# Candace Being Candace 3 - Halcyon: Episode 2

Author: Mattariel
Tags: Contemporary, Hug, Human, Kissing, Love, Mouse, Muscle, Story, Straight, Tail

This time we get a little analytical. Of course certain apparent truths are harder to swallow than others, especially with someone as complicated as Candace. However, sometimes those truths reflect more on the partner than the one seeking therapy.  
Thanks, as always, to

[@Mercrantos](/u/Mercrantos)
 for his advice.

Episode 2: Issues

 

 

Back, Front, Shiproof-House - I

 

 

“Alright, people, let's get this debrief underway!”

 

The serving staff go quiet and I look through the feedback book. Pretty typical day; one good word at least for every server, some of the usual guys really raked them in, and everyone but a handful of customers enjoyed the food (even if one of them all but admitted that he was trying to get a free meal like a complete asshole).

 

The others were typical; mistakes that fell through the 'cracks' but half of them were a legitimate concern; Max was on the seafood stack today and every complaint was that it was 'tepid' and cold in places by the time the customers got to it. Cooked, just... slow. Dumb mistakes happen. Shit, even the head chef would make them, but I couldn't help but worry whenever this happened.

 

If I had to guess he most likely fell behind on the timings or something; it's a complicated dish with about four different components that are cooked at different speeds.

 

I guess it's not a huge deal-breaker, mistakes happen and he's only been working in the kitchen for a few months and every day brought new challenges and if anything like this happens, the chef involved will get drilled on how to do it again. I know Max is a good cook and he's always looking to learn. He'll get it. I know he will.

 

 

The restaurant is clean but only half-way packed down, I just figured I'd gather everyone now since I like to send a few people home a little early and finish the job myself. The kitchen staff are making a racket as they get everything deep cleaned after the Saturday service.

 

I'm glad Mr. Jackson always covers Sundays, it always gives me and Max a safe day off, but Mr. Jackson's never found the day especially good for profits against other restaurants in the area in the past so he only does a short service during lunch for a few regulars, friends and sometimes suppliers for meetings. I've sat in on them before now that I'm front-of-house manager and they're... dull and almost never involve me. It's more of a supplier thing, I'm more into personnel, wages and stuff. Which reminds me...

 

 

“Right. First, excellent work everyone.” I look over my clipboard and reread everything once more. “I'd call that a smooth service. Good feedback all round. Turnover was near enough at the eighty minute mark, which is on par, and takings are up four percent. As for direct feedback...”

 

I switch to the feedback book and rattle off the specifics for each server; nothing quite like getting hard-earned positive comments in a pretty brutal occupation. I reach one for a personal friend of mine; Renee. Sweetest girl on staff, a blonde girl, thin and short but she dazzles with her service. There's a little flush of pride that she's stuck with us after the whole incident with the last front-of-house manager, Greg. A guy with a few less teeth thanks to yours truly after the fucker tried to have his drunken way with her. Now she's a highlight of the restaurant.

 

“Very cool, Ren. Six comments! I won't hold anyone up, but check'em out,” I walk over and hand her the book, and she reads through the feedback.

 

It's a ruse; a cunning ploy as I walk behind her and pull out a concealed envelope from my inner jacket pocket, reach over her head and let it drop onto the book.

 

 

“Oh! What... no, you didn't,” she says as the penny drops.

 

Only it's it's more than a penny. A present from everyone in the building, just a little more from me and Mr. Jackson.

 

She opens it and gasps; four gift cards. One for a spa, one for a boutique clothing outlet, one for a cinema and, of course, one for Shiproof House, our restaurant.

 

 

“Happy birthday, Ren!” I call out and the other servers cheer and we all sing 'Happy Birthday' to celebrate. Renee's always been emotional and her eyes go wet before we've finished the first verse, then by her name on the third she's got mascara streaks down her cheeks. As soon as we reach the finish she stands, turns and gives me a hug.

 

A couple of the other servers join in and I get a shot of dopamine from the positive contact. I'd call it a fetish, but I don't feel anything sexual here; I love Renee as a friend and I like everyone else in the restaurant (Max not withstanding, of course; he's my fetish real bad.)

 

 

I spot Mr. Jackson leaving the back office. A little smirk cracks his natural snootiness as he spots the restaurant family's group hug and as soon as his eyes lock onto mine, I wave him over. He politely tries to excuse himself with a wave of his hand and attempts to escape the restaurant as he reaches into his pocket for a packet of fancy cigarettes.

 

Oh, hell no. Not on my fucking watch.

 

“Hey, Renee, don't forget to thank Mr. Jackson too!”

 

I spin her around and point to our boss. The smiling and still-tearful girl runs up to the tall, smartly dressed beanpole of a rat rodere and she hugs him too.

 

 

She says, between sniffles, “Thank you, Mr. Jackson!”

 

 

“Yes, yes, Ms. Gerard, you're quite welcome,” he says while giving me a disapproving (though ultimately accepting) look. “I assure you it was mostly Candace's idea, so perhaps you might engage with her for a while longer.”

 

I can see Mr. Jackson's trying to inch towards the fire escape but he relents, sighs and holds her properly. Eventually she calms and heads to the locker room and Mr. Jackson's greying muzzle can't quite hide the warm smile even as he huffs and exits the building with a casual smoothing of his whiskers.

 

He's a real nice guy, just not big on strong emotional displays. Oh, and if you value your job, don't call him by his first name, Alistair, anywhere near the workplace; the dude's super professional and firmly believes in the chain of command. I owe Mr. Jackson a lot for hiring and supporting me over the years. This despite him passing me up for the management position at the start of the year because he thought I was too young. Also despite the fact the guy he put in my current position was a drunk-ass wannabe rapist. Fucking Greg.

