FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Death finds everyone and everything, and tonight it was Beauregard Flanigan’s turn. The impact of the semi biting into the passenger side of his small Chevy Colorado rent the cab of the pickup nearly in two, the subsequent transfer of energy so forceful, the driver side door wrenched free of its hinges. Beau, who had turned towards the door anticipating the impact, was thrown violently against it, right shoulder first. His world became pain within seconds; white hot and searing, his shoulder feeling as if it were both two sizes too big and nearly gone completely.

The door gave way. Beau was launched from the seat, his safety belt dangling useless and unbuckled as he had neglected to fasten it that night. The dark Illinois night enveloped him as he soared a few dozen feet from his wrecked truck. He fell hard at a shallow angle onto cold asphalt, sliding across it with the remaining force from the crash, the uneven and potted surface tearing tufts of fur and chunks of flesh from his body. Broken, bloodied, he tried to stand but couldn’t. His world, all of it, was simply pain now. He felt nothing but the heat and the wet.

Beau tried to move his right arm, his pitching arm, the one that would get him to the majors in record time. The arm was bent oddly and he couldn’t flex his shoulder to move it. It just sat there, resting limp against his side at too wrong an angle. Tears began to line up at the corner of his eyes, falling and staining the white cheek fur of his muzzle. He cried out, not a word, just a whimpering whine. Somewhere distant, way off, a car alarm was sounding. His keen ears twitched towards the sound.

Beep, beep, beep.

Was that his truck? The semi? What happened to the semi? He tried to look back but his neck didn’t work right, like it had become unconnected from his torso, at least when he tried to look over his right shoulder. He tried the left and it worked, but the act still forced stars into his vision. He cried out again, for whom he couldn’t remember. His mom, his dad, his brother. He didn’t know. He was alone, torn asunder between the corn fields on that lonely farm road.

The ballgame he had just left had been his best yet. Scouts were in the crowd. He had thrown all nine innings, Blackwood Blackhawks against the Oklahoma Sooners. He’d only allowed one earned run and had batted three for four, including two back-to-back four hundred footers. His fate had been sealed then, a unicorn in baseball, a pitcher who could smash dingers. The Show was calling. He’d cruise through the minors, maybe a half season at best, and then get called up in August to shore up some team’s postseason push. Nineteen years old and in the majors. The rocket had left the launch pad.

Beep, beep, beep.

His eyes slowly opened, the shrill beeping of his alarm clock rending the silence of that warm Illinois morning. He let out a soft groan and made to extend his right arm to turn off the incessant beeping, but the limb froze. It was always the last part of him to wake, and it was never happy about it either. Instead, he rolled over, grimacing as he put his two hundred and fifty pounds on top of the stubborn limb, using his left hand to quiet the alarm. He flopped onto his stomach, buried his snout beneath his pillow, and let out a soft whine into the mattress.

Getting up was difficult for him and he felt every one of his twenty seven years as he slipped a leg off the bed, letting a foot find the floor, his toes splaying, blunt clawtips clacking against the hardwood. He shot a glance at the clock on the nightstand. Six thirty in the morning. His first job was at eight at the McCreary place off Winston Drive. Old house, built in the forties. Mrs. McCreay was nearly ninety. She had a leak in the cabinet under the bathroom sink.

He let out another groan and slid out from beneath the covers, clad only in a pair of black boxers. He stood with the care of someone twice his age, making sure the shoulder never bent odd, otherwise he’d be feeling it the rest of the day.

Beau yawned. Stretched. Yawned again. Scratched at his stomach. Flexed his tail straight out, then reached back and ran his paw over it, flattening the mussed fur on it. He let out a small shiver. Goddamned tail was always so sensitive. He ambled into the bathroom, tore off his boxers, and stepped into the shower.

Ten minutes later, he was dressed in his usual work fit: black polo with “Brute Services” over the left pec, a loose and worn pair of Liberty jeans, the hems stuffed into a tall pair of brown Brahma work boots. His leather belt had multiple riveted compartments, each one holding specific tools for specific jobs, and just next to the buckle was an extended hammer hoop that always carried his favorite three pound carpentry hammer.

The sink was running full bore, hot water sending steam billowing into the air around him. He leaned against the sink, paws gripping each side of the wall-mounted porcelain. His head was down, fur still wet from the shower. He breathed in and looked up. The face that greeted him felt off. Down turned lips, lines folding fur at his brow, half-lidded eyes, neck scruff pointed to the ground.

Beau sighed, tucked his head back down against his chest, letting his muzzle rest there as he started to run his fingers through the fur on the side of his neck and jaw, fluffing it outward and then together. Satisfied, he let out another deep huff into the steamy air and slowly looked up. The same drooping countenance stared back at him until he spoke aloud, breaking over the calm white noise of the running water.

“Focus on the job. Focus on the fix. Focus on making a difference… FOCUS GODDAMNIT,” he growled, face contorted into an angry snarl that slowly melted into a soft, easy smile that genuinely pulled at the corners of his eyes. His gruffer tone was gone as he spoke again. “Hi, I’m Brute. Brute Services. Heard your sink was leakin’, and I’m here to make it right.” The Southern lilt in his voice, usually muted by his time in the Midwest, was much thicker now. His eyes were almost sparkling, smile warm and inviting, offering a salve to the everyday humdrum that was modern life. This jovial facade was a little gift he offered everyone as he made his way about his day. The mask was in place. “Brute” was awake.

Beau nodded, gave himself that warm, cozy smile. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, a younger, brasher version of himself clicked his tongue. He shook his head, readjusted his smile, and headed for the door.

Both the trap and the tailpiece were rusted together, along with the coupling nut. Beau, crammed into that tiny boxy space below the sink in Mrs. McCreary’s bathroom, let out a small sigh, a momentary crack in the Brute mask.

“Brute, dear?” Mrs. McCreary’s voice called out from the kitchen in that light, slightly wheezing thick Chicago dialect, turning every vowel into a sharp “ah” regardless of which letter was there in the word, every “o” being front loaded, every “e” completely dropped. “Brute” became “Bruht” in her aged muzzle.

“Yes, ma’am?” Beau called back from the mildew-reeking depths of the cabinet, voice coated in that sweet Southern syrup.

“How much are you charging today?” she asked.

Beau smiled as he tried to twist the coupling nut with his large hand. It wouldn’t budge. He let out another sigh, then pulled his phone from his pocket. He’d already spent thirty minutes assessing the leak. His stomach groaned; he had skipped breakfast to get a head start. Mrs. McCreary was a talker so he had tried to build a buffer. He knew that soon enough, she’d be in there talking his ears off.

