the most comfortable way to be doing this. It wasn't the most peaceful way to be doing this. But the water that was raining on them, the heat of it, and ... the confines of this tight, foggy space ... and the adrenaline rush of being upright. Of having gravity paw jealously at their bodies. Oh, it was worth stumbling through!

And they did just that ... stumbled and squeaked and huffed through it. A simple, natural act. Fed by their love (love being the only way such a spiritual union could survive). This, this ... primal, this. Animal-like.

More, more ...

Huffing, squeaking, hugging, clinging. Wet and wriggling.

Until, weak and whimpering, they reached their limits. Until they coaxed each other to their mutual reward. Her spasms ... he felt them. His twitches and convulsions ... she endured them.

Squeaks ... squeaks ...

... and chitters. Little echo-bursts from here (which ricocheted invisibly around the bathroom).

Until ...

... he withdrew from her body.

And then, finally, she withdrew from his.

Until they drew aside the shower curtain. Until, fur free of paint, they had dried themselves. Until she sucked on the tip of his tail, eyes looking to him with such playfulness. Until his foot-paws slide over hers, their toes brushing ...

Until they were in bed.

Until they were sleeping. Curled together, nestled (nuzzled) together.

Their love was free-wheeling! Such energy it took!

And, in their sleep, they recharged. Together.