 

All the same, I've got nothing but respect for Mr. Jackson. Still, I _am_ mostly in charge now, so it's time to act like it.

 

 

“Again, excellent work tonight everyone,” I say to the others, “unless there's anything else I'll catch most of you Monday! Stay safe out there and thank you for your exceptional work.”

 

Everyone breaks away and I busy myself with stacking the last of the chairs; a little upper body work after a day of walking the floor and I make a mental note to do a quick high-intensity blast with the weights when I get home.

 

As I'm finishing the last table, Max exits the kitchen and he looks grim and exhausted. Before I can even respond, he looks through the feedback book, cusses under his breath and leans against the table all slumped over.

 

“Don't worry too much, Max,” I say as I walk over. I put a hand on his back and press up against him. “It's just an off day.”

 

 

“You ever get the feeling you're not doing what you're best at?” he says and I'm just glad he's not too frustrated to put an arm around me in return.

 

 

I can feel his doubts and it drags my mood down as well. I coil my tail around his leg, take his hand in mine and say, “you're not gonna be great in a day or even a couple of months. I can't tell you how many plates I dropped or put the wrong dish in the wrong spot in my first year as a waitress.”

 

 

Max sighs and squeezes me back. I can feel my tail wiggle from the usual good vibes, but he needs me now. I rest my head against his shoulder and close the feedback book.

 

 

\* \* \*

 

 

Our Perfect Selves – I

 

 

“If I didn't know better,” I say and scowl at the next flight of stairs, “I'd say you picked Dr. Ashton for the pre-session exercise.”

 

 

“Nope, I picked her because she's an expert in Pariah sufferers.” Candace leaps the last three steps up and spins on her heel to face me with a proud smirk.

 

 

“That was sarcasm, 'Deece.” I climb the steps in a jog and we're both at last on the fifth floor. There was an elevator, but... well, Candace.

 

As with the rest of the Skinner building, it's an old but well maintained place that was once a grand old college until it was too expensive to run, so it was divided up and now acted as rented offices for some thirty small business. Wooden panel walls with simple, hanging wire lights ran the full length of the hallways and doors with glass windows remind me of those old, hardboiled film-noir detective TV shows or movies with the names stencilled to identify who or what each room was assigned to.

 

Here, on the top floor, I felt a hit of nostalgia as I glance out of a window and think back to my old apartment. Far from the awful gang and scumbag-filled neighbourhood in which Candace used to live, my old place was a respectable place, mostly filled with older couples and a few other young, fresh from home types like I guess I still was.

 

 

I study the skyline of the town for a moment but my attention is stolen when Candace knocks on one of the doors, so I join her.

 

'Dr. Christina Ashton, PhD' and on the next line, 'Psychotherapist' is proudly labelled on the door and finally some contact numbers (one local, one cell number I think) and email addresses from different domains. By the time I come to a stop to really read them, the door opens to a white and brown patch furred mouse rodere, a couple inches shy of five foot tall. She's cute as a button with auburn hair tied back in a ponytail and dressed in a thick cardigan, shin length skirt and little heels that do hardly anything to boost her height.

 

The height difference is always a little funny; both the same type of rodere, yet the doctor doesn't even reach Candace's shoulders. Dr. Ashton's brilliant green eyes gleam as she looks up at Candace. “Good morning, Candace! Please, come in,” she chimes, as sweet to the ear as she is to look at. Then she looks me up and down and holds out her hand to me. “You must be Mr. Bailey. Candace has told me all about you. It's a pleasure to meet you in person.”

 

 

“Oh, uh... good morning.” I'm caught unawares at the energy and confidence she gives off. I have to collect my thoughts before I finish with, “please, just call me Max.” I reach down and gently shake her hand. For her size, she puts strength and clear effort into her grip, then holds the door open to let us both inside and then closes it after herself.

 

Varnished wooden floors with a thick blue carpet that dominates the middle of the room and three windows illuminating the room alongside a couple of wall-lamps adjacent the door. A few comfortable looking leather chairs sat in the middle and they face a fancy looking desk, with a computer, monitor and a large cushioned chair, also leather, that was twice Dr. Ashton's size. I almost expect to see a booster seat resting on it.

 

Behind it was another door, which the doctor opens and reveals both a storage cupboard filled with filing cabinets, but also a mini-fridge, a kettle and a microwave.

 

 

“Please, take a seat. Would you like anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Water?” Dr. Ashton asks with a sideways glance.

 

 

Candace clears her throat and answers, “no, thank you. Max?”

 

 

I'm already nervous about all this, and figure I'd best resist the risk of my mouth going dry if there's a lot of talking. “I'll have some water, please.”

 

 

With a nod and a smile, Dr. Ashton opens the fridge and produces a bottle of fancy looking water. At almost a jog, she passes it to me, I thank her, she rounds her desk and climbs a step to reach her chair and I suppress a grin.

 

She whispers, clearly to herself, “let's see...” Dr. Ashton taps away on her keyboard, clicks the mouse a few times, then scoots herself forward in the massive chair. She studies me and Candace for a few moments.

 

Under this sort of scrutiny and as I look back, and as cute as she is, it becomes clear she's likely in her mid to late thirties; the subtle way her muzzle fur has lost some of the youthful sheen and just the way she presents herself as confident and experienced with these sorts of meetings.

 

“Right,” she says and clasps her hands together, then looks at Candace. “I believe we were all but satisfied with your Pariah triggers, yes? As well as a good grasp on how to handle any untoward, lingering anger.”

 

Candace smiles and nods back.

 

“Good. Any recent incidents or other concerns?”

 

 

“No, Dr. Ashton,” Candace says as she relaxes into the chair. It's obvious she's at home here and even speaks clearer, like she's trying to impress the doctor. “To be honest, since we've moved to our new house and settled in, I haven't encountered any of the sort of scenarios that used to trigger my PTSD response. The nearest thing I've had was another rodere who seemed to suffer the same Pariah signs and I helped smooth the situation over; even then there wasn't any danger, I just wanted to prevent a bad situation.”