“We’ll see how much I gotta do,” he answered back in a booming yell. Not only was he trapped within that prison of a cabinet, his client was hard of hearing. The truth was, he had a lot to do. He had to unseize the pipes just to take them off to find the source of the leak, which he guessed was a rotted through gasket somewhere along the drain side at the bend in the trap.

As if on cue, he heard her slippered feet slowly shuffle towards the bathroom.

“Brute, dear?” She was in the doorway now, voice much clearer.

“Yes ma’am,” he asked. He shifted deeper into the cabinet, knocking a claw against the copper tailpiece, trying to gauge the thickness of rust layered on the metal.

“You know Bernice, right? Bernice Henderson?”

He paused for a moment, eyes on the pipe. “Yes ma’am,” he answered. “Married to Harry Henderson of H&H.” He returned his attention to the pipe. He could probably force it free but in the cramped space with his bad shoulder, any tussle would likely make the afternoon library job much harder for himself.

“Bernice has so many figurines, those little crystal ones. Ever seen them? I bet you’re over there all the time. That whipper snapper can’t do a thing without help. Surprised that Harry puts up with her. You know Harry, right? Known him since he was just a kit. Anyway, about Bernice,”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, completely disengaging from the conversation for the moment, but wanting her to feel like he was listening.

It looked like he’d have to pour some solvent on the rust, the fast acting and expensive kind that’d leave the bathroom smelling like a chemical spill for a couple of days. No way around it, unless he wanted to be the hunchback of Blackwood for the rest of the day. He let out another grunt as he tried the stubborn coupler once more, this time with a wrench from his tool belt. It wouldn’t break.

“Did you know that Bernice uses powdered milk in her Lemon Ice Box pie? The absolute nerve! She may only be sixty-five, just a baby really, but powdered milk? Really? And wouldn’t you know it, animals actually like it. I can’t even begin to think why. Such a shortcut, as if she doesn’t have all the time in the world being married to that well off Harry Henderson. You know Harry right? From H&H Tools. You’d think with that kinda money, she’d be able to afford proper heavy cream!”

“Yes ma’am, that’s definitely the better option there,” Beau replied, reaching blind towards his tool box that lay just at his knees. He pulled the rust gel up and started to apply it.

“Did you know my chili once won a gold medal at a competition in Peoria? Bet Bernice never won a medal in her shortcut-taking life. You know Bernice right? Married to Harry from the hardware store. You ever go there much?”

“Yes ma’am, almost daily.” The solvent was doing its job but his nostrils were already on fire, his eyes starting to water. He let out a small cough.

“You tell Henry that I’m going to set him up with one of my bridge girls. Dolores is a delight, I promise!”

“I’ll be sure to do that…” he coughed again “... ma’am.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked them a few times, then wiped at the coupling nut with a rag from his belt. He twisted it and it gave way, promptly covering his face and collar with stale, mucky water. He spluttered and shook his face, shifting and pushing his bad shoulder into the side wall of the cabinet. His reactionary shift made him bump the crown of his head against the pipe. He let out a soft sigh and held back the growl he wanted to throw into the air. Instead, he reached the best he could toward the nearby bucket he had dropped in, held the trap in place, and then moved the bucket underneath it, letting the pipe coupler fall down The foul smelling blocked dumped into the bucket, along with what looked to be days, if not weeks, of backwash from denture cleanser.

Mrs. McCreary cleared her throat. “Speaking of Lemon Ice Box pie, I just made one yesterday. Trying a new recipe and don’t worry, I made sure to use proper heavy cream!” She added a small, wheezy laugh. “I’ll go pull it out in case you want any sweetie. Be careful down there.”

He coughed once more and added a weak, “Yes ma’am,” as she shuffled out of the room. Smell got to her, he thought to himself, wishing he could exit too.

With the pipe now empty, he found the problem fairly quickly. It was just what he thought: a rotted through gasket at the tailpiece’s join to the sink drain. Probably rotted by the clog of fur and other various muck that had fallen into the bucket a few minutes ago.

He replaced the gasket with a new one, reassembled the pipes, and tested the drain with a five minute run through. No further leaks. He started cleaning up and took some time to wash his muzzle and cheeks free of the stale water that had hit him. The polo… well it’d have to get laundered later. He dabbed at the splotches along the right side of the shirt but could do little else. They’d just have to live there for the remainder of the day.

Toolbox in hand, sink spotless, he made his way into the wood-accented kitchen and found her there, slicing up the aforementioned pie.

She turned to him, the nostrils on her snout curling upward. “Brute! It smells like acetone and metal. Certainly hope whatever that smell is coming from fixed my sink.”

“Yes ma’am, sink is leak free and draining without issue. The smell… well that should clear in a couple of days. Best way to clear the rust.”

She nodded, pulling out a small floral-patterned coin purse from a nearby drawer. “Aren’t you just a dear. What do I owe you? And could I possibly tempt you with some pie? I‘m itching to get some feedback on it!”

Beau paused, fretting over how much he was going to charge her. She was on a very paltry fixed income; the full fee, a hundred and twenty, felt flat wrong to charge her. Even if he discounted it, he saw how light that coin purse looked and knew the elderly woman didn’t keep a bank account. She was old school, a trait he adored in her. He gave her his warmest smile.

“Give me a slice of that wonderful looking pie, Mrs. McCreary, and we’ll call it even.”

She moved forward, holding a hand over her chest. “Oh Brute, I couldn’t possibly-”

He waved, dismissing her worry. “Ma’am, I insist. Just make sure your bridge group hears all about how helpful I am.”

She laughed, fanned her face, and nodded. “I’ll do much more than that. You keep your phone close because it’s going to be ringing off the hook by the time I’m done, young man!”

He let out a polite little chuckle.

“Sit, sit!” she insisted, waving him over to her small dining table. He nodded and set down his toolbox, moving over to the chair she had indicated.

She served him a huge slice of pie. It was fantastic, like the ones his own mom had made back in Calhoun, his hometown in Georgia. He told her as such, which delighted her and sent her down a rabbit hole of talking about her best recipes from over the years. It was genuinely fascinating just how much she had baked over all the years she’d been alive, but by the third story, he had realized that he was running behind.

He slowly rose and thanked her thoroughly for the pie. “Amazing pie, Mrs. McCreary. I’ve really got to run now. Make sure you let me know if that sink starts acting up again.”

She waved him off as he leaned against her door. He returned the wave, offered her his biggest smile yet, and headed off to his truck. The pie would have to suffice for the next five to six hours, at least until he could get back to the workshop and start gathering the group for their weekly Friday night movie night.

