Reclamation
Mid-morning, and mostly-quiet.
"Where have you been?" Ada asked, in the soothing dimness. Sitting on the edge of their bed. Looking to him. She was undressed. As if she had only recently woken up. Her soft, snowy-white fur looking very pure. Looking so inviting to any potential touch or caress. And his paws had been in that fur before. She was so familiar to him. Her legs were together, hiding her femininity from plain-sight. But it was so obviously there, and it was hard not to think about. Hard not to catch her bare scent, either.
"At a conference." He'd just entered the bedroom. Just gotten back. He was dressed in his uniform. And, though he'd been awake longer than she had, he looked wearier.
"About ... " She arched a brow, sitting up straighter.
" ... water reclamation," was Graham's honest response. They were in their 'guest' quarters on the station. Outside the eye-shaped windows, the stars could be seen. Way out there. Stars. Ships. Little ships coming and going. Snow rabbit freighters, cruisers, carriers, explorers. Lots of different vessel-types. And the stations, too, in orbit. There were nine stations in all. Oh, and the moons. The moons there, too, both of them. The second moon still containing a permanent Arctic fox presence (though very small, size-wise, as most of them had emigrated to their new world six days away).
And the snow rabbit Home-world, finally. Oh, that big, beautiful planet below. It looked so striking. The albedo of the surface throwing back so much light. Making the sphere to glow like a lit-up, glassy marble against a black backdrop. The light of the sun playing off the frozen fields of ice, and the salty, covering oceans. And the continents. All the blues and whites and browns. The green patches confined to the equatorial zone.
"Why?" Her waggle-ears waggled.
"Mm?" A blink.
"Why were you at a conference about water reclamation?" Ada repeated. She let out a breath, her bare, furry breasts hanging loosely (without the support of any garments).
"It is an important ... topic." His eyes fixating on those breasts. His pupils seeming to dilate. But he blinked, clearing his throat. Shaking himself out of the momentary daze.
She tilted her head at that. Allowing it (both the 'body-drinking' and the explanation). But still unpleased by his behavior. Showing this by squinting her ice-blue eyes. And continuing to stare back at him.
"Only a very small percentage of our planet's water ... is readily-drinkable freshwater. The oceans are salty. And over ninety-nine percent of our freshwater is locked in glaciers and icebergs. That leaves less than half a percent ... for us to safely drink. And the per capita water use is double the rate of population growth. As a result, the water table is declining in many areas. Did you know that?"
"I did not," she answered, very slowly.
"It is fascinating," he insisted. "And relevant."
Her logical mind was trying to analyze him. His posture. His tone. Trying to read beyond what he was broadcasting. He wasn't standing still. He padded, in his bare foot-paws, across the carpet. This way. Stop. That way. And then stopping again, his bobtail flickering at an almost rodent-like rate (or: fast and erratic). "So, you discussed water usage?"
"Many facets of water usage," he elaborated. "Pollution. E coli contamination. Runoff. Desalinization. Water is not as safe or clean ... as we would like to believe." A tiny pause. "I guess it is a good thing we live in space. And get our water recycled through and synthesized with food processors and sonic showers and faucets ... and not from the real sources. The rivers. The wells."
"'Replicated' water is not as thorough and ... beneficial," she reminded him, "as pure-source water. Our bodies can tell the difference. You know that." A head-tilt. "Besides, you know scientists like to exaggerate the severity of each and every problem that may or may not exist. If they didn't, no one would pay attention to their profession. They would capture no one's attention," she insisted.
"That is up for debate ... but, still ... 'replicated' water is enough to live on. We are all fine. We are living off it."
"Nevertheless, I have always been partial to well-water. I grew up on it," Ada told him, smoothing the bed-sheets. A bit absently. "And I am still alive. Still healthy. It did not kill me."
"According to the experts at the conference, seepage renders well water ... unreliable."
"I have never trusted the words of 'experts'." She stopped smoothing the sheets. Her attention back on him. "They have no humility. Anyone who has to proclaim himself to be an 'expert' at something ... has automatically lost my trust."
"A strict stance," he observed. Wishing he had something to clutch at. It was times like these (when he was wracked with deep, unpleasant feelings) that he wished he had a long tail to hold (like mouses and squirrels did). Instead, he could only open and close his paws. Could only grasp at the air. His white-furred fingers stretching, and the black 'pads' of his palms looking a bit clammy, as if he were dehydrated.