 

I'd heard about that after the fact; the mouse at the store trying to return a t-shirt and lost her temper and, since she was alone (in a social circle thing) and in a conflict, that can trigger the condition. As always, Candace is good at dealing with conflict, but the fact it was entirely verbal was a huge deal as far as I'm concerned. She's always been good at dealing with complaints at work but in public she drops the professional facade and has... _had_ a tendency to respond to fire with fire.

 

As for the PTSD? Witnessing her biological father being murdered as a kid? Even if she thought he was her uncle at the time, it was no wonder she grew up with some issues. It helped make me relax in Dr. Ashton's presence; anything to help my girlfriend and knowing that between seeing Dr. Ashton and now, Candace was far less angry. Still quick to it, but far quicker to recover and able to catch herself in social situations unless some real asshole is giving her shit.

 

 

“That's wonderful, Candace.” Dr. Ashton types in a few more keystrokes before she continues. “Still, if you ever have any lingering worries, then please, call me so we can ensure we can discuss it at a later date. Alright, with that logged, on to what I wanted to discuss in today's session.”

 

The doctor climbs out of her chair and walks around the desk, only this time she brings around a simple wooden stool. She places it in front of the desk so it there was nothing between us and her, although her back would be against her desk. From the well polished wood surface, Dr. Ashton picks up a notepad and a fancy black and chrome steel pen, and sits down, complete with her tail coiling around her leg.

 

She looks at me, as well as gestures with the pen, and says, “while Candace has made tremendous strides in handling her condition, the reason I asked for you to come with her today was because I felt it would be a sensible idea to ensure she is living in an environment that will help her maintain what I call the 'inner structure'.”

 

She's very animated with the way she speaks; the pen keeps dragging my attention with it as she makes little twirls and soft gestures with it like a conductors baton, like with the mention of a structure she even makes a vague trace in the air of a house-like form.

 

She continues, “I consider every person as a building, like a home, and that while the overall structure is stable, that is how we can build ourselves up; reinforcing what is there and making improvements as well.

 

“Like a home we maintain it, clean it and otherwise look after it. In turn this structure protects us from the rigours of everyday life, shelters us from the usual 'rains' of negative emotions like occasional, and natural, sadness and anger which we all encounter from life. A well maintained structure allows us to centre ourselves with a great deal less effort.”

 

I nod; it seems simple enough.

 

“Because of this focus on the structure, you are a crucial part of not only maintaining Candace's sense of stability but, in turn, your own. So while Candace has paid for these sessions for the next few weeks, I'm actually due to go abroad on a personal vacation and will continue them once I've settled back in. For the time I'm away, I figured I would set you two some 'housekeeping' to engage in for a time and we'll see how you do when I get back mid-October.”

 

 

“'Housekeeping'?” I reply. “Like a homework assignment?”

 

 

Dr. Ashton titters and nods. “Something to that effect, yes Mr. Bailey- oh, excuse me, Max.” She turns to my girlfriend. “Candace, might I ask you to wait outside while I have a word with your partner in private? I just need to go over some personal questions to see how he responds to details I have logged from our prior sessions.”

 

 

“Oh?” Candace's ears flick up, then half-fold down as she stands. “I guess. Sure.”

 

She walks past me and puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, then heads out of the office.

 

 

Once the door clicks shut, I open the bottle of water and take a sip as the nerves start to seep in. Candace isn't the only one who doesn't do 'alone' especially well; without Candace keeping me on my toes, I tend to go sluggish, at least mentally but especially socially.

 

 

Dr. Ashton shifts on her seat and writes something on her notepad, then gives me another once over as her whiskers twitch.

 

“Now, Max, as much as my saying so may tend to inspire the opposite, I want you to be relaxed. Please be honest, and if my questions make you uncomfortable at any time, just let me know and we'll call it quits. Does that sound okay with you?”

 

 

“Um. Sure, yeah.” I reply.

 

 

“Excellent,” she scribbles something more on the notepad. “Oh, and I apologise for taking notes as we go; ordinarily I segment these sessions and write as my patients relax between topics, but time simply isn't on our side. I'm sorry if it comes off as rude.”

 

She drags a line across her journal, no doubt to underline something. Dr. Ashton then shifts a little on the stool for comfort, clears her throat and it's obvious she's settling in for some sort of back-and-forth.

 

It's both very natural to her, almost certainly done a thousand times before, and despite her professional demeanour it doesn't feel imposing; the way her ears aren't perked up or alert, but relaxed and loose. Her tail uncoils and it sways oh-so slowly in the narrow gap between her stool and desk.

 

“Alright, Max. Let's get a feel for your structure; I want you to describe Candace for me. Not physically, unless that happens to actually _be_ a crucial part of how you describe her, and I assure you that doesn't make you superficial. Most importantly, I want to know what she represents to you.”

 

 

Dr. Ashton might as well have asked me to describe a piece of art; how the fuck do you condense down a woman like Candace into terms that won't take up the whole hour long session?

 

I can see her read my expression as she patiently waits for my response.

 

 

With another sip of water, I clear my throat and try and at least form some sort of response. “I... it... I mean she-” I stammer and my brain might as well be made of molasses; I can think of sweet thoughts but nothing's clear or quick enough for me to vocalise.

 

 

“Well, that's something,” Dr. Ashton smirks and writes something down. “It's obvious this isn't a simple relationship.”

 

 

“Oh. Is that a bad sign?”