Beau parked his truck in his usual spot in front of H&H Tools, opened the truck door, pivoted out of the seat and then stopped. He looked up at the vehicle parked in the space next to his. A white Sprinter van with Kate’s Korner Renovations written in purple across its broad doorless side met his gaze, along with a serifless “K” with a floral motif adorning it. One of his brows turned up. He’d heard of the company, one of those fancy house flipping operations from the Highland Park area, the kind of company that catered to overly rich animals that wanted to infuse their sprawling mansions with woodgrain and pasty white faux farmhouse chic accents amongst the ten thousand dollar sofas and fifty thousand dollar kitchen appliances. He let his usually jovial expression fall slightly as he looked at the tagline just below the business’ name.

“My name’s Kate; if you need help, don’t hesitate!”

He clicked his tongue and shut the truck door with a bit more force than he intended, let out a soft sigh, and worked that easy smile back onto his face..

He’d known the Henderson brothers for years; both were stout, burly, and short beavers. Harry the elder, married to Bernice; Henry, the younger, unattached. Harry was the no-nonsense salt-of-the-earth type, always in Carhartt and denim, with Henry being the more sarcastic, witty sibling with a long pony tail and a bohemian surfer vibe, more fitting a college town. They had been Beau’s go to for years now and he trusted them to provide a fair price, even if the big box stores were cheaper.

With a soft sigh, he pushed the door open and strode in, stopping immediately at the sight of a tall, lithe deer in a sharply lined designer cargo vest over top of a flowing white blouse, tucked into a pair of jeans and a tall pair of Red Wing work boots. Her outfit was both professional and dirtless. Beau looked down to his own simple black polo and worn jeans, some of the muck still clinging to him from the earlier job at Mrs. McCreary’s place.

The deer was animatedly showing the brothers something on a brightly lit tablet screen, pointing to things with a golden stylus.

“... and there’s the goal, Harry. Curb appeal is the key way you’re going to get more people into that door. Your awning isn’t just vintage, it’s antiquated. When the young animals in Blackwood start gaining buying power in the next few years, and those that love to stay rooted in the past all go off to nursing homes, where does that leave H&H? My name’s Kate, if you need help don’t hesitate! And I must say, looking at that sagging awning outside, you definitely need the help. We can pull that canvas down, replace it with a remote controlled, motorized awning that will open and close on its own when programmed. We can have it up before the University goes back into session.”

The torrent of words came from her in a waterfall, overwhelming Harry while Henry stood slightly away, glancing at the tablet, his face neutral, arms crossed. He looked up and caught Beau’s gaze, nodded, and then looked back to the tablet the deer woman was holding.

Harry looked back at his brother, and then looked to Beau at the front door across the store, and relief splashed across his face.

“Brute!” he called, waving. Beau could see just how much the beaver needed the interruption from the slick sales pitch the deer had laid at his feet.

Beau extended a hand up in the air. The deer turned. Her face was smiling but Beau could see that it was purely for show. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating, taking him in and appraising him. Before he could greet Harry in return, she was striding towards him, tucking the tablet beneath her arm and sticking the stylus into a front pocket on her vest. Her gait was wide, rhythmic, her hips moving back and forth, left to right, as if punctuating each step, stamping purpose into the dusty shop floorboards when her boots thudded into them.

She stopped just short of his own shoes, looking up at him, though not by much; she was nearly six feet tall herself. Her nostrils flared once, taking in the scent of hi, and by her dismissive expression, she looked as if she found his particular brand wanting.

“Ah, the legacy Harry so fondly mentioned. You must be Brute.”

Beau gave her a performative smile that, unlike hers, still managed to crinkle the corners of his eyes. He extended a hand outward in greeting. “Yes ma’am, I’m Brute. Brute Flanigan of Brute Services. Nice to meet you Missus…”

“Miss Kate Rhodes,” she corrected in reply. “Kate’s Korner Renovations.” She looked at his extended hand for a moment, then brought her gaze back up to his face, her own hands still tucked at her sides.

Beau slowly retrieved his arm and let it rest by his side. “Excuse me, Miss Rhodes. Please to meet ya,” he said, keeping that wide, true smile on his face.

Her face remained neutral as her eyes roved down him, getting a closer look at the man who had intruded upon her sales effort. “I would agree with your sentiment Mr. Flanigan, but I don’t do dishonesty.” Kate’s voice had lost its saleswoman warmth, replaced with a clipped Chicago cadence that ended every sentence as if it were a question.

But there was a hint of something else in her voice, the way she was stressing her ending syllables, like she was working hard to stop a deeper, more natural accent from taking over. Beau knew what voice lessons sounded like. His manager had subjected him to them back at Blackwood when his normal, much heavier Georgia accent seemed to befuddle quite a few members of the press during interviews.

She shifted her weight, turning away from him halfway to keep part of her gaze upon the Henderson brothers behind the counter. With a sigh, she pulled her tablet from beneath her arm and started to play with its lock button. “Times are changing, Mr. Flanigan,” she said, looking back up at him. “I’m not quite sure a handshake and a penciled-in slot on a day calendar is going to cut it in this business for much longer.”

Beau’s smile didn’t falter, he just tilted his head in acknowledgement of what she said. “That is very true, Miss Rhodes. Be that as it may, folks around here tend to appreciate a more analog approach. I don’t hide myself behind an email and a lowest-bidder, rent-by-the-day crew. I swing my own hammer.”

“Charming,” she deadpanned in reply, the word dead on arrival.

She studied her well-manicured black nails on the hand that gripped the side of the tablet and let out a huff of air. When she looked back up at him, her thumb continued to press the lock button on the tablet over and over. “Charming isn’t efficient, and efficiency isn’t hiding, Mr. Flanigan. It’s simple respect. Respect for the client’s time, as well as mine. You may… what was it? Swing your own hammer, but I wield the power of guaranteed completion dates, steadfast warranties, and the ability to perform multiple jobs across town without running myself ragged or testing the patience of my clients.”

Her muzzle contorted into a wry grin. “And while I’m sure that folks around here appreciate your…” and she paused to give him another once over with her eyes, “muscle-bound aesthetic, they’re likely to value a fast turn around that won’t need remending in a few months just a bit more.”

At that she turned around, giving him her back, and her voice lost its cold register, the sing-song saleswoman cadence returning in full as she walked back over to Harry.

“Harry! I have some 3D mockups of the automated awning system I’m dying to show you. Here.”

Beau let out a small breath, imperceptible to the rest of them. In his playing days, he would have just thrown a heater right by her head, close enough to clip that tightly knit ponytail right off with red seams. But here? He just smiled and made his way towards the counter. He had cedar to pick up for the job that loomed.

