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-CHAPTER 11- Stand Up And Shout

Daylight breaks you out of a dream and find yourself waking in a strange bed. A familiar, feathery warmth lays half on top of you, breathing with the peace of sleep. Your eyes open and you stare at the ceiling, squinting from the light eeking out from behind the blinds of a small, covered window you didn't notice in the room yesterday. None of the fear or worry from the day before remains, there's only the cuddly mass laying across you and the pillowy comfort of a soft mattress beneath you. It would be the perfect feeling, except for a sobering fact that hits you right in the gut.

You're late for work.

There is no way in hell it's this bright outside and you're not late. After yesterday, and honestly the week before, you just want to shuffle the rest of the way under the unconscious deinonychus partly covering you. It's dangerously tempting to lose yourself in her cuddly warmth and breathe in the scent of her downy feathers until she wakes up or you slip back into a worry free sleep. Except that's not possible, and you know it. If you close your eyes right you know the anxiety will eat at you until you forget there's a cute, sleeping raptor snuggling you.

Maybe there's a chance you aren't late. If you could just check the time you'd know for sure, but there's no clock on any of the walls you can see and your phone is in your pants. Which are on the floor, far from the allure of this memory foam bed and cuddle raptor. Looking at the night stand you see her phone sits on the nightstand out of your reach, leaving with only wild guesses about the time.

Needing to do something before you have a moment of panic, you start lightly shaking Anya and petting her head, not wanting to startle her awake. After how emotional yesterday was for her, you think she could use more gentleness. You say her name, hoping to ease her from whatever dream has her shut eyes twitching. It takes far too long for the liking of the anxious knot in your gut, but eventually she stirs. Eyelids flutter open and her green eyes hazily searching around, until her head jerks up a few inches when she spots you beneath her.

You let your hands fall from her head and shoulder and try to smile at her.

"H-hi there, Anon," she says, grogginess in her voice, but not her startled eyes.

"G'morning, Anya."

"I, uh... thank you for staying," she says, staring right into your eyes. "I actually feel pretty rested."

"You and me both. We slept hard," you say, eyes shifting toward the covered window.

Her head tilts, attention shifting the window and then her nightstand. "Oh fuck," she groans, rolling off of you, "We overslept, didn't we."

"Possibly," you say, groaning yourself as you force your body to sit up, lest you melt farther into the soft mattress.

By the time you're sitting up she's already got her phone in hand, claws tapping on the screen. Her shoulders slump, mouth opening a hint as her jaw goes slack. "No, no, no, no," she says, tapping helplessly at a blank, glossy black screen. "Ohnoshitfuckohhell."

The device drops to the bed, bounces once, and stops at the same time her face plants itself in her hands. Before you get ahead of yourself and start worrying, you give her a few seconds. She sighs and drags her hands down her snout, turning to look at you with unbearable guilt written all over her scaled, saurian face. "I am so sorry Anon, I utterly fucked up. My phone is dead because I forgot to charge it."

"It's okay Anya, shit happens. I'll check mine for the time," you tell her, patting her on the shoulder as you shuffle out of the tempting bed.

Glad as you are that you aren't sporting morning wood, you don't have time to be relieved. You find your find your pants where you left the last night and fumble your phone out of the back pocket. It takes an agonizingly long time for the device to turn on, but when it finally lands on the generic home screen you have to bite your tongue to keep from sighing.

11:15 in the morning, late enough for work that company policy will count you as absent for the day even if you could teleport there right now. You already had a full day Saturday so you won't be hurting on hours, but that could be the least of your worries. Depending on how your boss takes you ditching work with no warning, when you're supposed to be training someone on top of that, you might be on thin ice or out of a job.

You rub your forehead, realize doing that will make Anya worry more, and sit on the edge of the bed. Anya sits straight as board, having been bent over and fumbling with a cord hidden behind her nightstand. The white power cable sticks out from the bottom of her phone, the screen lighting up as it boots, but with one look at you she seems to figure out how late it is.

"I royally, utterly, completely fucked up," she says, shoulders slumping as she sits on her knees. A moment and a few taps on her phone screen later, and she somehow sinks lower. "Oh hell, I'm really sorry Anon."

"It's alright," you say, surprised at how relaxed you feel.

"But I promised to set an alarm and-"

"And we both slept for at least fourteen hours because I didn't set an alarm either. Shit happens," you shrug. "But I haven't taken a day off in long time, and if my boss has a problem with that he can go get stuffed," you say, face neutral so you don't let her see your suspicion that your boss will indeed have a problem with you being absent.

Now whether or not you remain calm after talking to your boss, that remains to be seen. But you're not going to argue with how light your shoulders feel about the situation. You won't argue for now, at least.

"I-I'll make it up to you, Anon. Somehow," she promises, glancing down at her phone.

"Anya, it's alright, I promise. I just need to send a few texts, use your bathroom, then I can get out of your hair so you can get to work," you say, watching her to see if there's any sign despair is about to fall over her.

"I'm just going to call in sick. I think my boss will understand, after last week," she says, fiddling with her phone and looking miserably at you. "So if you aren't mad or sick of me, could I at least make you breakfast before you go?"

"Of course I'm not mad at you, let alone sick of you," you say, smiling at her and reaching across the bed to pat her on the knee. "You don't need to make me breakfast to make it up to me, because there's nothing to make up for."

Your stomach disagrees, having missed dinner last night, but its opinion is irrelevant right now. You can have a large lunch once you're home and out of Anya's way.

"W-why don't we talk about that and, uh, other things after calling work," she says, hardly able to steal a glance at you as she fiddles with her phone, not actually doing anything with it that you can see.

At least she isn't withdrawing in on herself, you suppose. "Alright, sounds like a solid plan to me."

"D-do you mind if I use the bathroom first?" the deinonychus asks, setting her phone down and inching toward the edge of the bed.

You nod, knowing you can hold it until she's finished. "Go ahead."

Head bobbing and muttering several thanks, she shuffles off of the bed. Anya hurries out of the bedroom, tail swishing and sweatpants looking loose. If there wasn't that special hole for her tail you'd be worried about them falling off as she trudges down the hall. Once she's shut in the bathroom you get your pants back on, and with what scant time you've got you go check your laundry.

Opening the drier up and retrieving your shirt first, you discover that a miracle did not in fact happen overnight. The ragged holes in the back of the shirt you came in are still there, reminding you of how desperately Anya clung to you. Wiggling a finger through one of the rough tears you marvel at your luck in getting out unscathed. It's a shame that luck hasn't found you in other areas of life.

Thinking about it, you suppose yesterday consisted of nothing but dumb luck and bad assumptions. Yet somehow you made it out in one piece, and possibly in a better place with Anya. Now you just have to keep her from finding out about your slightly shredded shirt. Not that you want to hide it from her, but you don't want to pile more stress on to her or make her even more afraid of hurting you. A gentle, innocent deception.