 

 

“Not at all. Some couples thrive on simple relationships; they may be simply pooling finances, skills or even living space and may even get married as a matter of course and convenience. They can be extremely happy, and friendship based relationships can often go down this route since more often than not, friends part ways as they grow older or never get over that 'friendship' phase. Complicated ones are like larger, multi-faceted structures; they're more difficult on all levels but they allow much deeper, richer partnerships.

 

“Now, a long standing friendship that has endured,” she turns on her stool and leans over her desk to peer at her monitor for a moment, then continues, “for twenty years is quite impressive. Plus the fact it has survived this long despite your obvious differences in personality means a romantic partnership was always going to be far more eclectic than the norm. Ultimately, even simple details like the way Candace dumbfounds you tells me that she means a fathomless amount to you and I know from our sessions together that the opposite holds true.”

 

 

Wordy as that all was, it certainly put things into perspective. I was sent back to those earliest moments with Candace; running around like idiots. Scraped knees. Watching her white fur get caked in mud so often I was honestly convinced her legs and arms were actually brown. Always a tomboy, always running and playing, complete with Candace occasionally just sitting down on her or my parent's couch and all but passing out as she recharged her stamina, only to wake up an hour later and go from zero to a hundred at the slightest provocation.

 

It's funny how things really haven't changed too much; play has turned into self improvement, our relationship from thick as thieves to lovers. She was still into physical toying and I favoured verbal teasing. It was largely a blur, but a good one.

 

The moments that stood out were like staring at a spotlight in the dark; the times where she would hold back were many and just faded into the background against those moments where she was fully intense, fully _her._ White hot.

 

I could feel my rib; fractured by a bully, his name was Victor, who seemed to know I was soft and afraid to fight back. Candace saw him standing over me and laughing and just stormed up, spun him by the shoulder and punched him so fucking hard it broke his nose and sent him flat on his ass. I remember that fucker's lackeys running as she turned to them in case anyone else wanted to try something.

 

I see Candace, panting from the waning adrenaline. Her hands bloodied, the old front-of-house manager Greg writhing on the floor and clutching his face with one arm while the other was bent at a horrifying angle. Greg's teeth were in a bloody pool on the floor where she had punched him, twisted and shattered his arm, then slammed him full force into the corner of a stainless steel food preparation table. This was back when he tried to force himself on Renee at work after he'd helped himself to free drinks at the bar and was off his ass drunk.

 

The most recent event was when I see Candace, eyes dull and her spirit broken. She's clutching a clear plastic bag that contains her bloodstained coat. The side of her head is patched and bandaged, white hair and fur down to her neck dyed pink from her freshly stitched wound. The attempted kidnap and probable murder of a young rodere boy, little Charlie Haines, and his mother Janet respectably. Sure, Candace fended the scumbag off of them but not without that bullet coming less than an inch of killing her when she didn't realise the attacker was armed (at least with a gun).

 

That was probably the most vivid, and not just because of it being the most recent memory. It encapsulated everything about her.

 

“I guess if I had to say what Candace means to me, I'd have to say she's... important to a lot of people, and not just me. She can do so much, yet she still needs people to support her. Like you said, I suppose; she has to be held sometimes, yet she's been a hero to people. To me as well.”

 

 

Dr. Ashton nods and I realise she's been writing for a while.

 

“Yes, the Pariah incidents.” She clicks her pen and rests the notepad on her lap, then clears her throat as her tail once again coils around the leg of the stool.

 

With a quick stroke back of her whiskers, she says, “Candace and I have covered these, as well as smaller incidents in her youth; a strong, overwhelming urge to fight when pressed, threatened or slighted. These stem from the combination of both her martial arts training and her volatile youth in schoolyard fights and even defending herself in her old neighbourhood have meshed with the Pariah in a way I doubt I could separate without... perhaps years of therapy.

 

“This shouldn't be necessary if we can succeed here; we've mitigated the PTSD trigger through therapy and moving herself away from the lurking sources of conflict, so with luck her Pariah should be safe to regulate through her own power barring major unforeseeable conflicts. I take it you're familiar with the Pariah condition?”

 

 

I almost nod, but it never hurts to make sure I'm not going into this discussion ignorant. “I could use a primer, I guess. I probably only know superficial stuff about it, like it's named after how the first known sufferers were social outcasts because they tended to panic and isolate themselves.”

 

 

Dr. Ashton nods and licks her lips around her rodere incisors. “That's right. Pariah sufferers are inclined to panic and remove themselves from such intense and hostile stimuli; an old, primitive feral mouse response that has been carried over in our genetics.

 

“I'm a sufferer myself and I wish I had half the courage and wherewithal that Candace displays. Instead I do as ninety one percent of those afflicted do; I run at full pace as far from a perceived threat as I can, maybe take out some pepper-spray if backed into a corner, but it's quite an embarrassing response.

 

“Candace, as well as the remaining nine percent, more or less automate aspects of training, such as combat drills, as reinforced by familiarity with conflict. It's unlikely to surprise you that this group are almost entirely comprised of people in the armed forces or law enforcement professions.”

 

Dr. Ashton shuffles on her stool again and the notepad falls onto her lap. Her eyes turn somewhat distant and she seems to go into a trance. I realise she's probably gone over these details a lot with other sufferers and clients.

 

“Pariah triggers in these individuals allow mouse rodere to 'punch above their weight' in these fields; sharper reflexes, improved strength and a greater pain tolerance on average than humans undergoing the same strains. Data, however anecdotal, collected from incidents where hard numbers could be gathered has demonstrated that mouse rodere tap into greater proportional strength than the rat genotypes, believed to be tied to how feral mice also have greater proportional strength than feral rats.

 

“Now, before you go off with the idea that mouse rodere are superheroes in the making, it hasn't proven to be viable outside of these true fight or flight scenarios, as injected adrenaline doesn't cause the same effect. There's still a great deal unknown about the physical effects due to this, but suffice it to say that mice rodere are capable of some truly astonishing feats.