Kate didn’t so much as flinch as Beau’s heavy footfalls approached from behind, his shadow looming over the entire counter as she leaned against it. She didn’t pull herself or the tablet away, she just continued the pitch.

“And here we have sensors that can determine wind speed and automatically retract the awning in the case of a cell blowing in… and let’s face it, that’s a weekly occurrence here in Blackwood, especially in spring and summer.”

Harry’s eyes weren’t on her or her tablet at that moment. He was looking up at the looming figure of the six-foot-four wolf standing just beyond the slick and polished deer. Kate realized that her audience was no longer paying attention and straightened herself up, but she still didn’t turn to address the handywolf behind her.

“Harry,” she simpered, voice still sweet. “I’d hate to lose our momentum. Do you think you could ask the legacy to wait just a few minutes until you’ve gotten the big picture for this project?”

“Just need my cedar, ma’am,” Beau replied, interjecting with a polite tone and that same warm smile. He didn’t mention the fact that he was on a strict-ish time table. Henry snorted into a palm and turned away from the scene, walking into the back office. Beau’s keen hearing heard the younger beaver let out a short guffaw before sitting down somewhere unseen.

“I… Kate uh… It won’t take a minute… Just… a few…” Harry stammered out. “Just… just let me help Brute out real quick. He needs to get to the Blackwood library. Rebuild one of those old shelves.”

Beau’s eyes turned to Harry, narrowing slightly at the betrayal of his pending job. He knew that someone like Kate would latch onto that and use it as ammunition. Sure enough, he was right.

“The University Library?” she asked, finally turning to look Beau in the face, a cocky grin pulling at the side of her mouth. “A legacy helping a legacy. How quaint. Fine, I won’t let innovative optimization stand in the way of your particular brand of… progress. I’m sure the dust that settles on those disused volumes looks wonderful on your delightfully plain uniform, Mr. Flanigan. May the new dust that settles on those forgotten tomes be just as… history rich as what you sneeze out later tonight.”

To Kate’s utter surprise, Beau let out a genuine chuckle, his eyes closing, hand clutching at the center of his chest. When the mirth left him, he looked down at her, that same genuine smile still standing. “You make a fine point, Miss Rhodes. I’ll be sure to put on my respirator before I start the job. Don’t need sinus problems to go along with my allergies, now do I? Thanks for the advice!” And he said it in that lilting drawl like he meant every word.

She didn’t respond immediately and instead just stared up at his smile, trying to process a reaction she had not anticipated.

“Ad… advice..?” she finally responded, her cold tone failing to resurface. She cleared her throat, turning to hide the sight of her snout pulling back into a slight snarl, her teeth trying to bare. She let out a soft sigh and just like that, the Highland Park professional was back.

“Harry,” she said, pivoting around and thrusting the tablet at the wavering beaver. “I have a crew in the University district today. We can have the awning up and functional before you close at eight tonight. What do you say?”

Harry looked at her, sucked in his bottom lip behind his large bucked incisors and looked up to Beau, as if seeking permission.

Beau offered his friend a warm grin. “Well, Harry, you gonna take Miss Rhodes up on her offer or not? Sure would love to get that cedar sometime soon.”

Harry’s small brown eyes darted between his friend and Kate a few times before he slammed his hands down on the counter and thumped his tail against the floor. “Henry!” he called. “Go with Brute to the back and help him load his truck with the lumber! I gotta… finish up with Kate here…”

Henry let out a “Ahyup!” from somewhere in the back.

Harry looked up to Beau again. “Just drive around back. Henry’ll help you load up. And… and don’t worry about the payment for now. Bernice said she’d have you over for a gardening job sometime this week. You can pay me then.”

Beau gave the beaver a smile and pushed past Kate, whose stern eyes were still upon him.

“You know better’n that, Harry,” admonished Beau, taking out his wallet, pulling from it a thoroughly worn check, and placing it on the counter in front of Harry. He looked directly into Kate Rhodes’ eyes as he added, “I’m good for it Harry, business ain’t hurtin’ lately.”

The beaver looked at the check as if it were a foreign object, but nodded and slid it off the counter and opened the till, sliding it underneath the cash organizer in the drawer. “Uh.. Thank you, Brute.”

“Have a good one Harry,” Beau said with another wide smile, then he turned to Kate who was still staring daggers at him. He dipped an imaginary hat to her and offered her a “Ma’am,” before walking out of the store to his truck.

Being back on campus was never easy for Beau, but at least this was the library. It wasn’t a place he spent a lot of hours during his time at Blackwood; most of his studying was done in a dugout, training room, or the back of the baseball team’s charter bus.

He still remembered it well, though. Despite the campus’ relatively young age, having been built in the late sixties, the buildings were all designed to have that classical late eighteen hundreds aesthetic. Red brick, gray stone, black windows; it was as if the stewards of the institution wanted to wear the disguise of hallowed education halls without the hassle of actually earning it.

As he entered the building, the scent of ancient glue, paper, and that underlying chemical smell, likely the floor polish, hit his nose like a haymaker. It was instant nostalgia. He snuffed a bit, turned his head to the side, let out a cough. It was almost too overwhelming in its scholarly way, pulling him back to a time when that shit actually mattered to him.

The reception desk was crescent-shaped, two workstations, lots of books piled, hand-scanners for checking books in and out using UPC codes. Modern, slick, efficient. The walls were brick with lots of windows, wooden beams overhead, a cathedral-like ceiling. Pomp and circumstance for what amounted to two floors of reference tomes and a whole bunch of quiet rooms that saw more sex than studying.

Beau approached the front counter’s edge and leaned over. Behind it was a small fox woman, probably in her fifties, large spectacles, tight bun, working a box open beneath her side of the counter.

“Brute Services here, ma’am,” he said, shocking her from her task at hand. She jumped, looked up, the tight bun wavering to the right as she pulled to the left.

“Sorry,” he offered her with a soft smile. “Here to rebuild that book case in the mental health section.”

“Yes,” she said, straightening her gray wool blazer, then readjusting her bun back to the center of her head. “Right. The bookshelf. Cedar, as agreed to?”

Beau nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“The books have been moved for your convenience Mr…” She looked up, studied his face, and seemed to assess him in one sharp glance. “Flanigan, was it? A former student, I believe.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, the smile on his face not faltering even though her look of disdain pulled a bit at his decorum.

“Right,” she said, her eyebrows raising in a way that hinted at her disappointment that one of Blackwood’s students could be that colloquial. She cleared her throat.