"Perhaps," was Ada's eventual, delayed reply. She bit her lip. Her concern mounting. Whiskers giving a singular twitch.
"Suppose, then, I proclaim myself to be ... an expert at breeding. Would I lose your trust?" Graham asked.
"You do not have to vocalize that you are an expert at breeding ... for me to know that you are. For you show me, instead. Daily. You are more than your words."
Graham's whiskers gave a singular twitch, now. Mimicking hers, in a way. Him still standing, and her still sitting. Several feet apart.
"You are on leave," she whispered, after a moment of silence. "We both are. And yet ... I wake up, and you are not in bed, and you are attending conferences on ... water reclamation?" A sense of restrained, frozen-over frustration in her voice. Civil emotion. Tightly-controlled (and not entirely by choice). But readable to one who was accustomed to snow rabbit body language and vocal tones.
Graham's eyes darted. A deep inhale. And he released it as a sigh. "As I said," he repeated. "Is it an important topic."
"You are simply trying to keep busy. To hide your pains with ... tasks. Work. Studies. That is destructive behavior. I am very worried," she stressed. "And, for all your talk of water, I can clearly see that you are dehydrated ... you are not taking care of yourself."
He said nothing.
"I am here," she whispered, "for you. Let your guard down. And let me heal you. Let us pray together. We can appeal to God for ... "
" ... nothing. I am not worthy of appealing to Him. I have done too much ... "
" ... wrong. You are wrong. It is not about worthiness. It never was." She focused her intense, loving gaze on him. "That is the nature of Mercy. What we do not deserve ... we have been given. Not because of deeds. But because we are His children. We are loved. We are forgiven ... if we believe." A deep, cleansing breath. "And I know you believe. And I know you have repented. And I know, also, that you did not start any of the wars in which you have fought. In which we both," she added, "have fought. I have done things, too ... you are not the only snow rabbit to have been scarred by these past few years. Our entire species is still licking its wounds. We are all in a daze. But, unlike most of our compatriots, you," she insisted, "have a Light. You have faith. Use it. Is it not that difficult."
"Isn't it?" he whispered. With uncertainty. His bobtail gave a weak flicker-flick.
"No. You are simply making it out to be. You have ... made mistakes," she admitted. "And are allowing the outcomes of those mistakes to paralyze you. To blind you." A breath. "You were imperfect? So are we all. You overloaded? It happens. You are neither the first nor the last to be crushed under the weight of ... of things," she whispered. "Neither the first or the last to foolishly trust your own self ... over God." A breath, and a sigh through her black, sniffing nose. A nose that was always cool to the touch. "It is not about your worthiness," she repeated. "It is about your WILLINGNESS," she stressed.
"My willingness to ... "
" ... let go. Learn. Confront." A pause. "Your willingness to submit to His will. To let Him carry you."
Graham was quiet for a moment. He swallowed. "As a captain," he whispered, "I have been taught that ... the only one who can carry me is myself. I have been taught to distance myself from my crew." He swallowed. "And as a snow rabbit, I have been taught that ... logic is the answer to any vice."
"But logic has failed you. As it has failed our entire species."
A weak nod. "Yes," he mouthed.
"What you learned from the High Command stems from worldly philosophy, first of all. I think you know that there is more ... and that none of us can carry ourselves. You are not a statue, Graham. You are not a rock."
"I am a snow rabbit," he repeated.
"Yes," she whispered. "And despite our ... freezes," she whispered, "and despite our logic-geared minds, we do need love. We do need faith. You know this. Our culture can believe what it wishes, but it believes wrong," she declared. "Darling, it was through you," she reminded, "that I came to have faith. You were the first, and are still the only ... fur," she managed, "that I have ever loved. Loved," she stressed. "I love you. Months ago, you were happy. You were confident. And now? To see you stumble along, in such uncertain pain, as you are doing ... " She shook her head. "I should have noticed. Earlier, I ... should have noticed it earlier. Sooner. To see you were in pain. To see that the stresses of your job were ... starting to crush you. I should have noticed. I should have done something about it, much sooner."