 

“Also that's not to say that there aren't rat rodere sufferers, but of the five percent of the rodere population with the condition, they're extremely rare; a mere fraction of that. Still, Candace is certainly one of the most robust mice I've ever seen or heard of thanks to her impressive height, drive for fitness and strict discipline in,” she pauses, blinks a few times and checks her screen again and reads out, “Shotokan/Okinawan hybrid karate.

 

“If not for her PTSD trigger of being in close proximity to violence, which thankfully has now largely been mitigated by moving away from that awful neighbourhood, Candace would by all other standards be considered a perfectly healthy young woman. Mentally speaking, I mean; her physical health is almost certain to be exemplary, but I'm not a physician.”

 

 

After being taken aback by the bombardment of information, I nod back this time. I'd researched Candace's condition since I'd learned about it after that gunshot incident and found the same general information, but a lot of that was new. “That just makes her all the more special if you ask me.”

 

 

Dr. Ashton smiles with a show of her big rodere teeth. “That she is, Max. Well, I feel like I have a firm grasp on what you think of Candace as a person, but what about your relationship specifically? It's easy to understand that you find her actions heroic, but don't you also find them a concern? She takes risks that, while perhaps within the bounds of her skills and talents, aren't the sorts of thing that a restaurant manager should undertake, nor any civilian.”

 

 

“Yeah, I agree. I've been angry at her for putting herself in harms way.” I bite my lip; I feel like I'm betraying Candace by talking about her like this but I force myself to remember that she has almost certainly covered the same subjects with the doctor as well.

 

This is to help Candace. I have to talk about this.

 

“When she faced down that asshole- uh, sorry.”

 

 

Dr. Ashton giggles and her ears flicker. “It's alright, I'm quite used to Candace's more... candid conversation style. Speak freely.”

 

 

“Sorry. Okay,” I grimace and refocus. “That scumbag that took at shot at her. He deserved what he got, but I was still pissed at Candace for getting involved. I've been angry with her before, like with that whole thing with Greg in the restaurant, but at least there it made sense it was more like Candace was defending herself and a friend.

 

“With the kid and his mom I get that Candace didn't really have control when she charged in, and if Candace didn't get involved I dread to think what would have happened to them, but it almost got her killed. It was one of our date days and I knew she was upset that she had ruined that for us, and I guess I suppressed being upset myself because I was glad nothing bad happened. Hell, I was even a little proud she'd saved them.”

 

 

“It was fortunate she was there, despite how it shouldn't be up to her to take such a risk. It's also natural to be upset when a friend or loved one puts themselves in danger,” Dr. Ashton writes down a few more notes. “Now, it's my understanding she's very physically inclined as a person. I know she derives a lot of positive energy from contact, but I believe she also shows negative energy physically as well. Pokes, prods and such.”

 

 

I felt something try and hold me back in my response, but the free-flow of the conversation had already taken hold and I just responded, “I guess? That's just the way she is, though. How she's always been. I like it, even.”

 

 

The doctor nods and writes a full couple of lines before she brings the pen up to her mouth and nibbles on the tip with her rodere incisors. For the first time since meeting her, she looks concerned.

 

“Hmm. And it's my understanding that she has taken to trying to improve you. Exercise and such, yes?”

 

 

“That's right. Candace pushes me pretty hard, but she's always been supportive when I can't keep up with her. She's always inspired me even when I wasn't getting involved, but now? Hell, I like it; being able to keep up with her, to share more common,” my hands roamed as I tried to work out what I wanted to say, so I settled on, “more common hobbies and just spending time together. It's great, even if I end up sore and exhausted; it's worth it.”

 

 

Dr. Ashton finishes writing in her notepad and puts it behind her on the desk, then clasps her hands over her knees, raises her legs so her feet rest on the struts and once more her tail pulls free from the stool.

 

“Well, I'll say that you've certainly helped me, Max, so thank you. Now, if you could ask Candace to come in and wait outside yourself. This won't take long.”

 

 

\* \* \*

 

 

I couldn't figure out what was going on, but I tagged back in with Max and was now sat in front of Dr. Ashton while he waited outside. She gives me one of her calming smiles.

 

“I can already tell that trying to eke out any major improvements will be a challenge; it's very clear that Max both cares and worries about you a great deal. Your 'productive episodes' such as the incident at the restaurant and the attempted kidnapping naturally cause Max a lot of stress.”

 

 

As much of a statement of the obvious as that was, it still makes me feel guilty. “I try not to make him worry,” I say, “but you know I can't just let people get away with acting like assholes.”

 

 

“I know, and I sympathise. The urge to use the tools and skills you have to right wrongs the law can't deal with isn't uncommon.” Dr. Ashton nibbles on her pen and stares at her notes resting on her desk, then turns back towards me. “All the same, that's why I'm hoping that if I can advise both you and Max on ways to help reinforce your relationship, it may well assist in allowing you to resist these outbursts. Your mental well-being is one thing, but knowing that you will keep yourself from physical harm for both of your sakes is just as crucial, so his support is vital here.”

 

 

“Huh.” I suddenly recalled something that happened moments after I found out about my adoption. “It's funny, because Max said he would help me out if I had another outburst. Y'know, in everything together or something like that.”

 

 

The doctor raises her eyebrow and one of her ears folds down, “before I give my opinion, did he agree?”

 

 

I can feel my own ears flex back as a small wince starts, but I've gotta be honest. “It was right after I found out about my true parents, I was super emotional and all my 'walls' fell down and Max was there for me as always. I kinda blurted out that I wasn't going to just let people get away with that sort of shit even after he said I shouldn't keep risking myself and he said if I won't stop, then... well, yeah.”