Sighing, you lazily set the shirt, and those thoughts, aside long enough to get your blanket out and folded. Once you get that done you rest the plush square on the drier and stare your damaged shirt, trying to figure out what to do with it. Before you can figure out a way to sneak it out without going shirtless, you hear the bathroom open and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.

Seconds count, but you're too afraid of drawing undue attention to move quickly. You can't hear her footsteps, her silent movements distressing you for perhaps the first time, but you know she's getting closer. Jaw tight you reach for the shirt, desperately resisting an overwhelming urge to snatch it up. Fingers touching the cloth you feel success only a quick flick of the wrist away, but a light tap on your shoulder causes you to jerk your head toward the source. You try to flip the shirt over, but your fingers slip away too quickly in your desperate haste.

You don't see how the shirt lands, instead the sight of Anya right beside you, green eyes staring past you, burns itself into your brain. The deinonychus's mouth opens a crack to say something, only for her voice to die in her throat when her green gaze lands on the shirt you couldn't hide in time.

"D-did I do that to your shirt?" she asks, voice small and headfeathers beginning to turn into a fluffed mess.

Glancing over, you discover your effort to hide the damage to your shirt only put the claw marks on better display. Lying won't fix the situation, but you're sorely tempted to try and come up with something. Opening your mouth, you hesitate on saying anything long enough to look back at her. Fear sits plainly on Anya's scaled face, and you think that might be fear lurking in her predatory eyes. Fear of you or what she might have done?

Afraid to find out, you try to keep a calm face and finally say, "It's just a shirt, and shit happens."

Her tail is curling around her legs and there's a quiver to her shoulders, while her hands nervously twiddle. "Oh hell, I am so sorry. I didn't h-hurt you, Anon, did I?"

"It's alright, there's not a scratch on me," you tell her, reaching to pat your back like that proves anything.

"But my claws are..." she blinks and shakes her head slightly. "I'm so sorry, I haven't been filing them down like I normally do and I shouldn't have grabbed you like that." She's not talking at five words a second so she's not totally freaked out, but you can see a tremble in her shoulders and her feathers are a mess. "If you want I-I'll keep my hands to myself f-from now on."

In your desperation to keep her from emotionally collapsing again you risk impulsive action. Reaching out, you gingerly set your hand on hers. She freezes under your touch, but doesn't pull away.

"I'm not scared of your claws, teeth, or you, Anya." Your other hand touches her shoulder, and you move ever so slightly closer, her eyes anxiously locking with yours. A gleam of moisture is already clouding her green gaze. "And I certainly don't want you to think you need to keep your hands to yourself. Whatever is going on between us, I like it. And that includes your cute claws touching me. Hell, there wouldn't be any of this between us if you hadn't been so willing to get close to me."

"But I could hurt you so easily," she whimpers, clearly fighting back tears.

Yet despite her distress, she's not streaming tears or bawling yet. If there's a chance you can keep her from going over the edge, you'll do whatever you can. You don't want to fail her, or yourself, this time.

You run your thumb over one of her fingers, and go in for a gentle, one-armed hug. To your relief she shuffles into the embrace, and though she doesn't return the hug she still rests her jaw on your shoulder. That's a good sign, or so you want to believe.

"I don't believe you'd ever hurt me," you assure her, hoping your voice conveys the sincerity you feel.

She trembles slightly, worrying you that she might not keep it together. After several silent moments in the awkward embrace her head shifts enough for her to speak. "But I already have. Multiple times."

"No you haven't," your mouth answers truthfully, denying you the chance to steer the conversation.

Her head rises from your shoulder, but she doesn't pull back or shrink away just yet. She sniffles, shuffles in place, as if working up a sliver of the courage you know she has. Her voice is like brittle steel as she says, "Yes I have. Hitting you with a shopping cart, ruining your MP3 player and day before I even met you, that clusterfuck of yesterday, pushing you into dating, nearly tearing you back open while crying on you, and now making you miss work. And that's just in the few weeks we've known each other."

You can feel the tension in her shoulders and hands, as if her body is trying to curl in on itself and she can barely resist it. But she hasn't cracked yet.

"All harmless accidents or nothing either of us could have predicted, except the part about pushing me into dating," you say, lightly squeezing her clenched hands. "You didn't push me into anything, okay?"

A small tremor shakes her hands. "A-are you sure?" she mumbles. "I'm stupidly touchy, and your shirt is proof of why that's bad."

"I'm positive. And it's just a shirt, you don't need to worry."

"It was almost your back!" she half-shouts, half-chokes.

Her body tenses up, and she tries to shrink into herself without actually pulling away from you. "I-I'm sorry," Anya stammers. "I didn't mean to... I just... Idon'twantohurtyouandfuckthingsupevenmorebecauseIreallylikeyouandallIdoisfuckup."

Her panicked babble stabs right at your heart.

You give up on half measures and go in for a full hug, perhaps somewhat self-indulgently letting your face brush against the feathers on her neck. The tension in her eases slightly at the closer embrace.

"Accidents, Anya. You aren't fucking anything up, not as far as I'm concerned," you assure her. "I'm glad you didn't get my back, but even if you had I wouldn't have abandoned you yesterday. Or even lost interest in hanging out or trying this dating thing."

She's deathly silent, every passing second more stressful than the last. As you try to think of something else to say she stirs, her hands separating and one of them coming to rest on your side. It feels like she's still got her fingers, and thus claws, balled up in a fist, but at least she's willing to touch you again.

"You're not mad?" the deinonychus mutters.

"Not at all."

"A-and you really mean what you said?"

"Completely."

"S-so it's really okay for me to touch you?"

For once your mouth has trouble answering that, leaving your brain to try and pick up the slack. "Of course."

She starts to pull away, and you let go of her so she can be free from your embrace. Face to face, or face to snout, she looks you dead in the eye. You're happy to see none of her tears broke free and she seems to be recovering, judging by her half-lowered headfeathers, but that doesn't mean things are over.

Gingerly she reaches for your arms, a nervous tremble running through her fingers when she uncurls them. You let her lead, giving her what you hope is an encouraging smile when her delicately scaled palms touch your skin. Claws rest ever so gently on your forearms, her anxiety obvious in the way her headfeathers stick right up. She looks down at where she touches you, her hands and claws warm and gentle against your skin, then she glances back up at your eyes. As if she's asking if this is really okay.

You want to tell her that if you weren't okay with it or her the you wouldn't have tried so hard to let you hold her hand last night, but that's too much right now.

Instead you ask, "You okay?"

"I will be," she mumbles, letting go of your arms. "But c-could I check your back? It's not that I don't trust you, I just want to be sure you're okay and it's got to sound like I'm paranoid but-"

She stops talking when pull your shirt up and turn around. You did more than see each other naked yesterday, but how quickly you expose yourself summons a faint burn in your cheeks. Until a stab of pathetic disgust slips underneath your embarrassment, aimed not at her but yourself. When was the last time someone asked to check if you were really okay? Two years? Maybe longer? You don't want to think too deeply about it.

