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As always, I'd like to say that questions, comments, suggestions and ratings are heartily encouraged. It's what lets me know I still have people reading this! Thanks.

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The golden rays of the morning sun lit the world with light. The thing about the sun, Veronica thought, blinking her emerald eyes open slowly, was that it shone on all things, made all visible--it illuminated white flowers and blue waterfalls right alongside rotting corpses and open feline jaws with fangs covered in dried blood.

Somehow, Xavier's black leopard coat had seemed less grotesque under cover of darkness, less... real. She'd seen simply dark liquid smearing dark fur. Now, under the scruitiny of the sunshine, every tuft of hair encrusted with brown blood, every wound hanging open and torn, the dull, glazed-over, half-open eyes... all of it was presented in perfectly defined, well-lit detail, impossible for the eyes to avoid.

She had some trouble getting up; her bloodied white coat had gotten stuck to the thick white carpet as the blood pooled in it had dried in the night. She went to the kitchen and put some water on the stove, heating it to boiling to sterilize it; she would use some to clean Xavier (who was still breathing quietly and shallowly, and not responding to her voice or touch) and she would use the rest to make a thick broth for him. As the water boiled, she washed her coat down quickly in the shower. Emerging, she noted in the mirror that the entire right side of her body was a pale shade of pink from the blood; even the white-coat shampoo Xavier had bought for her couldn't fully wash it out.

Wrapped in her bathrobe (and ignoring the human who snored on the couch in the entrance) she went upstairs and got one of Xavier's thick blankets from his closet. This she brought downstairs and spread beside him, a little away from him, on the still-clean section of rug. She'd ask Tom, when the human awoke, to help her move Xavier here.

The water had come to a boil; she scooped a smaller pot into the larger, filling it, and brought this along with some clean rags from the bathroom into the living room where the wounded black leopard lay (leaving the rest of the water to boil with broth added). She adjusted his ruffled black wings out of her way, and began again to clean the fallen cat's wounds, bathing them, washing away the dried blood and hoping that the water was hot enough to disinfect. Her touch was firm but tender, careful but strong enough to really wash away the blood. Three bloodied rags and half a pot later, Xavier's throat, arm, and other various wounds and scratches were fairly clean again, the sutures (well, crude stitches really) once again visible. She soaked one corner of a still-clean rag and let it cool, then dripped the water into the big cat's dried-out eyes to clean them. He blinked reflexively, and even swallowed a little when the water dripped into his mouth, but he still seemed unconscious.

Veronica then eyed Xavier's bloodied clothes--or what was left of them. To be honest, she hadn't thought to check his groin or thighs for damage; there was blood there, but not enough to have concerned her. However, she had an idea that the leopard's bladder was probably full, and wasn't quite sure what to do about this.

She stripped his pants off, cutting through them with her sharp claws, pulling them away from the bloodied fur. Then she soaked up the remainder of the water with the rags, and placed the small pot right under Xavier's dark sheath (trying to ignore it, to think of it in an entirely nurse-like fashion and not to be embarrassed by the cat's nudity). She then cleaned his fur with the rags, washing the grime and blood from his thighs and abdomen.

How to get him to release his bladder, though? The white tigress thought this over for a moment, biting her lower lip. Then she smiled a bit, and wrapped Xavier's left pawhand in the hot, wet rag. A moment later the leopard stirred, his frozen grimace getting a bit more insistent for a moment. Then she heard liquid trickling into the pot. Trying to avoid wrinkling up her nose, she turned and peered into the pot; sure enough, his urine was dark orange, a pretty sure sign that he was both dehydrated and/or bleeding internally. She fretted over this for a moment, removing the pot when the liquid's flow had ceased (and removing the wet, hot rag from around his paw). She took it into the bathroom and flushed it, then rinsed it in the shower quickly. She didn't bother disinfecting the shower; rather, she just dumped some shampoo into the tub and hoped for the best.

Back in the kitchen, she got a mug, a clean kitchen rag and the hot broth, and headed back to the living room once more.