 

 

I can hear Dr. Ashton hum to herself. She reaches behind her and picks up her notepad, clicks her pen then writes for a good while and says, “I can't fault Max for showing support, however ill guided, but this isn't a positive concept...”

 

After a few more moments of thought, she stands, heads to the door and opens it.

 

“Thank you for waiting, Max, could you please come back in?”

 

As always, it feels like an invisible weight is lifted from my shoulders as soon as Max comes into view. Our eyes meet and we share a smile as he sits back down on the chair and he sips his water again, which is almost empty.

 

Dr. Ashton reads back through her notes but I can't gauge her expression. It's flat, serious but there's no anger or worry. Eventually, she nods, replaces the notepad on the desk, and looks at me and Max.

 

“I want to be completely transparent that I have a few concerns, but I'll preface this summary by saying that as couples go, it's very clear that you both mean a great deal to each other. I have no doubts in my mind that if you never came back here and remained how you are now, I could see you both together for many years with what I would consider a good, emotionally fulfilling relationship.”

 

It's a huge shot of relief, even if deep down I already knew that should be the case. I take a quick glance at Max and he seems to also relax a little, then our eyes meet and we smile.

 

“Now, that being said; Candace, as you know, I always give my guarantee to all of my patients that I will seek out a path to achieve a 'Halcyon' state.”

 

I can see Max's brow crease; of course, I haven't talked his ear off with all the psycho-babble and Dr. Ashton notices it as well.

 

“My philosophy in mental wellness is to attain, first, the 'perfect self'. It's an impossible goal, but it's always worth having something to strive for, a set of goals that should always make us happier and more fulfilled.

 

“Halcyon is what I call either a structure, or indeed even a real household, which has everyone within it achieving the 'perfect self' as well as can be expected. In the face of typical arguments, it should give all members of a structure an ability to know how to patch things up while still airing grievances, going through the good times and the bad where everyone supports and understands each other. Do you both understand?”

 

I already did, naturally we've talked about this subject before, but thankfully Max nods as well. I reach and take his hand and squeeze it. He gives me a rub of his thumb back.

 

“So, I say this as a means to make improvements, as something to be mindful of as you live your lives,” she says and turns to my boyfriend. “Max. I see hints that you enable some of Candace's less ideal habits.”

 

I feel him flinch and his expression sinks. The relaxed way he was sitting fades as he leans forward and for a moment I swear he's gonna say something or snap, maybe even stand and shout, but it doesn't happen.

 

Dr. Ashton didn't seem to notice the change, or if she did, she's ignoring it. “It isn't a bad stance to take when you support the decisions and lifestyles of our loved ones, and I can understand that Candace is strong willed enough that at her weakest, you are more inclined to cave since she's rarely so vulnerable.

 

“So, I would like for you to always seek a way to find a more balanced outcome to any given situation rather than just relenting. It can be easy to become a crash mat instead of a rock in these situations, so you need to be stronger for her.”

 

If there was one thing I hated, it was people talking down to Max, but I bite my tongue as she turns to me.

 

“Candace, having met Max and going by what we've discussed before about your relationship, I'm detecting you have a tendency to treat Max as,” she taps a finger on her larger teeth before continuing, “a stress relief, where you understand the right way to behave to most people you know out in public, but Max allows you to unleash these negative actions in a way to vent them. Also that his aura and acceptance is hindering your improvement. I'm a little worried that you lash out, even in these little ways that seem playful, all the way to, if I recall, grabbing as a threat.”

 

 

“You're wrong,” Max clenches as he speaks, as if he surprised himself; I know he's more assured when we're together. “I... doctor, I'm sorry, but I feel like we've always improved and supported each other.”

 

 

The doctor still doesn't really react or acknowledge Max's more aggressive tone and replies, “no doubt, Max. I'm sure you do, but one of the reasons I wanted you here was to gauge your response about Candace as a counterpoint to her mentions of you. While I understand you have a good relationship most of the time, I still sense that perhaps there's an issue you're both taking for granted.”

 

Me and Max share a look and I'm just as confused as he is.

 

Dr. Ashton glances at us both as she pushes her tongue against her incisors before she looks at Candace. She clears her throat and places her notepad back on the desk, then says, “you're both allowing a degree of complacency, even if you're not aware of it, that means you're 'using' Max as a way to recharge your ability to engage the 'perfect self' in public which could lead to deeper abuses. A subtle, two way manipu-”

 

 

“Now, wait just a second,” Max snaps. “First of all, I don't mind Candace doing those things. It's her way. Second of all, I _don't_ manipulate her!”

 

 

It's been a long time since I last saw Max angry, and I don't really count the time in the stairwell of Max's apartment; that was him trying to snap me out of my shock. He was usually passive so he could think things through, but I can see he's about ready to jump out of his chair. I grip his hand tighter and he looks at me, then calms a little.

 

I plead, “Max, just listen, please.”

 

 

“I promise you, I don't mean to pry nor suggest what either of you are doing could be construed as cruel or intentionally harmful. I must again stress you clearly have a genuine bond and I'm only pointing out areas I feel improvements could be made in order to head off 'rot' to the structure that could cause greater harm down the line. All I ask is you consider it; perhaps Candace can replace her jabs with more direct affection and you, Max, could perhaps try to-”

 

 

Max releases my hand, stands and flatly says, “no. Thank you.” Then he leaves.

 

 

Dr. Ashton sighs, scratches one of her ears and tuts. “I should have worked towards that over a few sessions, I suppose. Such poor timing...”

 

As rare as it was to see Max angry, I'd never seen the doctor upset either, but sure enough her tail was wriggling as she retrieved her notepad and pen.

 

 

“Doctor, leave it with me,” I say, “I know you mean the best for us but I know what Max means too, and I'm sure I can talk him into it.”

 

 

“I don't leave for a two more days, so if anything comes up, please get in touch. Otherwise, thank you for coming and please, look after yourselves.”