“You are to not cut wood in the quiet halls of this library. If you need to cut, do it outside.”

Beau nodded, looking behind her to the area he knew to be the section where the shelf was situated.

“And try not to make a lot of noise if you can help it. There are students studying.” Her voice was clipped, dismissive, parent-like, as if he were just another one of those students.

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed. “I’ll just go get measurements and then head outside to cut, if that’s alright.”

“Whatever it is you need to do,” she replied, already leaning back down to finish the task he had interrupted.

He strode to the back left corner of the library and found the shelf at the end of a long row. Like the rest of the wood adoring the trim in the place, it was cedar, its scent long faded along with its red patina.

Beau pulled his tape measure from his belt and began taking the needed measurements. As usual, he measured twice, wrote everything down in his notebook with the pencil stuck behind his ear, and then headed outside back to his truck where his miter saw was waiting in the tailbed, along with the wood he’d gotten from H&H.

He could have ignored the librarian and actually built the thing in the library. Though she had informed him there were students studying, he had seen no one at all on the first floor. Yet he obeyed, not wanting to prolong the job any further than he had to with needless arguments. The tailbed of his truck worked just fine, his own little mobile workshop.

“Three by seven, split by five, roughly a foot a shelf…” he intoned as he started drawing on a blank page in his notebook.

Cutting, nailing, and finishing took roughly two hours. He’d have to duck walk the heavy thing in because he had forgotten his furniture dolly. Cursing himself the entire painfully slow way back in, he made his way there, shimmied the old shelf out of place, and slid the new one in place, his back and his shoulder absolutely on fire in the effort.

He turned and looked at the old shelf then blinked. He hadn’t asked what they wanted done with it.

“Ma’am,” he said, leaning over the counter from the back side now, scaring her once again.

“Y..yes?” she said, straightening her glasses. “What is it, are you done yet?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “But the old shelf. What do y’all wanna do with it?”

“Ah, yes, the Director needs it taken to the archives down stairs. They’re going to repurpose it.”

“Ok. Is that,” he started to ask, pointing over his shoulder at the tight looking stairwell near the west side of the first floor.

She nodded. “And try not to bang the railings or walls, please. Any damages will be docked from your fee.”

He stared at her a moment, knowing the archives were three floors down a tight stairwell and he’d have to be carrying a wide and heavy cedar book shelf without any help whatsoever.

“Uh, ma’am,” he asked. “Could I… disassemble the old one and carry it down, then reassemble it? Just to… make it easier not to bang nothin’,” he suggested.

She looked at him as if he’d just said the filthiest insult she’d ever heard. Her nose scrunched up, her neck bent, her posture straightened. “I daresay you cannot. We cannot guarantee its structure if you take it apart and put it back together for your convenience mister Flanigan. I kindly suggest you move it whole. Now if you’ll excuse me,” and she turned her back to him, continuing the inventory task at hand.

Beau blinked, quelled a shake of his head mid-turn, and headed back to the old shelf, looking up at it. He sighed, grabbed one side, and began the long, arduous process of carrying it downstairs, a task that would take him nearly another hour.

Beau let out a sigh as he rounded the corner onto Market street. The library shelf wasn’t exactly a tough job but being back at the University always took a bit extra from him. Bad reminders everywhere.

He pulled up to the curb in front of his workshop, a small red-bricked building with one large glass pane window and a single half-glass door. Leaned against that door, her knees under her chin, was Piper Briggs.

Piper was a Fennec Fox, sandy fur with white accents, large ears on either side of her head, a black-tipped fluffy tail, and short auburn colored hair. She almost always wore a tank top underneath perpetually half-buttoned overalls, the loose strap hanging from her like an extra tail. Her thick steel toed work boots were almost always covered in dust or motor oil and there was usually just as much of it, if not more so, on her overalls.

Her garage was just a couple of blocks down, also on Market, and her expertise was engines, namely the automotive variety, though she’d been known to help Beau out on occasion for various jobs where he needed an extra set of hands.

They had met in a hardware store outside of town, where she had worked while still at Blackwood University. Beau had been in line behind a customer that had dismissed her knowledge of tools and mechanics and, seeing her utter distress from the experience, when it was his turn, he not only asked her about the tool he needed for a specific job, he even asked if she could give him advice on the job itself. That was nearly three years ago.

Beau stopped right before the first step, his shadow looming over her small form. He gave her a gentle smile as he looked down. “Forget the key again, Pipes?”

Piper looked up at him, her face stuck between a smile and a scowl. “I can’t be expected to remember it every fuckin’ time, Brute.”

He knew better. She “forgot” it every time they met there, her excuse for waiting on him to arrive before going in. He shook his head and let out a small chuckle, pulling his keys from his jeans and fitting the door key into its lock. The key turned, the door clacked, and he pushed it open, holding it for her.

She unfolded herself and stood to her full height, just a hair shy of five feet, and ambled in, letting her tail brush against his leg, the only thanks he’d get from her.

“How’d that library job go? Can smell the dust on you from a mile away. And don’t tell me you put all those books back on the shelf, you over-polite mutt.”

He laughed as he stepped through the waiting area, slipping behind the front counter and pushing through the swinging door into the back. Beau set his toolbox down on the large workbench in the center of the workroom and leaned against the table’s edge, watching her.

She crawled her way atop the bench and sat at its edge, hands in her lap, feet dangling and swinging idly. He took in a breath as she sat next to him. Her scent was sweaty and oily, with a hint of mint there too, likely her soap or fur conditioner. It was subtle but always there.

“Went ok,” he explained, throwing her a glance. “Never fond of being back at Blackwood U, but it paid well so…” he replied, trailing off with a shrug.

She turned to look up at him, studying his face. “Your door squeaks to high hell, ya know. You need to fix it.”

Beau raised a brow. “I’ll get to that,”

“You won’t,” she said, turning and flipping open his toolbox’s lid. She rummaged for a moment and then pulled a can of WD-40 from inside, shaking it. “So I will,” she huffed and hopped off the bench, heading back into the front waiting area.

He heard her start to spray and then suddenly stop. Beau pushed off the workbench with a grunt and entered the front area. “Can go dry? I’ve got another can… oh.”

Standing behind the door, arms folded, staring down at Piper was Sloane Barrett. She was a six feet and one inch tiger that weighed a solid two hundred and ten pounds. Sloane was the only physical equal to Beau in their group. Her fur was orange with white accents and black stripes, her hair brown and shoulder length, usually either in a messy bun when lifting or a loose layered look when down. Her outfits were almost always cropped tanks with a jacket overlayer and compression leggings, though Beau had seen her in less active wear before.