"This is not your fault," he insisted, whiskers twitching. Nose sniffing. "It is mine."
"Does that matter? The placement of fault ... of blame," she asked, "does it affect your ability to be helped? To be healed?"
He couldn't answer that.
"You are trying to punish yourself. You need to stop." A breath. "So, perhaps," she offered, with true concern, "you should be more worried about reclaiming your spiritual health ... than reclaiming water."
"But we need water," was the lame response. Still stubborn.
"We need spiritual health. As for water?" A pause. Quoting, "'Everyone who drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life. John, Chapter Four, Verse Fourteen'."
" ... Ada ... "
" ' ... if anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. Whoever believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, 'Out of his heart will flower rivers of living water.' John, Chapter Seven, Verses Thirty-Seven and ... ' "
" ... Ada," he said again, almost pleading.
"Graham," she stated. Simply. Not backing down.
His eyes darted, and he met her gaze. Ice-blue eyes meeting ice-blue eyes. "I ... I, uh ... "
" ... come here," Ada whispered, opening her arms for him.
A slight hesitation.
"Come here," she repeated. Gently, gently.
And, taking those few steps, padding to her, he sat on the edge of the bed with her. And leaned on her. Into her arms. Where he closed his eyes, confessing, "I have often wished ... that our species could cry. That we could FEEL ... grief. Instead, I ... I have this well of emotions deep beneath the surface. It is there. I know it is there. And yet I cannot extract anything from it ... it is ... "
" ... how we are built. There is nothing you can do to change your physiology."
"No," he whispered, with that blank, emotional cool. "No ... there is not."
"But healing is possible. Joy is possible. We can feel joy. You know that ... we can feel," she reminded him. "Would you rather be a mouse? Wear your emotions so outwardly as to be overwhelmed by them? Or a predator? To be constantly fighting emotions as weaknesses? God designed each species ... perfectly. For a reason. For a purpose. Do not lament what you feel and HOW you feel it. Do not, either, try to explain it away. You must deal with this ... and I," she said again, "will help you." Her arms around him, tightly, warmly. In a tender hug. Her eyes closing, and she breathed slowly, deeply. Saying, "I will make you better."
"I ... I am sorry," he whispered.
"It is alright."
Graham swallowed, leaning closer to her. "I wish to rest."
"As do I. But not just yet. Now, come," she whispered, right into his ear. "Dispatch of your uniform. And we will begin a slow, savoring relief ... "
" ... but relief is more than physical. I need ... "
" ... more than that. I know," she assured. "But I love you. And there is no purer, fiercer way of showing that to you ... than through physical union. To brush souls. To ... through intimacy, we can heal. It is a start. And, besides, I believe you could do with a little bit of pleasure."
"Just a little bit?" he asked.
Melting into a genuine eye-smile. "Perhaps more than just a 'little bit' ... but, regardless ... " A deep breath through her nose, and she moved to kiss him on the cheek. Whispering, "Undress. I will go fill some water bottles."
A weak, little nod.
Another kiss to his cheek. "I love you," she said again.
"As do I," he replied, feeling compelled to latch to her. To latch to her and never let go. "As do I ... love you, as well, Ada." And he was so grateful for her presence. She was, to him, a snow angel. And he said this aloud. "My snow angel," he whispered.
She eye-smiled more. More happily. And whispered, "I shall be back in a minute. Now, your ... uniform," she reminded, giving a playful tug at his clothes.
He eye-smiled back at her. Proceeding to willingly remove it, strip it off. No use being in uniform when so much more came from being 'in the fur.'
The sounds of chatter all around.
A few lights blink-blinking.
And that aesthetic, white/blue/purple design-scheme that was, by now, familiar. But such decor was lost on him. And the background noise, as well.
Konka's eyes widened a bit. His powerful nose sniffing the air. She had white fur. Like they all did. And had that sense of poise. Again, like they all did. And she was showing her slightly-yellowish teeth. Sharp, cutting teeth. This was not a snow rabbit, no. Oh, no. She was an Arctic fox, and she was on the other side of the upper-level here on the Promenade. And she was a perfect specimen. Appealing in every way. And, oh, the coyote stared.