However long it's been, Anya resets the count when one of her scaled knuckles touches your back. You can almost imagine her finger bent, claw toward her palm as she hesitantly reaches out to touch your skin. You think that's a good sign. And to your relief, your back doesn't break out in gooseflesh from the unfamiliar contact.

"I don't see anything," she says, knuckle gliding across your back for a moment before leaving. "You're really lucky, Anon," she sighs, finally sounding relieved.

"Or maybe you've got a gentler touch than you think," you reply, not wanting to think about what your terrible excuse for luck has actually done for you.

"Maybe," she drawls, sounding entirely unconvinced. "A-anyway, thanks for letting me check. I'm feeling a little less shitty about almost shredding you. But, uhm, if you want you can borrow the shirt."

"That's probably a good idea, thanks. I'll be sure to return in the same shape you loaned, and soon," you say, covering your back and trying not to think about how much trust you just put into Anya.

At least a potential disaster was averted. Turning around and pushing aside unnecessary thoughts, you catch her green eyes and hope your cheeks aren't red. She gives you a guilty grin, practically a grimace of sharp toothed shame, her hands clutching in front of her again. "Sounds good to me," she says, fingers fidgeting. "And, ah, will you let me pay you back for the shirt I ruined?"

You really want to say she doesn't have to do that. Failing that, lie and tell her that it was something you were going to get rid of anyway. But looking at her and seeing the guilt scarcely contained behind her forced grin, you decide the right thing to do is nod along with her request.

"If that's what you want to do. Or you can help me pick out a new one sometime," your mouth adds, and you immediately wish you'd literally put your foot in your mouth instead of only doing it metaphorically.

Your cheeks have to be red right now. She just wants to replace your shirt, you don't need to be trying to turn it into some kind of outing or excuse to be around her.

Anya, meanwhile, stares unblinkingly at you, her headfeathers starting to lower. A couple of heartbeats later and what you said must sink in, because her feathers go right back to being a fluffed up mess of nerves as her eyes widen. "S-sounds good," she practically squeaks. "I mean, yes I'd like to repay you and go with you. Or... or... fuck, why am I so embarrassed when we were sleeping together."

Holding her snout with one hand, her other palm covers her eyes. Even after oversleeping, part of you thinks it's too early in the morning for this, for either of you. Your stomach, which is quietly reminding you yet again that it hasn't been fed recently, agrees that it's too early.

"Want to figure out details later?" you ask.

"Y-yeah." Her hands slide down her snout, edges of her mouth tense with unease. But she can look you in the eye, apparently having found some of her confidence. "Sorry I'm a mess. The stress is still getting to me, but it's a lot better after some solid sleep." A smile, or part of one, returns to her face. "Thanks for that."

"I'm glad I could help. Though, just so you know, you weren't the only one sleeping like a rock."

She takes a step towards you and, despite the nerves keeping her headfeathers fluffed up, goes in for a hug. Her arms wrap around you, and though she keeps her claws pressed against her palms the embrace is snug as it is pleasant. She only squeezes you tighter when your arms circle her, but its far from uncomfortable. A little awkward since she's pressing her breasts against you, made more distracting by how obvious it is she's not wearing a bra, but you try to not let that distract you from enjoying the simple intimacy.

"You're too comfy to be a rock, Anon," she says.

Your stomach picks a terrible time to rumble loud enough for Anya to hear, which also reminds you of a few other bodily needs you've been ignoring. "Well," you say, trying to recover, "I'd say I'm dumb as rock for not eating last night."

"Sorry," she says, letting go of you. Your fingers brushing past the long feathers on her arms as she withdraws. "I need to make a couple of phonecalls, but after that want to get breakfast? I'll cook," she offers, guilt tugging at her saurian mouth.

"Mind if I use your shower first?"

She shakes her head. "Not all."

"Thanks." Remembering the walk in drier, you look into her laundry nook. "Mind if borrow a towel while I'm at?"

She looks curiously at you, then comes to some sort of realization you can see in rising feathers. Anya reaches for the fluffy white stacks of towels and grabs entirely too many. "Y-yeah, of course. Don't need to ask next time."

Once the words are out of her mouth her eyes widen and jaw goes slack, as if she's realizing you never asked for one last week. Before she babbles out something you kiss her on the nose. "Thanks, I'll be out quickly. Want me to put the towel in the laundry?"

"O-okay. And, uh, you can leave them hanging when you're done. I, uh, I need to make those phonecalls now before I forget," she says, inching toward her room. "Meet you in the kitchen?"

Nodding with a smile, you head to the bathroom. If there was an 'ice' setting on the shower you would use it this morning, but for now you'll settle for whatever cold water gets you.

---

Washed off, dressed, and refreshed, you make sure the towels you used aren't going to fall off the hook behind the door before going out into the hall. You hear muttering from inside her bedroom and assume she's still on a call, so you head into the kitchen and pull out your phone to deal with work. So you don't forget, and because it should keep you from poking in the cupboards for a snack.

You lean against sink and thumb type a text to your boss to try and excuse your absence. "sorry sir, personal thing came up, won't be in today but it won't happen again"

You hope Mr. Crombe won't reply right away, but of course he does, one quick sentence after another. Glancing at the time on your tiny, crappy display you see why. It's his lunch break and probably fifth coffee of the day. "Anon, this is coming out of your sick days. See that you give me warning if there is a next time. I had to put Jameson on training Craig, but I expect you in tomorrow on time."

Not as bad as you feared, but if you aren't on thin ice after this you'll be amazed. "understood sir, thank you"

"Don't disappoint me Anon. Or reply to this, lunch is almost over."

Oh yeah, you're on thin ice if he's not wanting an explination. But that's a problem for the rest of year, not right now.

Sighing, you flip your phone shut, and nearly jump when you see Anya come into the kitchen. Your heart pounds, not from the tank top and cut off jeans she's in, which look devishly great on her, but how quietly she appeared.

"Everything okay on your end?" you ask, trying to play off your surprise with a smile.

"Yeah, it went a lot better than I thought," she says, brushing her headfeathers back as she stops a couple of feet from you. "I'll be doing some after hours catch up the rest of the week, but it looks like I'll be sleeping in my own bed this week at least. What about you, is everything alright with your job?"

"Yeah, no trouble. Being a model employee seems to be paying off," you nod.

"That's a relief," she grins, fingers fidgeting. "So, I don't know about you but I'm starving. I can make something or, uhm, if you don't have any plans maybe I could take you out?" she asks, finger claws tapping tips against each other.

"I've got no plans, so that last option is fine." You don't mention she looks ready to go, thinking it's better to go with the flow right now. "Is there something you have in mind?"