She was the first of his group that he had met, nearly four years ago now, at the Continental Gym. He was the only one working out there that could spot her. Over a few weeks of evening training, they finally struck up a conversation that went beyond just “hey, you got me?” and she eventually started to hang out at his workshop after her afternoon cardio sessions.

“Let her in, Pipes.”

“Don’t wanna,” the fox replied.

Sloane remained silent, tapping her sneaker against the front step outside the door.

Beau strode over and put his hand on Piper’s shoulder. “Look, I know she called you cute last week. It was just a slip up.”

“Why are you apologizing for her?” Piper asked, huffing and crossing her arms, the can clattering to the floor. Beau turned to look at Sloane through the door and nodded his head towards Piper sharply.

The tiger rolled her eyes and uncrossed her arms. “You’re not cute, Piper. You’re… cool. Am I forgiven yet?”

Piper blinked, looked back up to Beau, then back to Sloane. “Do it again and I’ll weld your car doors shut.”

Sloane shook her head and wrenched the door open, giving Beau a glance from the side as she strode past him and entered the back workshop area.

Piper let out another sharp huff and followed Sloane. “Ellis better not be the one who gets to pick the movie tonight,” she said, crawling back up on Beau’s big workbench. “That French black and white film made my head hurt last Friday.”

“Can’t appreciate avant garde cinema?” Sloane chirped as she bent down and pulled a cold bottle of water from Beau’s drinks fridge.

Piper frowned. “I can appreciate a good story but that shit was just a bunch of images and weird music. Dunno what Ellis gets out of all that.”

Beau smirked, leaning back against the workbench, watching Sloane take a long pull from the bottle. “I definitely got something from it,” he began, a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Sleepy.”

Sloane snorted into her water and Piper’s large ears shot up, head swiveling to give Beau an incredulous look.

Piper gave Beau’s upper arm a quick tap with a fist. “Don’t let them hear you say that. You’ll never stop them from trying to explain the nuances and data stream behind the director’s intention.”

The three of them laughed and a small comfortable silence fell as Piper pulled a small nut and bolt from her overalls’ front pocket, turning it over idly in her hands. Sloan leaned against the back counter, taking the occasional sip from her water.

After a few minutes, Beau nodded towards the tiger. “You ever figure out if they’re putting you in that exhibition in Peoria?”

Sloane lowered her now empty bottle and slowly shook her head, her ears lowering slightly, tail wrapping around her own lower leg. “No. They seem to be dragging out the participant roster release for some reason.”

Beau nodded. “Well, let me know. If you gotta train, I’m always up for spottin’ ya.”

She gave him a soft smile, her eyes narrowing at the corners. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Another relaxed silence fell, only interrupted when Piper’s ears suddenly shifted towards the front area. “That’s the five-thirty BWU shuttle,” she stated, already starting to slide off the work table.

“Ellis,” Sloane breathed, pushing off of the counter and following Piper into the front of the shop. Beau stayed anchored to the side of the workbench, his eyes closed, ruined shoulder starting a dull throb. Moving that old shelf had likely pushed his shoulder over the edge and it was about to start complaining.

Not now, he thought, grimacing.

Beau opened his eyes as he sensed the three of them re-enter the back. His gaze fell onto Ellis as they walked in, holding a thick notebook. Their head turned and took him in, offering him a very subtle smile before they grabbed one of the rolling stools and plopped down on it, scooting closer to Beau.

Ellis was a Siberian lynx, their coat covered in gray and white fur with black spots. They had a mop of black flouncy hair that framed their face, along with a tall pair of triangular ears with black tufts that hung at the tips of each one. At full height, they were around five-feet-eight. Beau knew them to be strictly non-binary, though the world would just see a female lynx wearing non-gendered clothing. They wore a pair of overlarge round red-framed glasses and generally held a neutral expression. Their face was a study in micro-expressions, their emotions very guarded and not often displayed. They usually wore a hoodie with a t-shirt underneath, along with skating shoes tucked beneath a pair of skinny jeans.

“Hey El, how’s the doctoral project going?” he asked them as they rolled over in the chair.

“Statistical anomalies persist, especially with the prototypes that have been delivered so far.”

Beau inclined his head. “Assuming you have the data in that notebook?”

They nodded, their ears perking, and opened the notebook. Piper ambled over and looked down at the numbers over Ellis’ shoulder while Sloane retook her spot against the counter, pulling another water bottle from Beau’s shop fridge.

He crossed his arms, looking down. “Y’all have fun with that,” he chuckled before leaning back again.

Piper snorted. “It’s dimensions and measurements for a unit casing, Brute. You could probably build this for them.”

With a brow raised, he bent down, looking at the numbers. “Hmm, so the dimensions are just off?”

Ellis looked up into his face and slowly nodded, a hint of curiosity in their gaze. “Perhaps. I feel as if I’ve been using the wrong contracting service,” they offered with the smallest of pulls at the corner of their lips.

Beau leaned back up, eyes narrowing slightly as his shoulder protested against all the movement. “Not against… looking at it,” he grunted. “Maybe not now, though.”

Sloane’s brow raised as she watched him, but she said nothing. Piper’s gaze was a bit more scrutinizing, but she too said nothing. Beau was about to dismiss their looks when all of their phones dinged at once.

Beau pulled his phone out and unlocked it. “Chloe’s on her way,” he paraphrased for the room. “And Vesper says she’s tied up at The Den with a band that’s run over time. She’ll meet us at my place. Oh… and looks like Chloe’s bringing chili.”

Piper’s ears shot up and she added a thumbs up emoji reaction to the message in their group chat with a couple of taps to her phone screen. “Oh thank fuck. That quinoa shit you made last week turned my stomach inside out, Ellis,” she barked, playfully punching Ellis’ shoulder.

Ellis turned and blinked at Piper. “It’s not my fault your palate cannot handle complex proteins. Your usual intake of gas station burritos and drinks laced with taurine are going to make your thirties very hard to endure.”

“Whatever,” Piper replied, pulling a long piece of spicy jerky from her overalls’ left pocket and tearing it open with her teeth. She bit the top off, speaking around the glob of processed meat in her mouth. “Have you seen what Brute eats? Goddamned trashcan. Like a goat without any scruples.”

Beau let out a hearty laugh. His tail swatted at Piper as he pushed off the worktable edge. “Ramen and hot dogs. Y’all gotta admit, it’s soul food.”

“It’s a crime against cuisine,” Sloane said in a disgusted tone from her spot in the back, but there was a wide grin on her muzzle.

Another ding. Beau looked down to his phone. “Chloe’s diverted to my place. Y’all ready to head over?”