 

 

\* \* \*

 

 

This is Max - II

 

 

I didn't want to talk. Candace managed to get an agreement out of me for us to get home, but we were quiet on the walk through the town. Candace looked deep in thought all the way but eventually the silence was broken when she recommended we grab something easy for lunch. I certainly wasn't in the mood to cook so Candace grabbed a few things from a wholefoods shop she was familiar with en-route.

 

It made me feel worse, like I was failing her by not providing one of the few goddamn things I usually could. Ever since we moved in together I was the primary cook of the household since Candace wasn't big on scratch-cooking (although she cooked on occasion; she always told me she felt guilty making me do it all the time). She used to consist on stuff like overnight oats, simple cereals, pasta, rice, chicken and other lean proteins. I was doing my utmost to give her not only a variety, but I had to do my part in helping to fuel that outstanding body of hers.

 

 

That made me feel even worse _still_. Dr. Ashton's words were forcing their way in, how I thought was doing everything for Candace to push her forward and looking out for both of us, and now I was supposed to accept that I'm making her worse? It was fucking ludicrous. I would never hurt her.

 

The journey was a blur, but as I was snapped from my angry thoughts, I notice we're entering our home.

 

 

“We should talk,” Candace says as I place the house keys on the side table by reflex.

 

 

“Yeah,” is all I can manage and I head into the front room. I flop onto the couch, Candace hurries to follow and sits next to me.

 

 

She bites her lip and brushes her white hair back. For a moment I see her bullet scar before the silky strands fall back in place and she says, “I should've told you Dr. Ashton doesn't pull any punches. Some of my first sessions were pretty brutal.”

 

 

“I get that. What I don't get is her saying I'm bad for you.”

 

 

Candace scoffs, rolls her eyes then frowns. “That's _not_ what she meant. We're a good couple!” She reaches for my hand and I let her take it. The feel of her calloused knuckles on my digits as they intertwine. The light brush of her claws as she runs her fingertips over the top of my hand. The softness and warmth of her palm.

 

The perfect physical response to what she'd just said couldn't have been more perfect. Or it would be, except Candace climbs on the couch and covers me in a hug with her chest against my shoulder. _Now_ it's perfect. I wrap my arm around her and sigh as the tension breaks as I feel her whiskers and the warmth of her breath on my neck.

 

“Let's forget about it for now,” Candace whispers, “I know what she means, and I'll take responsibility for it and we'll do it bit by bit.”

 

 

“I guess.” The calmness lets me see how I acted in hindsight.

 

It's not a pretty picture.

 

“I've been a bit of a jerk, haven't I?”

 

 

Candace squeezes me harder and giggles. “Guess that's one against you after a fuck-load of me acting like a bitch.”

 

 

“Cut that out, Candy,” I say and part from the hug. “You've never been that bad, and even then, you've had an excuse.”

 

 

“Then maybe that's another reason to keep trying to get better, right? No excuses, just me being as I should be. But like I said, don't worry about it.” She kisses me on the cheek. “It'll be alright, and most important, _we'll_ be alright, so cheer up, Max.”

 

Candace pulls away, stands and says, “I'll get lunch going, 'kay?”

 

 

I feel like I should take the reigns here but I hadn't been angry like that for some time and it's always taken it out of me. I smile as much as I can and reply, “sure, sounds good. What did you get?”

 

 

“Wholewheat conch...” Her face screws up adorably before she shrugs and continues, “whatever that shell shaped pasta is, some diced chicken and a pesto sauce.”

 

 

The chef part of me wanted to balk and get snobby; conchiglie's for chunkier, usually tomato based sauces. Considering how defeated I already felt, that part was easily squashed. “Yeah, that'll be great. Thanks, 'Deece.”

 

Candace gives me a cute smile, a wink and heads off into the kitchen with a little brush of her tail against my knees. I once again feel the drain from my anger, slump in my seat and close my eyes to make sense of everything.

 

 

I know Candace told me she would be taking care of this therapy business, but the mounting pressure to not feel like a complete dick keeps me in a fucked up loop of wishing for our dynamic to not change and wanting what was best for Candace.

 

I could hear the clatter of a couple of pans, the sound of the faucet being turned on then the sound of the gas range cooker clicking. I remembered how Candace wanted an all modern kitchen but she relented on this point for me; a brand new gas range oven that clashed with the modern look. Just because I wanted it. So bull-headed, yet always making concessions for my whiny little needs.

 

What the fuck was I doing? Go be her Max, idiot!

 

I stand up and head to the kitchen.

 

 

\* \* \*

 

 

Water's salted and heating, chicken's frying up in a little olive oil and seasoned. Am I forgetting anything? C'mon, Candace, you're already cheating with the pre-made sauce and Max needs cheering up. Don't fuck this up. How many goddamn times has he been in your corner all these years?

 

I probably look like I'm panicking; I can feel my ears are folded back already as I try and keep track of what's a petty as fuck amount of preparation, but I almost jump out of my damn fur as I feel something brush against my tail. I go to turn, but arms wrap around me; comforting, familiar arms. Strong. I want to melt into them. Bathe in them.

 

 

“Want me to take over?” Max says, calm and low.

 

 

The sexy voice. I mean, not intentionally, just the natural... what's it called, timbre? And his strength. He's tall and thin, and maybe it's the rat side even if he plays it down, but he's damn strong and right now he's using it to hold me in place. I doubt I could pull myself free without getting technical, but I damn well won't. It's the equivalent of being an addict that's just been handed a needle of the good shit.

 

Oh, there're good vibes... I shiver as the electric tickle runs up and down my spine, my hands cover his forearms and my tail wraps around Max's leg.

 

I gasp as I realise it's... getting a bit distracting. And warm. And a little tingly. “H- how about we do it together? I mean cook together!”