"W-well, kind of? It's supposed to be nice out today, a-and I was thinking maybe we could pick up food and, uh, have a sorta but not really a picnic in the park." Anya winces, hands squeezing tightly and looking away. "Fuck, that sounded a lot better in my head," she mumbles.

"Well it sounds good to me."

"Are you sure?" she asks, her mouth struggling against a nervous frown.

You reach out and pat her on the elbow, having to resist an urge to pet the long feathers on her arms once you touch her. "If I'm not okay with something I'll tell you, okay? "

"That's... alright," she nods, before catching your eyes with her green pools. "Sorry. I'm still picking myself up after yesterday."

"Even more reason to have a sorta-picnic. Which," you manage to tear your eyes away from hers and glance at the basket on her coffee table, "I think we could make it a real picnic if you want."

Following your eyes, she laughs once she figures out what you mean. Some of her tension seems to melt away as she looks back at you, an edge of nervousness seemingly gone all thanks to your simple suggestion. If she likes picnics this much you made a good investment with that basket.

"I guess we can," she smile. "So, uhm, do you want to take care of the basket while I order something for pick up?"

"Sure. I'll pack up whatever is leftover from yesterday while I'm at it."

Anya glances at the refrigerator, guilt suddenly tugging at her mouth. "I don't think there's much left to pack after I went all ravenous beast on it last night."

"It's not ravenous beast when you hardly ate lunch," you point out.

"Good point," she exhales. "I'll order extra, just in case. Speaking of which, how's barbecue sound? There's this local place that's sorta on the way and they're pretty quick if you order ahead."

"As long as I can get something that isn't spicy, barbecue sounds good," you say.

"Don't worry, I haven't touched hot sauce since college." You think there's probably a story there, but that's for another time. "But, uh, is there anything specific you want or should I just double my usual order?"

"I trust your good taste," you say, trying to ease her lingering tension with a smile. It seems to work, since her headfeathers relax down a few inches. "I'll go get the basket ready so we can get today started."

"Before that," she blurts out, voice stopping you from taking so much as a step. "I-I have something for you."

You raise an eyebrow, wondering what she's talking about. Anya's headfeathers stick out in a mess of anxiety as she puts her hands on your shoulders, fingers splayed out so her claws touch the back of your shirt, and her face darts toward you. While you're glad she's willing to let her claws touch you again, all deeper thought gets chased from your mind a second later. Smooth scaled lips meet yours, the whisper of her tongue teasing your lips not enough to drag your brain out of shock. Your body, on the other hand, readily accepts the affection and then some, your hands moving toward her on instinct. A musical chirrup hums in her throat and finds it way into your mouth, her warm breath flooding your nostril as noses bump together.

But before the spark of intimacy turns into a raging fire she pulls back from the kiss. Anya's headfeathers fluff up the rest of the way as she stares into your eyes, her slit pupils wide and focused solely on you.

Your mouth hangs open awkwardly until you can finally put words together, dumb as they are. "That's was a very special something," you manage to say.

"I couldn't forget our good morning kiss. But I, uh, think it's smart if we stop at that, for now," she says, her eyes alight and toeclaws clicking on the tiles.

You take a moment, trying to figure out what's gotten her this anxious. Then you realize, from the denim fabric beneath your fingers, that your hands are on her hips. The space between both of you shrank significantly for that kiss, as you either leaned in or were pulled in by her hands behind your neck. Maybe that spark had already caught flame.

"Probably a good idea," you agree, hiding most of the reluctance you feel.

"S-sorry," she says, gingerly easing her hands off your shoulders. "I should call our order in before we eat each other's faces."

"It's alright," you say, letting go of her hips. "I guess we've both still got a different kind of appetite."

Your mouth's brilliant comment sends her headfeathers into a fork-in-a-poweroutlet fluff out. "Y-y-yeah. I don't know about you but I think we can, uh, feed that hunger on a different date."

Cheeks warm enough they must be rosy, you nod, mouth strained for any kind of response. "S-sure."

So much for your stoic front, cracked by a nervous raptor who wants to do more than sleep with you. Today isn't over and she already has another date on her mind. Even with a possible disaster in your work life looming, you can't help but feel like maybe your luck is taking a change for the better.

"I'll let you, uh, get the picnic basket ready now," she says, inching back and nervously glancing at her feet, but recovering faster than you. "And would you toss a couple of sodas in? The barbecue place uses styrofoam cups and I have shit luck with them."

"Sure, no problem," you reply, not trusting yourself to say more.

Her head bobs, and she takes her leave with a nervous grin. As she turns, her tail lightly bumps your butt, making your head snap in her direction. She's not looking back at you and her headfeathers aren't fluffing up, in fact they seem to be relaxing back down. That had to have been an accident, right? Maybe, but there's a new pep in her step, her hips naturally bobbing in a way that catches your attention. Her tail and butt do their best to keep your gaze, your mind easily filling in what she looks under those cutoffs, but the tantalizing barrier is no less appealing.

Worried what either of you might do if she catches you staring at her tail and ass, you look at the brushed steel of the refrigerator. Exhaling, knowing those cutoffs are going to be stuck in your dreams form now on you, you practically begging your lower brain to cooperate. It obliges, mostly, so you set out on retrieving the meager leftovers for the picnic basket.

Anya wasn't kidding about the leftovers. The apples, an empty tea thermos, part of your potato salad, and only a single triangle of sandwich remain. Impressed any trace of the sandwiches survived you gather everything up, along with two bottles of soda as requested, and go pack the basket in a mostly ordered fashion. You're not sure if the grass will be dry enough for a blanket but you go stuff in the one you brought anyway, along with your mangled shirt. You hear the sound of Anya's voice coming from her room, but not what she is saying, and decide it's a good idea to hurry up.

You finish arranging the blanket on top of everything, your dead shirt stuffed in a corner of the woven basket, only moments before Anya reappears in a pair of black flipflops. She fiddles her phone between her fingers, but gives you a smile and a wave, that you return in kind.

"So, uh, mind if we take my car?" she asks, walking toward the kitchen and dropping her phone in her purse. "Driving kinda helps me relax."

With such a good reason you can't help but nod. "Sure," you say, lifting the now packed basket. "Just let me get my shoes on and I'll be ready."

"Thanks, Anon," she says, pulling her keys out and following you to the door.

Feet safe in your shoes you follow Anya outside and into the a surprisingly nice and sunny day, only a few puddles lingering as proof of the hard rain. After she locks the door she moves at a brisk pace toward her car, glancing nervously over her shoulder. You remember her saying something about a chatty neighbor, giving you even more reason to stick close to the deinonychus. Making it to her green convertible she hits a button on her keys and the trunk pops open. Placing the basket safely within you shut the trunk, and spare a second glance at her vanity plate.

You want to ask her what the F34THRD is about, but with how surprisingly well things are going you don't want to risk souring the mood.