The femme Arctic fox continued flashing her teeth at him. And wagged and waved her brushy, bushy tail about. Swish-swish. Swish. Through the air. Her fur, while almost entirely a snowy-white, had those 'charcoal fringes' that snow rabbits had. Around the edges of her extremities. On the tips of her keen, angular ears. She had a bit on the tip of her tail, too. And her lower arms. She took a deep breath, her breasts rising. And, when she exhaled, they fell. He could almost make out the outlines of her nipples beneath the fabric of whatever it was she was wearing. It wasn't a uniform. So, what was she doing here? She must've been from the second moon.
Konka felt his heart in his chest. The excitement in his blood. The rising pulse. His pupils dilating, his golden eyes widening further. Watching her intently, he showed his own teeth. And cocked the angular ears on his head. A pant. A light pant. Watching the femme's body language from afar.
She tilted her head, eyes squinted (in a hazy, sensual way).
The tawny-furred coyote licked his lips. There was no question. She wanted sex. With him. Oh. He'd never bred an Arctic fox before. Oh, he'd bred foxes. Plain, orange-furred, yipping foxes. They'd been good. But an Arctic fox? What strength and cool precision, what beauty! He could imagine her body. How it must feel. Could imagine the pleasure he would get. He imagined, and began to pad off. His bare foot-paws moving him. Legs moving him. Mind moving him. Almost before he knew what he was doing.
This wasn't motivated by rationale. And certainly not by conscience.
This was all instinct.
And it felt too pure to resist. The pulsing. The pounding. The beating. The yearning. It felt natural. His sheath was already bulging. He ...
... bumped into Wasilla.
"I've been looking all over for you," the pika said, cheerfully. Giving him an unannounced hug. Being shorter than him, she leaned her head on his upper chest. And sighed. Her roundish ears swivelled. And her whiskers gave a singular twitch. Her multi-colored, white and brown and slightly-grey fur seemed a quaint, pretty patchwork in the overhead light. "I, uh, found a, uh ... what are you looking at?" she asked, squinting. For Konka was staring over her shoulder. And she turned around, frowning. And saw nothing.
The coyote gave a throaty growl. A light, brief sound. Of frustration. Disappointment. But, also, of shame. The Arctic fox had lost all interest in him when Wasilla had thrown her arms around him. And she'd wandered away. No doubt to find some other fur to breed her. Someone who had 'no strings.' And Konka had strings. Had ...
" ... me. Look at me," Wasilla said.
"Mm?" A blink. And the coyote cleared his throat. And did so.
The pika smiled again. "I found this wonderful place to eat, and I booked us a table ... and I thought we could have a romantic lunch, and then, uh ... well ... we can figure out what we're gonna do after that," she said, "later. But there's a beautiful arboretum here. With trees and snow-flowers and everything. I thought we could walk in it. And then get ourselves a few bottles of some snow rabbit alcohol. There's a shop that has all these bottles, and I want you to pick the ones you want ... so we can use them during the evenings, and ... "
"That sounds ... fine," Konka said, nodding. Nodding.
"What's wrong?" the pika asked.
"Nothing."
"You're frowning."
"I always frown."
A slow smile. "That you do, I guess." A breath. "Well, uh ... you, uh ... you wanna come, then? For lunch?"
"I am hungry," he said, simply. Nodding. His version of a 'yes.'
"Good," Wasilla went, with a squeaky sound. Had she a tail, it would've made some kind of motion. But she hadn't a tail. So, she just swivelled her rounded ears and twitched her whiskers (mostly involuntarily, though; but, still, her excitement made their motions even more pronounced). And she was excited. She was glad they had this leave. She was glad to feel safe. And she did feel safe. On this snow rabbit space station, and with Konka, specifically. He might've been a bit stubborn and blunt and all, but he was a solid presence. Not just in bed. Not just in her arms. But in her mind. She was dependent on him. As crazy as that was. And with each battle and each bit of interstellar strife, she came to rely on him more and more. He was the most tangible thing in her life.
And Konka, as they began to walk across the Promenade, to one of the spiral staircases that led down to the lower level, he began to flush. She was so loyal to him. She was so delicate and fragile. She was willing to give him everything. And, yet, on more than one occasion (his almost-rape of Aisling, and his almost-sex with the Arctic fox just a moment ago) he'd betrayed her trust. Without her knowing. Behind her back, as it were. And it made him feel bad. Somewhat. But, still, he didn't stop doing it. He didn't stop biting into temptation. He let his instinct carry him. Too often. And, always, he would calm down and vow that he would give everything to Wasilla. And, always, he came short of that. His predatory instincts and tendencies, they got in the way.