 

 

Max looks around the kitchen and says, “I dunno. Looks like everything's getting done that needs to. Although...”

 

I look up at him and follow his gaze at the pre-made pesto.

 

“Okay, you take care of the chicken and the pasta, I'll take care of this.”

 

 

He releases me, washes his hands, picks up the tub of pesto then takes it to the refrigerator. Max then opens the door and places it inside then pulls out a bulb of garlic, a small bag of pine nuts, a lemon and a leftover block of parmesan. In one rapid flow of motion, he goes into a cabinet and gets a frying pan, turns on a third ring on the range and places his ingredients on the side and heads out the back door.

 

I pump my fist; My man is back! I get to my post and keep the chicken moving and note the pasta water's getting there; maybe five minutes from boiling.

 

He returns with a good handful of basil, gives it a quick wash, places the pile with his other ingredients then tosses some pine nuts into the new pan. Lastly he takes a bright green coloured silicone tube from a drawer and pops two cloves of garlic inside and rolls the tube rapidly against the counter-top; a weird little gadget (if you can call it that) which peels them pretty well without the fiddly part.

 

 

Max looks over his shoulder and says, “I'm sorry for being a dick. Especially over something important like that.” He's got his smile back too.

 

 

I resist the urge to swoon dramatically for the moment; I can't let him get away with that setup. It's time for one of our favourite games. “We upgrading from jerk to dick, now? Is that the revelation we're going with?”

 

 

“Yep,” he replies. I can't tell if he hasn't noticed or is playing it coy.

 

 

“Must be hard.”

 

 

His grin threatens to reach his ears. “Like you wouldn't believe. Gotta handle it just right; I'm pretty sensitive sometimes. I might go off at a moment's notice.”

 

 

I look at his rolling of the tube and bite back the urge to giggle.

 

“I mean, it's a lot of effort for a big pay-off. Just make sure to wash your hands and don't get it all over the place! That stuff doesn't come out easy.”

 

 

“Especially if you get it in the eye, I bet it stings like a bitch,” Max barely keeps his cool and has to clear his throat to cover the start of a laugh. He extracts the cloves, throws the garlic roller into the sink and begins chopping the ingredients by hand in rapid, professional cuts.

 

 

“Or hair and fur, it clings like you wouldn't believe,” I continue, “just make sure it goes from there, into the heat and down the slick, welcoming hole.”

 

 

“No time for savouring and licking? Oh, hey, don't let the meat stick.”

 

I snort but bite my tongue; I won't lose!

 

Max nods to the sizzling pan of chicken, “I'm serious, it'll burn.”

 

 

“Oh, fuck.” I grab the pan and push the chicken around with a wooden spoon; it's dark, but not quite burnt. “Good save.” Double meaning; my own for the game and the chicken too. Shit... got distracted, how do I carry on? Ah, the other pan. “How do you want me to handle your nuts?”

 

 

Max finally breaks into a full laugh and I drop my facade as well so we share the moment. He towards me with a fist and I bump it back. “Shit, you got me. Uh... just give them a shake. They don't take long.”

 

 

“Just a shake? You've gotta have more stamina than that!” I grin at him but Max gives me a 'really?' look and I roll my eyes back. “Oh, fine, fun's over.” With a little toss of the pine nuts and a stir of the chicken I finally pour the pasta I'd measured out into the now boiling water.

 

Since I'm back on top of things, I entertain myself watching Max do his thing with the rapid chopping of the ingredients with a professional flair. I know we have a mini processor for small batch sauces and dips, but Max is obviously trying to make up for what he thought was his mood earlier. Instead he's packing together the garlic, parmesan and basil into a block. After a couple more minutes he takes the pine nuts and casts them onto the chopping board, dices them and packs it in with the rest.

 

It's looks like more work than it needs to be and again I wonder if that little blender wouldn't be easier, but I seem to remember Max watching TV about a traditional method that gives better texture and 'flavour profile' or some shit. I ain't gonna argue with him in his element. I'm reminded of how he struggled at work the other night and it's moments like these I just _know_ Max can do some amazing shit when he's relaxed and confident.

 

 

With the ingredients packed together, he takes out a bowl from the overhead cabinet and loads the block into it. I give the chicken another stir as Max takes a different olive oil I'd used for my side of the dish (apparently extra virgin olive oil's better as a dressing oil or something) pours some in and finally gets to mixing it in full. With a sprinkle of salt and a good squeeze of lemon, he finishes the pesto with a final vigorous stir, washes his hands again and rests nearby.

 

We stare for a while before Max finally breaks the silence.

 

“Look, Candace. I just don't think we need to be perfect. Hell, I _know_ I'll never be perfect but you've always been my inspiration. I'll follow your lead on this though because I know you've been dealing with Dr. Ashton for months now, so just tell me if I've done something wrong and I'll do what I can. But I still say there's nothing wring with a little prodding and teasing. Deal?”

 

 

“Deal, but _I_ still say it's worth a shot. Max and Candace, once more being fuckups! Feels like we've been doing this for a while.”

 

I put my hand out for a high five.

 

He claps my hand back and turns to check the chicken.

 

So I whip his ass as hard as I can with my still extended palm.

 

Eh, we can do the whole 'no negative contact thing' tomorrow...

 

 

He yelps, “motherfu-! Right, that's it!”

 

Max grabs me as I try to escape in a fit of giggles, once more wraps his arms around me, digs his fingers into my sides and tickles. I squeal and squeak from the overwhelming attack, collapse against him as he continues the onslaught and slowly lowers us down. When I'm huddled on the floor he stops only to pepper my neck with kisses.

 

Yeah. I think we're gonna be just fine.

End of Episode 2.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/znJqoMkm
Part of the series Candace being Candace
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