Once you're both in the car she takes the top down, her green eyes turn to you. "It's really embarrassing to ask," she gulps, fingers squeezing the wheel, "But do you want to sing along to music again?"

"I'd love to," you say, cocking a grin at her. "I never knew how much fun it could be was until I met you."

"Hehe, I'm glad we both enjoy it. And that we met," she says, starting the engine and then getting her phone hooked up to a charger.

A few taps of her claws later and music starts up. Bless her metalhead heart, she chose the DIO album your borrowed 'DINO' shirt is parodying. Grinning like an idiot you throw up the sign of the horns, to her giggling amusement.

You and Anya spend the drive signing along to Dio like damn fools, enjoying the music and being able to mutually relax over something so silly as butchering lyrics older than you both. Not that her singing voice is bad by any stretch, she just goes too high while you're all over the place. Judging by the smile stretching across her muzzle, she's doesn't care one bit. You both get a couple of weird looks at a somewhat congested red light, not that you can blame any onlookers. Between her showy convertible and the sight of a human and raptor within bobbing their heads along to one the greatest albums of 80s, it must be hard not to stare.

Even if you're both basically ditching work, after yesterday you think this kind of silly enjoyment is exactly what you and Anya need. Seeing her gradually get more and more into the music and singing together, her fingers tapping along to the guitar solos with astonishing accuracy, eases out a knot between your shoulders. Knowing that yesterday didn't crush her spirit, or ruin spending time around each other, lifts your mood more than music can.

A third of the way into the album she lowers the music volume and you see why. She turns off, pulling into the parking lot of an old brick building advertising itself only as Brisket and Bar-B-Q. She deftly parks her car in an empty spot next to a towering truck and kills the engine.

"So, uh, if you don't want to come in with me, it should only take me a bit," Anya says, brushing back her slightly ruffled headfeathers.

"Want me to stay and watch over your car?" you ask, not wanting to jump to conclusions about her new nervousness.

"N-no, the area is really safe," she blurts out, shaking her head, hands keeping her anxious headfeathers down. A few seconds later, after she calms down some, she breathes out, but she can't seem to look at you. "I just want to offer in case you w-want to keep this, uh, dating thing quiet."

"I don't have any reason to keep us dating quiet," you assure her.

"Okay," she nods, giving up on holding her unruly headfeathers down and gripping the steering wheel. "Sorry, I'm being a stupid, nervous doof about this. Open dating is really new to me."

You touch her elbow, and give her what you want to be a reassuring smile. "It's alright."

"Is it?" she asks, looking at you with utter uncertainty.

"Of course it is. I've got my own worries, sure, but being open about dating you is not one of them," you say, stroking her feathers reflexively.

Staring at you for several seconds, Anya eventually nods, head moving up and down ponderously. "You're right. A-and really sweet," she says, sliding her arm back so she can touch the hand you were petting her with. "S-so would you like to come in with me, and, uh, m-maybe hold hands going in?"

Her headfeathers are a complete, and adorable, disaster.

"I'd like to get right on that, actually," you say, patting her hand while unbuckling.

While Anya sits there in a mild daze you get the door of the car. Once you start to get out she's in a flurry, collecting her phone and charger. Realizing you need to pick up the pace, you circle her car and get to her door just as she opens it. Part of your plan foiled, you smile at her offer the raptor a hand. She takes your hand after a moment's hesitation, fluffing up in what you think is embarrassment, judging from how her headfeathers don't stick straight up.

You swear, in the midst of the embarrassment fluffing her feathers, Anya seems to glow after your fingers lace together you start walking together, hand in hand, to the building. Maybe it's the grin she's trying to fight off of her face, or how her flipflops pop against the concrete in time with your steps, but she seems happy at last.

Opening the door for her, her grip on your hand not lessening one bit as she goes into the building, you have to move quickly to keep up.

The interior is a clash of modern and vintage, the decor definitively local with all it's newspaper clippings, trophies, and pictures on the walls. But the place is clean, the wood walls and booths worn but well polished, with warm and inviting lighting. The heavenly scent of cooking meat and spices wafting from the mostly open kitchen behind the counter catches your attention, your stomach quietly growling in anticipation.

Anya heads right for that counter, which makes sense given the sign by the door that says 'Please Seat Yourself'. Going with the raptor still holding your hand, you notice none of the half dozen, mostly human patrons are giving the two of you a second glance.

"Heya, Anya. Here to pick up?" a deep, feminine voice says, while you look at the chalkboard menu hanging above the counter.

"Hi Deb," Anya says, waving at whoever is behind the counter, forcing your attention to shift from the prices. "Yup on the pick up, hopefully I'm not too early."

You look at who Anya's talking to and see a crocodile anthro, on the slightly shorter end, standing behind the sole register with a confident look on her primordial, reptilian face. She's not short, you guess you only have a couple of inches on her, but compared to the other gators and crocodiles you've seen she's not much in the size department.

"Oh, who's your friend?" the croc asks, curious reptilian gaze looking you over. "I haven't seen him before, and you know I've got a good memory for faces."

"Oh, uh," your raptor date hesitates, nervously squeezing your hand and moving a bit closer to you. "This Anon, my, uh... w-we're out on a date," Anya says, stumbling over herself verbally but somehow not turning into a total fluff ball.

"Hello," you say, giving Anya's hand a comforting squeeze back.

"Nice to meet you," the croc grins at you, before turning her attention to Anya. "And good on you girl, he's cute, and you two're cute together."

"Thanks, Deb," Anya says, relaxing her grip on your hand, but staying conspicuously close.

"Ha, well you'll have to tell me how you met him whenever you get back to the gym. Until then, I'll go get you two lovebirds your order. Oh and the price is the same as you heard on the phone, Anya," the croc says, tapping the customer facing readout on the cash register before leaving toward the kitchen area.

The numbers on the display nearly floor you, and you take a glance up at the menu. Exactly how much food did Anya order?

You must not hide it well, because her green eyes lock with yours. "I've got it," Anya says, letting go of your hand and giving a look that begs you not to argue.

It's hard to accept. No matter the cost of the meal you'd feel better buying it for your date, being a dumb boy raised in the south, but she did ask to treat you. You nod out of respectful obligation, and she pulls a pocketbook out of her handbag.

The croc, Deb, comes back a moment later with a big paper bag, carefully setting it on the counter before pushing it toward you. She gives you a conspiratorial wink, that you don't want to try and guess at, then turns to Anya. Money goes from one clawed hand to another, the croc working the register's drawer with practiced ease.

"So where are you two headed?" Deb asks, handing Anya nearly twenty dollars in change.

The deinonychus drops her remaining money into a jar labeled 'Tips' right by the register. "Just the park, now that the weather isn't awful," she answers.

"My brilliant plan to surprise her with a picnic got rained out," you add.

Turning to you with a grin, Anya says, "We still had one, even if it was indoors. And now we can have one outside."