He lived just a couple of blocks away in a small single bedroom apartment with a large open concept living, dining, and kitchen area. The reason he hosted movie nights was simple: he had the largest TV, a gift from his brother a couple of years ago.

Sloane pushed off the back counter, tossed her empty water bottle into the trash, and pulled her car keys from her leggings pocket. “I can carry two.”

“I can do at least one,” Beau chimed in.

“I’ll take Sloane. Brute’s suspension is suspect at best,” said Ellis, their nose just barely crinkling, their hint that they were merely joking.

“You with me then, Pipes?” he asked, looking at Piper.

She nodded, already heading towards the front of the shop. “Drive like you normally do and I will curl up into the pedal well and force your foot down, old man. Let’s try to get there tonight, ok?”

Beau shook his head and headed towards the front, making sure to turn off the workshop light as he exited.

Beau shifted his weight to his left side, away from his right shoulder, which had started to hurt even more on the drive over. Piper spent most of that drive complaining about the Mayor’s limo being more trouble than it was worth fixing.

Beau let out a small sigh and slipped his key into his apartment door’s lock, turned the knob, and opened it. He immediately stepped to the side as Piper ran into the room and jumped onto his plush leather couch, bouncing up and down with a smirk on her face.

“What kinda movie do you think Chloe’s gonna pick?” she asked as Beau slipped off his tool belt and hung it on the hook behind the door.

“Dunno,” he replied. “But I doubt it’ll be French,” he suggested with a grin.

A few moments later, Sloane and Ellis entered the apartment, the lynx studying their phone and muttering about data being all wrong.

“Still stuck on the project?” Beau asked, kicking his shoes off and setting them on the shoe cubby beneath the console table in the foyer.

“No,” Ellis replied, tapping their phone and walking up to him, putting the bright screen in his face.

He winced and pulled his face back, eyes squinting against the light from the screen.

“The models are way too disparate for next weekend’s weather patterns,” they explained. “It’s either going to be incredibly beautiful or a next level outbreak event. None of the vectors are adding up.”

“Ah,” Beau replied. Ellis had recently picked up meteorology as a hobby, something “simple to rest the brain,” they had told him.

He smirked and shook his head. “Well let me know if any of the models solidify.”

They nodded, the ghost of a grin pulling at the corner of their mouth.

Sloane was already in the kitchen, starting to pull bowls and spoons down, her ears twitching at the sound of Piper bouncing. Beau heard her clink a few bowls together and turned his head, then pursed his lips and headed into the kitchen.

“Hey now, I’m host tonight Sloane. Let me handle that,” he said, reaching for a bowl.

Sloane batted his hand away. “You know Chloe is going to need help with her bags, Brute. I’ve got this,” the tiger replied, giving him a curt nod as she stacked the bowls at the end of the kitchen island. “This will just get us to food faster.”

Beau let out a little sigh. “Alright,” he breathed, then added, quieter, “Thanks.”

She nodded, giving him a small hint of a smile as she set the spoons out on top of a stack of napkins.

The doorbell chimed and Beau turned around.

Of course she uses the doorbell, he thought, striding over towards the door.

“It’s open!” Piper yelled from the couch.

Beau shot her a look and pointed to the door. “Earn your food, Pipes, you know Chloe’s gonna be carrying way too much.”

Piper sighed and rolled her eyes, slipping off the couch and shuffling to the front door with Beau.

The wolf opened the door and there stood Chloe. She was a red panda with bright red fur striped with crimson and black accents, patches of white framing her snout and hands. She wore a white and blue striped quarter sleeve shirt, a pair of khaki chinos, and a set of blue and white Converse low tops.

“Good lord, Red,” Beau said, using his nickname for her, shooting his large arms out and grabbing two of the large grocery sacks she had somehow tucked under her arm while still managing to carry a large crockpot with both hands. He handed the lighter bag to Piper.

“Put that on the island, Piper. Here,” he said, shifting the grocery sack to his wrist and taking the crockpot by the side handles from Chloe.

“Come on in, Miss Chloe,” he added, shifting to let her in, closing the door behind her with his foot. She gave him a soft smile. He knew why; Chloe was transfemme and he made every effort to help validate her gender for her. Chloe never spoke to him about it, but seeing her smile that genuinely was enough reason for him to keep it up.

Beau had nicknames for every one of them, though. Part of it stemmed from the fact that he was southern, a region that was known to be very lazy with syllables. The other part of it was that after nearly three years of the group being together, it felt odd using their full names most of the time. Too cold.

“Food,” he called out in a booming voice as he carried the crockpot into the kitchen. Every eye was on him. Piper let out a little whoop and Sloane rushed over, hands extended, to grab the bag from his wrist. She turned on her heel and headed to the island, already rummaging through the bag.

Chloe caught Beau’s attention with a small tug at the side of his polo. He turned and looked at her, hands full of chili-laden crockpot.

“Have you heard from Vesper?” she asked in her gentle, soft voice.

Beau nodded. “She’s running late. Didn’t give an ETA.”

Her hands came up and closed over her chest. “I hope she can get here soon. She must be so hungry stuck at work like that. Can you… plug up the crockpot and set it on warm so it won’t be cold for her when she gets here?”

He gave her a small smile. “Of course.”

She returned his smile just as warmly.

Beau thrust his head at the couch. “Me and Sloane got this. You go hit the couch or the beanbag. Get comfy.”

Her smile widened and she nodded, heading over to the couch.

Sloane worked to assemble the table, a long one Beau had built himself two years ago when they had first started this tradition. Back then, they would alternate who would host, so Beau had taken it upon himself to build a long table for his apartment so they could all fit comfortably. The rough-hewn surface separated the kitchen from the living room, only a few paces shy of the back of the couch. It made for easy snacking and quicker cleanup.

Beau was dishing out the chili as evenly as he could with a ladle, ensuring that he left enough in the pot for Vesper when she inevitably arrived. Once he had the five bowls filled, leaving a sixth empty and to the side, he texted Vesper back, sending her a picture of the chili in the crockpot.

[dinner is waiting Val. Head on this way when you can]

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and pulled the lid off the tupperware container Chloe had brought, chock full of sweet cornbread muffins. The smell of them made his stomach growl in anticipation.

“Damn, Red,” he said. “Outdone yourself tonight.”

His comment pulled Piper's attention, who slid off the couch and bounded over. “Oh muffins!” she said and started to reach for one. Beau’s hand was quick.

He leaned down, holding her wrist gently. “Wait a bit, Pipes. Almost ready.”

The fox crossed her arms. “Better be glad you’re bigger than me,” she huffed and stomped back into the living room.