Here, she found Xavier in exactly the state she'd left him--cleaner, wet in places, still completely motionless. She kneeled beside his head and soaked one end of the rag in the broth, then reached her own tongue out and licked--very hot, still. She waited a moment for the rag to cool, then gently squeezed a small amount into the corner of the leopard's mouth. He swallowed instead of coughing, luckily, and with a satisfied smile, the tigress continued.

Tom found her like this half an hour later when he arose--kneeling beside the freshly-cleaned leopard, dripping broth into his open jaws one ragfull at a time. He leaned on the door frame for a few minutes, just watching, vague feelings of pity and admiration floating through his exhausted mind. Then he turned and went into the bathroom, to clean up and to use the toilet.

Veronica had heard him come in but ignored him, both too encouraged by Xavier's swallowing and too aware of the human's disheveled appearance to acknowledge him. She knew that Tom would help her once he'd really woken up, and that he needed some time to do so.

Sure enough, after a few swigs of orange juice from a carton in the fridge, and wearing just his pants (his shirt and jacket were too stiff with blood to wear), Tom came into the living room and smiled wearily down at her.

"How's he looking?" he said after awhile.

She shrugged toward him, giving him a tired half-smile. "He's swallowing the broth, breathing a bit stronger, and I got him to pee. The downside is," and here she took a breath, "he needs to see a doctor." Tom just frowned, waiting for her explanation.

"I think he's hurt, internally; the claw marks here and here," she said softly, gesturing to his ribs and abs, "are pretty deep, and his urine is almost red. It looks like he's bleeding internally--and he's bled so much on the outside that this could kill him pretty fast." She kept her voice quiet, waiting to see what the human said--but she wasn't going to take no for an answer, and she hoped it wouldn't come down to a fight. She had claws, he had a gun--but she didn't want to fight him anyway; he seemed a kind and decent person, after all.

At length, he nodded. "Fuck it," he breathed, "we'll get him some help."

She smiled, relief lighting her face, and Tom smiled in response--he couldn't help it, she just looked so happy. "In the meantime," she added, "Can you help me move him to that blanket?"

Tom nodded, and the two of them grabbed ankles and armpits and lifted Xavier gently, moving him the two or three feet to his left, depositing him gently down on the fresh bedding. Veronica wrapped his body with the cloth and sat beside him for a long moment, stroking his face, then looked up at Tom.

"Food?" she asked. He smiled, and nodded, and she nodded back smartly, stood and went to the kitchen.

The human watched her go, watched her pink-stained white-furred legs peeking out from beneath her robe, and wondered to himself where the hell Xavier had found such a beautiful femme--and why the hell he'd kept it secret.

He pulled a slim black cellphone from his pants pocket, then, and began to punch numbers into the keypad, listening with half an ear as plates and cups were shuffled around in the kitchen behind him. He cupped one hand over his ear as the ringing began on the other end, and stepped over the bloodstained carpet and into the corner so that he could murmur into the mouthpiece without being heard.

"Yes, this is Tom--yeah. No, she's fine, and I'm fine--I don't know... That's what I'm calling about," he added, casting a glance down at the black leopard laid on the carpet. "Yeah. Yes. But... No, I think he needs some extra help. I think we need to bring in a professional..."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Rook bustled about his office, muttering under his breath as he read through the sheaf of papers on his clipboard. "Six hours... shortness of breath... severe stomach pain..." He shook his head slightly, his dark gray wolf's mane shifting over his neck and shoulders as he did so. His dark-tipped ears flicked back a bit and forward, his golden eyes coming up to look ahead as he strode.

"Cheree, be prepared to cancel my nine o'clock," he sighed, placing the clipboard on the counter in front of the delicately-boned mouse Furr.

"Something wrong, Doctor?" she chirped in her bright, concerned little voice. Her black, bright eyes stared at him, and... God, the sun was bright. Why the fuck did everything have to be so goddamned bright?

He sighed again as he rubbed his paws over his temples. "Hungover," he grunted. "But no--be prepared just because I think I might know what's wrong with our next patient, and it might be serious," he murmured softly. She nodded, pert and cheery as always, and he nodded his thanks, slid his clipboard back off the counter and headed out into the waiting room.

"Timothy Jones?" he called. A twitchy-looking dog Furr stood, and Doctor Rook assessed him quickly.