And Wasilla? She must've sensed this. Felt some of these things. But she didn't give them too much thought. Because her heart carried her. And she had come to idealize the coyote, and to assume that his heart, too, could lead him. She subscribed to the belief in Christian redemption. That everyone could be change. That, by the bounty of Grace, love could change everything. Even if it took a lot of time. So, she was willing to be patient. And, in her eyes, their relationship had improved over the last few months.
In his eyes? He wasn't sure. He felt the same. Maybe a bit different, admittedly. He was learning the ways of prey. Working with so many snow rabbits in engineering, day after day. He was coming to respect them. He was never around predators, anymore. And maybe that was having an effect.
But, still, I am not used to leading with my heart. I may not even be built for it. It may be impossible. Konka thought these things to himself. But they, ultimately, sounded like excuses. Excuses to do whatever he felt like doing. No, he had a heart. And it did work. And Wasilla wanted it. And shouldn't he respect that? And shouldn't he give it to her? All of it? After all, he WOULD kill for her. He did enjoy her presence in bed. He did enjoy her scent in his nose. He did enjoy the sound of her voice.
"You're quiet ... what are you thinking about?" Wasilla asked, holding to his paw. Leading him forward.
Konka squinted, looking about. They were getting a lot of stares. The snow rabbits. Staring at the sight of a predator holding paws with prey. And, also, he was a coyote. Arctic foxes had become common enough in snow rabbit space that, nowadays, they didn't draw many stares. But rarely did one see a coyote in these parts. That made him a novelty. Which was probably why the femme Arctic fox had wanted to breed with him. And why he, in turn, had wanted to breed with her. There'd been nothing of love and affection or possible connection involved in it.
Pure lust.
She'd wanted him for his dominance. His uniqueness. The thrill of breeding with a stranger. A new species. Wanted him for he had to give: pleasure and semen.
And he'd wanted to sow his seed in her, indeed. In a femme of a species he'd never bred before. Carnal instinct to deposit his semen in any available womb, be it fertile or not. For the pleasure it would give him. Pleasure. For the biological satisfaction. And, ultimately, all details aside, it was all to get that pleasure, wasn't it? Oh, the fires it would (only briefly) quench. Oh, that promise. And to be able to say and to know that he'd bred an Arctic fox. To have another species on his already long list. And ...
... you're married. Reasons aside, wants aside, he told himself, you are married. You married her. You love her, don't you? Stop it with these thoughts!
"Konka ... "
"Mm?" A blink.
"We're there," Wasilla said.
A quiet, distracted nod. And he sighed. Somewhat hating himself. Wishing to claw himself to bits. And he followed her into the restaurant.
" ... I don't need glasses."
"I'm telling you ... you said you were getting headaches," Aspera said, leaning back in her chair. And giving a nod. "And that's the reason." The bird ruffled her feathers a bit. Just so that she could smooth them down. It was an avian habit. Feather-smoothing.
"Cause o' my eyes?" Kempton asked, squinting. As if not believing it.
"You're straining them."
"Well, what about ... contacts, or ... you know, or something else?"
"You'd look cute in glasses," Cordova assured, sitting beside her husband. "Or should I say ... scrumptious? Well, you're already scrumptious," was the afterthought, her voice trailing. He was, indeed. That cinnamon fur. That sweet, spicy color, and to just dig her fingers and paws into that wonderful, fluffy softness, and to feel the skin and muscles beneath. His trim, strong form, and those unbelievably fit legs and thighs. Oh, the better to kick at predators with. Oh, the better to hop and bolt with. Oh, the better to be wrapped around her while they frolicked in bed! Oh, sigh! Her eyes glazed over a bit.
"Cordova?" A whisker-twitch from Kempton.
"What?" A blink. "What ... I wasn't thinking anything."
"I didn't say you were," he replied, stealing one of her bread-sticks. "If you're not gonna eat this ... " He took a bite. And another. Chew-chew. Chew. Swallow.