A few moments later, everything was ready. The bowls were at their places, along with spoons and napkins. Everyone had gotten their drink of choice; Piper with cola, Sloane and Beau with water, Ellis with lemonade, and Chloe with iced tea, Beau teasing her that it didn’t have any sugar in it.

They sat and ate in relative silence, the only sound coming from Ellis’ frantic tapping as they scrolled on their phone with one hand, eating with the other, attention stuck on reviewing data models for the next week’s weather.

Piper was first to finish, having eaten her bowl in record time along with three cornbread muffins. She wiped her mouth free of crumbs and shot up from the table, bounding over to the nearby couch.

“Don’t get crumbs on Brute’s couch,” Chloe reminded her gently from the table, eyes watching her. “And use a napkin next time please,” she added before turning back to her own muffin.

Sloane and Brute were, surprisingly, the slowest eaters, each of them only halfway through their bowl. Both had spent a lot of time working on everyone's drink needs, having been the last two to sit down. Ellis set their phone down, wiped at the corner of their mouth with a napkin, and got up, taking both their bowl and Piper’s abandoned empty bowl from the table and moving it to the sink in the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Beau said. “Glad at least one of you two has manners.”

Piper peered over the back of the couch and scrunched her nose at him in response. Sloane let out a small huff of amusement.

Just as Chloe was finishing her bowl, leaning back in her chair, the front door started to open. Sloane immediately began to stand but Beau shot up and put his palm out in front of her, pushing it down in the air. He mouthed “Sit, I got it,” and moved out from behind his spot at the head of the table.

Vesper stepped in, looking frazzled, her long black hair messy and matted against her scalp, white arctic wolf fur caked in dust, the heavy eyeliner around her eyes smeared across her cheek fur. She wore a pair of thigh high boots, fishnets, short black denim shorts, and a weathered band tee. On her wrists were black lace arm warmers and around her neck was a choker with spikes all around it. Her blue eyes took in Beau as he stepped up to greet her.

“You uh..” he began.

She held up a hand, silencing him. “Yeah, I know. Fucking bands,” she spat.

“Food’s in here, should still be hot,” he said, leading her into the kitchen, grabbing the bowl and ladling her portion into the bowl. “Whatcha wanna drink?” he asked. “Just grab a seat at the table and I’ll be there-”

And then he winced as he turned his right arm in a weird way to scrape the remainder of the chili from the bottom of the pot. His arm froze in place, he let out a soft puff of air through clenched teeth, and Vesper immediately dropped her frown for a look of concern. She shot forward, hands already working at the stiff, swollen muscle on his shoulder, right where his neck met the trapezius muscle.

“Beau,” she breathed directly into his ear. “How long have you been hurting?”

He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Since the library job this afternoon,” he admitted quietly.

Her brow furrowed. “Damnit, you stubborn wolf.”

“Something wrong?” It was Chloe, leaning over as she held her empty bowl over the sink.

Vesper turned around. “Hey Chloe,” she said, then let out a sigh. “Brute’s arm just froze,” she said, her eyes rolling theatrically.

Chloe set down her bowl in the sink and scurried over, looking up. “Brute, why didn’t you say anything? Why’d you lift my chili and bags if you were like this?”

Beau looked a bit sheepish. “Ain’t unusual, y’all. It always acts up like this,” he deflected, trying to shift his upper arm and utterly failing.

Vesper kneaded a little harder, digging into a hard knot.

“Ow,” he called, looking over his shoulder, putting his hand over Vesper’s. “Just need some heat and rest, is all,” he said. “Y’all stand down. We got a movie to watch.”

Piper chimed in from the couch. “Stop pretending you’re not hurting for fuck’s sake, Brute. And if you guys are done doting on him, let’s get in here and watch a movie. It better not be the Notebook again.”

Sloane cleared her throat. “You need the heating pad, Brute? I can go get it.”

Beau nodded, let out a sigh. “Er.. yeah. Maybe that’ll help unknot this thing. You got this Vesper?” he asked, offering her the half full bowl. She didn’t reply, just gave him a smirk and finished dishing out her portion.

“You mind me eating it on the couch?” she asked as he strode over to the edge of the kitchen floor, right as it transitioned to the hallway.

“Nope,” he said, looking back at her over his shoulder.

Sloane returned a moment later with the heating pad but didn’t give it to him when he held out his hand.

Chloe walked beside him looking up. She had a firm look on her face. “Armchair, Brute,” she said, her voice much firmer than it usually was.

He blinked down at her, then looked to Sloane, who nodded towards the chair.

“Do what they say,” Piper chimed in from the back of the couch, large ears swiveling towards Beau.

“Agreed, it’s best to sit and rest,” came Ellis’ voice from the living room, their eyes still roving over data points as they sat crosslegged on the bag in front of the TV cabinet.

Beau let out a defeated sigh and walked over to his armchair, a deep and wide leather piece he had gotten by bartering a door repair for what might have been the most comfortable and deep sitting chair he’d ever owned.

With a groan, he plopped down into it, leaning back and closing his eyes. Piper watched him the entire time, the mischief and mirth on her face dying for something a bit warmer. She slid off the edge of the couch and leaned against the front of the chair between his shins, resting on the floor, legs splayed. With a huff, she wrapped her arms around his big calf and rested herself against it.

“You’ve got to tell us these things, Brute,” she said, voice clipped but not mean.

Beau idly reached down with his left arm and ruffled her hair, scratching at the scalp between her large ears. She allowed it to happen.

Sloane positioned the battery powered heating pad over the most swollen part of his shoulder and turned it on it without a word, patting it gently before walking over to the couch and sitting down at the far end, her amber eyes still on him.

Chloe crawled up and sat on the right arm of his chair, near the bad shoulder, watching his face with a worried expression. She rested her hand tentatively on his bicep.

Vesper plopped down on the closest end of the couch, just an arm’s length from the left side of his chair, hastily spooning chili into her mouth as her eyes darted between the TV and Beau’s form in the chair.

“Y’all are making a mountain out of a molehill,” he protested, eyes popping back open, though a bit heavier lidded now.

Chloe pressed down on his bicep, capturing his attention. “Rest,” she said, voice soft and full of care, nodding at him.

He looked to Sloane, who nodded in agreement at him, then looked back to the TV.

Chloe leaned back against the side of the armchair, moving her eyes to the TV, her hand still rested lightly on Beau’s bicep.

Beau closed his eyes again and let out a soft sigh, his hand still idly ruffling Piper’s hair. Within a few minutes, as the opening credits to Sleepless in Seattle finished up, he had fallen asleep.