The dog was most definitely a Great Dane, one with a sleek, short, shining black coat and long, pendulous ears. The fellow weighed a good two hundred pounds, not one superfluous; he was lean, taut, muscular, and he towered above the wolf by at least four inches. Rook was by no means a short Furr, but the Dane was bigger by far. Six-six at least.

"Right this way, Mr. Jones," he said with a professional smile.

He stood aside and let the dog past, watching the creature's gait carefully. The dog walked mincingly, as if every step caused him pain.

And he held his stomach, cradled it, moving slowly and placing each step with ginger care.

Rook grimaced; he was pretty damn sure what this was. An easier diagnosis than most, to be sure, but also a more severe one.

As he followed the Dane into the examination room, shutting the door behind him, he reflected once more on just how goddamn hard this job was, and how little he was compensated for it. He was paid peanuts, especially compared to human doctors, and yet his work was twice as complex--or ten times, even, or more.

As a doctor for Furrs, he not only had to be intimately familiar with all of the workings of a human body, which was complicated enough that most well-trained humans still made plenty of mistakes... But he also had to be a veterinarian specializing in all species, aware of and ready to diagnose and treat all illnesses, physical deformities and ailments, vitamin and mineral deficiencies, genetic issues, and the genetic interactions themselves--everything that came with the care of the health of all animals, and with the mixing of human and animal bodies.

Add to that the added pressure of being one of the first Furr doctors in the world, one of the first Furr-specific doctors in the world, and the fact that knowledge of the genetic and physical makeup of Furrs was still not perfected, that the doctors who treated them were just now coming into their own...

It was a very complex field indeed, and a dangerous one to work in, if for no other reason than that the scientific community simply didn't completely understand the field yet. A lot of it was guesswork and experimentation still, and it took a logical mind with a creative side, a great intelligence and powerful determination to get into--and stay in--the job.

"My stomach hurts."

Rook blinked.

The black Great Dane Furr sat on the exam table, eyes half-closed in pain.

Rook nodded, and leaned forward; he pulled the stethoscope onto his ears and placed the disc onto the dog's chest. He made his basic exam quickly, moving through it to what he suspected was the real problem. He'd readied the ultrasound in advance; he smiled and began to explain as he prepped the dog.

"I have a suspicion as to what your issue might be; a lot of dog Furrs get this, some wolves too," he added with a professional chuckle meant to calm the canine. "It can be serious, but treated in time should be fine. You said you've had six hours of pain?"

The dog nodded, great ears swinging around his powerful jaws. "Please, doc," he groaned suddenly, leaning back and baring his huge, thick fangs with a grimace. Rook carefully moved the sensors over the dog's stomach, careful to apply no pressure whatsoever. Glancing over at the machine's screen, he saw what he'd feared--huge tracts of air, a swollen stomach, sections of gut swollen with blood flow.

"I hate to say this," Rook said, switching off the machine and turning into "hasty" mode. "But you have bloat--gastric dilatation-volvulus. It means," he continued, waving the dog off the table as he moved toward a phone, "that your stomach has twisted on itself. You'll need surgery right away to correct it; it can be fatal, fast, and will be a very painful end," he added with a warning look in his wolfish eyes.

Normally the wolf wouldn't be so cold about it, so harsh, but the dog had started to protest at the word "surgery," and the poor fellow simply didn't have the time to argue about it. He could be dead in an hour, the doctor knew.

"Yes--yes, Cheree, please call ahead to James Central, tell the O.R. to be ready for GDV, six hours in at least. Fax the chart over. Thanks, dear. ...No. No--what? Okay, I'll take it in my office. Yes. Arrange for an ambulance for him, I want to be sure he makes his appointment safe and sound," he added, winking over his shoulder at the worried-looking dog. Truth be told, he was worried that the dog simply wouldn't go to the hospital--sometimes people stalled when they were really worried, and pain made Furrs do stupid things. The instinct to go somewhere alone when in pain was still strong in many of them, and it could lead to a lonely death in some cases.

Rook turned and went into his office, closing the door with a click behind him, leaving his secretary to come in and guide the dog to the ambulance. She'd told him he had an "emergency call," so off it was to see who wanted funding, or a free study, or free drugs, now.