"Ha!" Deb chuckles. "You two are cute. Now go on and get to your date already."

Your raptor date nods, an awkward smile on her face and her feathers fluffing a touch. You take that as the perfect cue to get on the with day, and scoop up the large paper bag on the counter. The weight surprises you, and worried about the structural integrity of the sack you shift a hand under the bottom. Palm warm from the contents, you decide without looking inside that yes, Anya definitely over ordered.

Anya starts to turn around, but stops halfway and looks back at Deb. "I'll be back at the gym this week, by the way."

"I'll see you on the treadmills Wednesday then, and get your number then so I know when I won't have my running buddy," the croc smiles, before giving you both a friendly wave. "But that's enough of that, you two enjoy your picnic."

Nodding, Anya reaches halfway for your hand, and you oblige her silent request. Her hand isn't nearly as warm as the bag you're holding, but that's made up for by the thrill of her supple palm against yours and her claws carefully resting against the back of your hand. Approaching the door, she steps ahead to push it open since your hands are occupied. Her long tail sweeps out of the way of the closing door, batting against your leg.

You just smile at her and carry on, content to enjoy the short walk to her car without any talk. Once you're at her car she lets go of your hand, her fingers going wide in what you suspect is her lingering fear of scratching you, and you both get in and buckled. The bag warming your lap, one hand holding the paper top shut to try and keep heat in, you watch as Anya gets her phone plugged back in. Her green gaze meets yours, half a frown on her muzzle.

"Sorry about Deb," she says, starting the car.

"You two seem like decent friends," you say, unsure of what Anya is apologizing about.

"I guess we might be friends?" Anya sighs, looking down for a moment. "We started talking at the gym recently, and I come here pretty often, but I never thought she'd be on shift. Or, uh, make comments about us."

"It's alright," you interrupt, patting Anya on the arm. "Sorry I wasn't very talkative, or if I made things a bit weird."

"You didn't," she mumbles, looking away and closing her eyes. She breathes in and then out, seeming to be calmer when her green gaze reveals itself once more, her eyes locking back on to you. "Sorry. I'm still being a nervous mess."

Stroking along the feathers of her arm until you can reassuringly pat her hand, you smile at her. "It's okay. After we eat I'm sure you'll feel a lot better."

"If you're trying to relax me, it's working," the deinonychus sighs, loosening her grip on the wheel. She visibly collects herself, sitting up a bit straighter and smiling slightly. "So before I crawl over into your seat for some petting and cuddling, I'm going to get us to the park."

Not wanting to test how much of a joke that is without having breakfast first, you withdraw your hand and nod, glad to see something like confidence in her again.

---

The sounds of wind and traffic occupy the short drive, Anya pulling off at the tree lined entrance to the park. Not a huge place, but it's got well taken care of trails and a few fenced in fields dedicated to local little leagues and the like. The pond, you refuse to call something only six acres a lake, is visible on the short drive to the parking area, and you can see a few midday fishers sitting around. Other than those far off people, you don't see anyone out and about. And even though there are hardly any cars in the parking area, Anya chooses to park in the most out of the way location she can.

You can guess why she chose that spot when you look past her and see it's close to the old, weather worn picnic tables.

"Guess I won't need the blanket," you comment.

Gathering her handbag, Anya looks contemplatively at you. "We might still find a use for it."

True enough, though you're not sure you'd want to sit on the grass so soon after a hard rain.

Both of you get out of the car, Anya stretching her arms before opening the trunk with a button on her keys. Even with your arms occupied with the warm bag of food, you still go for the basket. Only for your raptor date to quite literally be a step ahead of you.

"I can't let you carry everything," she says, picking the basket up by it's swiveling handles

"I've got a perfectly good, empty arm," you point out, trying not to say something too stupid.

She hikes her purse onto her shoulder, holds the basket in that same arm, and shuts the trunk. Then she steps right up to you, headfeathers noticeably fluffing, and reaches for your free hand. You oblige, smiling at how easily she just got you. Stroking one of her knuckles with your thumb, you can't resist saying something stupid.

"Clever girl."

"Not really," she chuckles, eyes darting toward the nearby tables. "If I were clever I'd have parked farther away."

"We can always take a walk after eating," you point out as Anya starts for the tables, albeit in no real hurry.

Your comment seems to please her, a smile gracing her muzzle as you amble along, hand in hand. Enjoying the nice weather, on a day you should be at work, you decide to cherish the moment. After the complicated weekend, being out and about with the friendly deinonychus you're getting closer to by the day is doing wonders for your spirit, as well as Anya's.

Once you've picked a table, the furthest one from the parking space, the physical contact ends. Anya sets the basket down and gets the drinks out, while you place your paper bag burden on the worn wood of the picnic table. It's not so bad you'll get a splinter just from looking at it, but you're careful to not brush against the edges. Anya seats herself and you follow suit, taking the spot across from her as she starts rummaging through the bag. She sets out napkins, four foil wrapped sandwiches, and a large slab of foil that you guess is half a rack of ribs.

"I may have gone overboard," she says, staring at all the food, resting a few claws at the edge of her chin.

"It's not that bad."

"There are still a lot of sandwiches in there," she says, casting a glance at the bag.

"Conveniently wrapped leftovers, then. That's assuming we don't eat everything, because I don't know about you but I'm starving."

"Heh, good points," she says, shoulders relaxing. She cracks open her bottle of soda before adding, "Feel free to dig in, the brisket sandwiches are marked with a 'B', and the pulled pork with a 'P' as you might guess. And their spare ribs are great."

"Sandwich it is," you say, reaching for what should be a brisket.

Once you've got yours, Anya grabs a pork, and you both waste no time in getting the foil unwrapped. The smell of fatty, cooked meat cuts off any conversation you might make, your mouth watering and stomach enthused at the prospect of food. You make your hunger wait a moment longer, until Anya poises to take a bite, before finally giving your body what it wants. Smoky and juicy meat, mixed with the slightly sweet and definitely tangy taste of the made in-house sauce, dance over your tongue. Finally, some good food. Chewing the heavenly mix, you decide this was worth getting out of bed for.

It takes a lot of self-restraint to not inhale the first sandwich, but once it's gone Anya scoots another across the table. Nodding your thanks, seeing she's got her mouth full, you set in on the second sandwich with more restraint. The pork practically melts in your mouth, and you make a mental note then and there to return to that barbecue place sometime. Taking a moment to drink something now that you are no longer a ravenous beast, you also take a glance at your date.

Anya munches away at her second sandwich, thoughts seemingly as far off as her gaze. You've only got a few experiences eating with her, but her slow nibbling leads you to believe your deinonychus date's mind is deeply troubled. No doubt about whatever it is she wants to tell you about, but that's not a topic you'll force her into. But you want to make sure she's okay, just in case.

"Food not as good as you remember?" you ask, not sure what else you can say to break the ice.