They were all at a table, out in an open area of the Promenade, a section called the 'repli-mat.' An area with tables and chairs and a row of food processors. Self-serve. Come to sit, converse, and eat what you wish.
"Glasses?" Kempton said again. He couldn't quite grasp that. A shake of the head. "No. No ... " He tapped his bread-stick on his plate.
"Well, you should probably do something. Mind, I'm just a doctor-doctor, not an eye-doctor. I'm sure there's an eye doctor on the station here. Seriously, it can be fixed. It might just be, like ... for reading computer screens. I mean, you do that a lot, right? Your eyes might be fine save for ... having to read small text. Just get it checked out."
"Alright," was the calmer response. And a sigh. A nod. "I'll look into it ... " And a slow grin.
"You're hilarious," Cordova said, teasingly. Not laughing. Just nudging him. "You know that?" The piebald-furred rabbit's tail flicker-flicked against the back of her seat, making a soft rustle-rustle sound as the fur moved across the back of the chair. Flicker-flick.
"That why you married me, huh? My sense of humor?" He turned his head and put his pink nose to hers. "Mm?"
"I don't know," she said, lightly. "I forget."
A little mew from him, and he stole a quick, wet kiss, pulling back. And then looking to his plate. "Maybe I should've gotten broccoli. I feel like I want some broccoli ... "
"Hey, Kempton," said Taylor, chomping on a celery stick (with peanut butter on it). Chew-chew. "Hey, you know ... " Chew. Swallow. And he pointed his paw at the cinnamon-furred rabbit. " ... if you ate more carrots, you wouldn't have this eye-problem." A giggle-chitter.
"Ha, ha," went Kempton, rolling his eyes. "You know, if I HAD a carrot for every time some cheeky non-rabbit ... told me to EAT a carrot? I'd be a very fat rabbit," he stated.
This made Taylor giggle-chitter all the more.
"He's in a good mood," Cordova noted, looking to Aspera.
The black-and-white warbler just nodded, clacking her beak a bit. "He gets like this, sometimes. All giggles and chitters and whisker-twitches. He's just a big bundle of cute, isn't he?"
"Aw ... I am?" the chipmunk asked. Looking to his wife.
"I said so, didn't I? Don't you believe me?"
"I believe you. I believe you," he insisted, his brushy chipmunk-tail, with the bold brown stripe, moving about like a brushy wire.
"You'd think you chipmunks would be in a constant identity crisis," Kempton said, nodding at Taylor.
"What?" A blink. "How come?"
"Well, not a mouse. Not a squirrel. Just some ... mixture of the two."
"I'm a chipmunk. Chipmunk."
"Yeah, but mouses are mouses ... squirrels are ... squirrels. No one ever notices chipmunks."
"They do, too. Yes, they do," Taylor defended.
"He's just trying to wind you up," Aspera injected. "You always fall for it."
Kempton just grinned.
And Taylor, in turn, squinted, saying, "Well ... at least I don't need glasses."
"Hey!"
"Boys, boys ... let's stop it with the ribbing," said Cordova, smiling to herself. It was rather amusing, though. She was hesitant to stop it. Somewhat. But, ultimately, it was for the best. "Now, how about we all get dessert?"
"I don't know if I should have any. I get hyper when I have too much sugar."
"So? Get hyper."
"You don't understand," Taylor insisted, making somewhat of a face at the cinnamon-furred rabbit. "It's not just that I go on a sugar high ... it's that, when it's over, I 'crash'. It starts out all hyper, but it ends with depression. Not worth it."
"Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a rodent," Kempton waxed. Smiling. "So, get sugar-free ... sugar-free something."
"Well, it won't taste any good. Whatever it would be."
"Have a milkshake. That's not too much sugar, is it? I mean, that's not ... cookies or pie or cake. Just have ice cream. You didn't eat any sugary things with your meal, so surely you can allot for it."
Taylor had to look to Aspera for permission. After all, she was more than just his wife. She was also his doctor.
"You can have ice cream. But no toppings."
"No toppings," he agreed.
So, one by one, the four friends got up and went to the food processors, each to order their own dessert. Enjoying, thus far, their shore leave. And trying not to think too much about whatever potential laid ahead.
Leave the future for the future. And tea and sympathy for moments of sorrow.
But leave now for fellowship and dessert!