"Hm? No, it's good as always, I was just..." she stares at her half eaten pork sandwich, then sneaks a glance at your nearly finished one. "Thinking about how to talk about serious stuff."

"Do you want to talk about it now? I really don't mind waiting for another time, if you'd like."

"It's really not something I know how to deal with," she mumbles, taking a more appropriately sized bite out of her sandwich for her muzzle, only a small chunk remaining. She can't stall any longer, and she lets out a defeated sigh, setting her scrap of a sandwich down on a napkin. "But I need to just get it over with."

"Anything you want to talk about, we can," you say, a twinge of worry tensing your back over where this might go.

Looking at the table and then you, she jerks her head in a nervous nods. "I'm gonna try not to stumble over myself too hard, b-but I'm really lacking on experience with dating. I don't want to start throwing my baggage around either, b-but if we're going to be open about dating, then I really need to stress this is all uncharted territory for me."

She's completely floofed up in embarrassment, but to your amazement she doesn't break eye contact with you. Admiring the conviction it must take, you consider her question seriously, lest you end up having your foot in your mouth once more. You suspect this has something to do with what she's hinted at with her ex and past love life, a conversation that you suppose had to come up sooner or later.

"Well, if we're serious about this going out thing, I'm fine with talking about past relationships or other baggage. For either of us," you say, hoping to encourage her a bit.

"I should say mine before I chicken out," she says, green gaze searching you for approval.

You nod. "That's fine with me."

She breathes deep, closes her eyes and looks ready to grimace in anxiety. But she manages to speak despite her fluffing nerves. "So I told you the only other person I ever dated or did, uh, anything with was a girl, r-right?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"A-and it's okay to talk about that some, right?"

"Talk as much as you need to," you assure the nervous raptor.

Opening her eyes, hands nervously wringing, she looks at your chest and opens her mouth a crack. "I didn't... I'm not a lesbian, but she was the first person who ever came onto me, s-so I thought I should go with it. But she wanted to keep everything private to the point we were only roommates in public, not even bffs, a-and that's not what I wanted. I did that for two whole years and it sucked even though I liked her, then it got exposed and everything blew up. So that's why I'm still really on edge, and why I freaked out yesterday, because it was nearly a total repeat of the events that fucked things up with my ex. I-I really like wherever it is you and I are going, and that w-we might be able to do this openly, but I don't know how to..."

Anya goes silent, mouth closing before she buries her eyes in her palms. You try not to chew your tongue waiting for her to gather herself up, unable to imagine how awful it must've been for someone as affectionate as Anya to keep that kind of secret. She hinted at it when she cried in your arms, but hearing it straight from her hits you right in the gut. Fearful she's going to tear up, you touch one of her feathered elbows, trying to let her know she isn't alone.

"I'm sorry you had to go through any of that," you say, letting your heart bleed into your voice for a change.

"Fuck. Sorry, Anon," she mumbles, relieving you greatly by talking to you so quickly. "I'm not going to fall apart, but I think I need to babble about this stupid stuff more."

"Anya, it's alright. Everyone's got baggage. Talk as much as you need to, about anything."

Eyes in her hands still, her body leaning over the table, she groans. "I can't believe I'm saying this on what should be a relaxing picnic and ruining more shit. B-but I need to ask."

She risks glance up, eyes misty, and continues, "If you're okay with me being a total dunce on all of this dating openly thing? And if we keep going, if you're okay with getting to know my family because they're really nosy and I don't-" she gulps, fingers clenching before she rattles off, "IknowIaskedbeforebutIdon'twanttoeverhavearelationshiplikemylastone. SoI'msorrybutitwon'tworkifwecan'tdateopenlybutI'dliketobefriendsstillifwecan'tbutIjusthavetoask."

She clamps her muzzle shut, but before she can do anything dangerous like bonk her head against the table, you speak up. "I don't care who knows that we're going out, and if we get serious enough I don't mind meeting your family."

A knot in your stomach says it's not entirely true that you're okay with anyone finding out. You'd like your parents, especially your mother, to never find out you're seeing Anya. Then again you don't want them to find out where you are or how to get in contact with you, so it's a near moot point.

Anya looks you in the eye, her headfeathers losing some of their nervous tension. Gingerly letting go of her mouth, blinking quickly against what you suspect are tears, she breathes in a shuddering breath. "Y-you really are okay with d-dating openly?"

"Mhm," you nod, wondering if you should worry about her not asking questions about your family.

That'll be a hell of a conversation, your family, but if she seems up for it then you think it might be wise to talk about it soon. If she's clearing the air on a deal breaker, you should let her know about the horrible baggage that is your family. And the utter lack of contact that will ever be had with them if you can help it.

Anya, oblivious to your thoughts, tries to be stealthy about hiding a sniffle in the feathers of her arm. Cute as that is, the serious, nervous look she directs at you keeps you from thinking things are at and end for her.

"C-can I ask how much experience do you have with dating?" she asks, headfeathers rising to their highest point. "I-if that's alright."

You breathe out, decide honesty is the right policy, and nod. "Not a lot," you admit.

"C-could you be specific? Or, uh, tell me if that's not a good thing to ask on dates," she says, nervous eyes fighting to still look at you.

"It's usually not brought up in my experience, but it's fine with me. I've had two serious relationships, one that lasted most of senior year in highschool and a different one in college."

"I-is that it?"

The anxious, searching for guidance look in Anya's eyes keeps you talking.

"Not quite?" You start drumming your fingers on the table, but stop yourself so you can focus on what needs to be said. "I tried getting dates, but after two hookups in college I decided that sorta life isn't for me, at all. Thought I found something stable after asking out a lab partner and going steady for a semester and a half, but once I got witch hunted out of college she ended things. Understandably so and amicably, so don't think bad about her. And from there things didn't go so well from there on, despite some attempts at internet dating."

Anya's expression changes, mouth drawing tighter. You realize how much you said and regret your mouth going loose. With no way to predict what Anya is going to ask, you brace yourself as the raptor finds the nerve and right words to speak.

Eventually her mouth cracks open and she says, "S-sorry to change the subject so suddenly, but what happened that got you kicked out? I don't want to pry, b-but you mentioned something about getting, uh, witch hunted when we met."

Of all the things she could ask, it had to be that. You look at hands, already showing wear from your warehouse job, while your jaw works to try and keep at bay memories you don't want to revisit. You need to be honest, you remind yourself, and that this was going to come up eventually. With a deep breath that doesn't help, you look up at Anya's curious, nervous gaze.

It's hard to look her in the eye. She told you about a past even that still haunts her, so you think it's only fair to return that kind of trust. After all, you told her part of it soon after meeting her. She saw you break down, held you through it, and still wants to be around you after hearing how desolate your social life has been for two years. You have some hope more won't scare her off, and you cling to that rare emotion as you step out over an emotional chasm.

"My mother," you say, a bitter taste washing over your tongue and sweeping away any lingering enjoyment of the meal, "Found out I was dating an anthro in college and wanted me to end it, because of the human separatist stuff she and my dad are neck deep in."

Anya's eyes widen, but she hasn't run away yet, so you keep going. That's a good sign, but you have a deeper hole to dig.

"Long story short," you continue, a strange numbness making it easy to speak, "My mother got me kicked out by starting an academic witch hunt. She's a tenured and somewhat respected literature professor at a small college, not the one I went to, but she made claims I plagiarized some of her papers to get through my English courses. I've got no idea how she did it, but my college believed her enough to start an investigation. A very one sided investigation, and my broke ass couldn't afford a lawyer to prove that no, I had written those damn things myself. I decided to walk away instead of fight for my nearly completed degree, because the alternative was losing the battle and some serious black marks. Either way my mother won, and I've refused to have anything to do with her or any of my other family ever since."

You leave out how you legally changed your named after that. That's a conversation for another time.

"Oh." Anya blinks, laying her hands on the table. "Oh hell, Anon, I'm so sorry. You said you went through some kind of witch hunt when we met, but I didn't think your own mother did that to you."

No questions about the human separatist stuff your mother is into. No disbelief or disgust narrows Anya's eyes. With a pure, green gaze she looks right at you, seeing you not as a wretch to be pitied, but exactly what she see you have no clue.

She reaches across the table, and you look down at the open hand she offers, concern marring her face. You don't understand why that is until you feel something hot drip off of your chin. Blinking, you realize tears are leaking out of your eyes. With how numb you feel, the tears could be from anger or old, untouched wounds. You don't want to find out which it is, your body moving on it's own for the offered hand.

Anya closes her fingers around your palm, gentle and cautious as ever with her claws, and then cups her other hand over the top. "It's okay, Anon. You can talk to me about of any of that, whenever you need to."

You laugh, devoid of any humor as you realize she's returning your understanding words, and wipe your eyes. Your cheeks feel hot to the touch, but you know that's from the shame of tearing up. Thankfully the leaking of your eyes seems to be over. "Last time I told a girl anything like that on a date she ditched me at a restaurant with the bill."

"Well she was an utter bitch," Anya bluntly states, squeezing your hand. "Or maybe I'm totally inexperienced at this dating thing, because none of that bothers me."

"There's a hell of a lot more to it than what I've said," you say, mouth moving ahead of your brain.

If she didn't have your hand you might slap yourself for that stupid comment. Anya hasn't walked away yet, but you don't want to scare her with the rest of your stupid baggage.

"There's a lot more I haven't said as well," she grimaces, before quickly collecting herself. "But that doesn't frighten me. W-well, talking about my stuff does, but not that there's more you haven't said. I think it's good we're trusting each other to lay this stuff out, a-and if I'm saying too much you can tell me and I'll shut up."

That gets a dry, dead chuckle out of you. "You're doing just fine with this," you quickly assure her, before staring down at her scaled hands. "More than that, I'd say."

A realization strikes you, one so obvious it shouldn't shock you so much. She's still here, holding you, and talking like she wants to keep on with things. You look up at her predatory face, searching for any deceit or doubt. All you see is Anya, a mindful look on her face and her headfeathers fluffed up from emotion.

"I'm sorry about derailing you getting things off your chest," you say quietly, wrestling with a mass of shame and self-resentment.

"It's okay," she says, eyes wandering as she visibly works up some nerve. "But, uh, you are okay with still dating and, uhm, everything I've said about my past, right?"

You nod without a moment's hesitation.

"I'm glad," she sighs, as if a weight has been lifted from her chest, "Because I feel the same way. I like being around you, and what's been said doesn't change that."

"I like being around you too. But how our dating might work has been eating at you this entire time, hasn't it?" your mouth asks, and you curl your toes in frustration with yourself for speaking so quickly.

Shock washes over her, but she bobs her head, headfeathers even more of a mess than before. "Y-yeah. But we can hold hands like this out in a public place, s-so I don't need to worry so much now."

Seeing that your mouth has not caused problems this time, you decide it still isn't worth tempting fate and think over what to say.

"You have no idea how much of a relief it is you're still talking to me," you finally say, shoulders shuddering as nervous tension eases.

"T-trust me, I think I'm relieved as you are right now," she says, affecting a nervous grin.

"Well," you say, wanting to change the subject before you collapse from a sudden release of tension, "I don't know about you but I don't think I can eat much more after that. How does taking a walk around the pond to get our spirits back up sound to you?"

Anya fluffs up, headfeathers going from shock to drooping nervousness, then something you think might be anxious excitement. You're still puzzling out what her headfeathers mean, but she nods excitedly. "I'd like that," she says. "B-but, uh, can we hold hands on the walk?"

"Of course," you say, giving her a smile and her hand a friendly pat.

In a matter of minutes the two of you deal with the trash and get the leftovers in the your picnic basket, then the basket in her car's trunk. Once the trunk closes with muffled clunk Anya takes your hand. With your fingers resting against her scaled knuckles, the two of you set off down the paved path around the pond. There's not much to be said, both of you taking in the sights and enjoying the sun. Your thumb strokes her knuckle as you walk, and by the time you're halfway around the pond she starts tentatively petting your sking with her claws.

After the first lap around the pond, Anya seems to be in a better mood. Her headfeathers lay mostly flat and she's the one setting the pace, her strides not as nervously hurried as yours. You're too used to walking alone, but holding her hand and just enjoying the slow pace is enough of a change to get your anxious heart back in place.

"This is nice," Anya says, looking out over the pond.

Looking out over the gently rippling water, green trees, and clear skies you nod in agreement. Aside from the two old human fishers, who show more interest in their lines than the human and deinonychus walking around, there's just you, your date, and curated nature.

"It is nice. Maybe I can take you back here for a proper picnic soon," you say, perhaps too quickly.

Her muzzle twitches toward you, brown feathers jostling. Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again as she struggles to speak. As you start to worry that bringing up picnics might break her brain a bit, she squeezes your hand and blurts out, "Actually, if it's not too early in our day out, I-I wanted to ask if I could take you out this weekend."

"Sure," you slowly say, not able to hide your surprise completely. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want to get you a new shirt," she says, nodding to the borrowed, parody band one you're wearing. "Maybe take you to a music shop to check out some vinyl. A-and whatever else we might have the time for."

"My weekend should be free," you say, hoping your boss doesn't alter your schedule as punishment.

"Th-then we can sort out details," she says, pulling your arm closer and bumping against you. "Right now I just want to walk with m-my boyfriend some more."

"I'd hate to disappoint," you chuckle, smiling at the raptor, glad she's still here with you.

You're going to hate when today ends, but for now you can enjoy this closeness with someone who likes you enough to stick around. At least there's the weekend to look forward to.