"Doctor Rook," he wuffed curtly into the phone, trying to sound brisk and busy. Better to assert himself right at the start, the better to get rid of the hangers-on that--

"Doctor Rook? I'm calling because I hear you're the best, and I'm calling because I hear you care about your patients, and about their... political situations."

He blinked. This was not a normal call, then. He swallowed, took a breath, and replied. "I don't know about the first, but the second is correct, and the third. How can I help you?"

"I'm with the government." There. The words he'd been dreading hearing for the last two years. Dreading... and waiting for, in a way. Hmmm.

"Go on."

"I represent..." Here the caller hesitated, and rephrased. "I'm calling on behalf of an agency that cares for the Furr community."

"Cares for?" Rook replied, brow furrowing as he thought fast. As in, medical care? he thought.

There was a long silence, then: "Yes. We employ Furrs and pay into research for their health and research into ailments that Furrs face. We are affilated both with the U.S. law enforcement and with the USMHC. We operate in secrecy. Anything I discuss with you must be kept entirely to yourself, do you understand?" There was an expectant pause.

Realizing the man on the other end of the line couldn't hear him nodding, the wolf doctor spoke up. "Yes, of course. And any patient care I give is always given under the doctor-patient--"

"Good," the voice interuppted. "One of our operatives, a leopard Furr, has been badly injured. In order to keep up our operation--which is ongoing," the man emphasized carefully, "a total secret, we can't bring him to standard medical facilities. We need you to come to us, at the leopard's personal home. We're willing to provide whatever materials you need, of course, and fees will be paid in full, although the bill must not specify--"

"The bills never do," interrupted the wolf, in turn. "As I was saying, we operate wholly under doctor-patient confidentiality clauses."

"Very good," replied the human, apparently unphased at the interruption. "Let's do this then. I'll have a van sent to you. Please prepare whatever materials you may need--"

"What kind of injuries?" the doctor interjected, thinking fast. What he brought depended on what sort of wounds he was treating. Antiseptics, antibiotics, those were a given, but...

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then... "Animal attack." Rook's eyes widened a fraction. A feral Furr attack, perhaps?

"Feline?" Cats tended to carry huge amounts of bacteria in their saliva, and the major danger wasn't bleeding to death or anything, usually, but the deadly infections that almost invariably set in a day or two later.

"Yes," came the curt reply; obviously this man didn't understand or care why this was important. Rook ignored this. "When can I expect your van?"

"Half an hour sound good?"

"Fine."

There was a *click*, and Rook dialed into his reception. "Cheree? Yeah. He's on his way? Good, good to hear. Yes. Okay--no, please--just a moment. CHEREE. Yes. Thank you. You've got to cancel the rest of the day's appointments. Yes--I know, I'm sorry, but that call was an emergency one and it's very important that I attend to it. Send them to Fiennes, if possible. Thank you, you're a saint."

With that, the lean gray wolf in the white lab coat turned and moved quickly through his office. He grabbed a twenty-gallon garbage bag off a shelf; he had no house-visit bag, as he had never had a need for house-visits. Into this he scooped various antibiotics, creams, a roll of catgut sutures and two different needles in their packaging, iodine, an electric fur-shaving razor, two thermometers (one a backup, just in case), his stethoscope, an IV line with the needle and a bag of Lactated Ringer's solution (an isotonic liquid to be distributed intravenously to dehydrated patients). He looked around, unsure of himself, and then began throwing in anything else he might need; blood-pressure cuff, a few hypodermics still sealed in their packaging, tongue depressors, and hey! he grinned to himself for a second, eyeing the children's lollipops in the corner, then let his smile falter and let the idea fall away; this creature was probably in serious danger and great pain, and a lollipop just wouldn't be funny. Hmmm... He tossed a couple of sealed surgery implements in... again, just in case. He continued to work, thinking hard about what he might be about to encounter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Deep in a dark place... darkness, night, black... it swirled around him. No light, no brightness, no sunshine shone through... But now and again, deep in his sleep, he saw the face of an angel hovering above him. And then there was light. Bright white fur that shone brilliantly, lit up like pure fire at the edges with golden sunshine, emerald eyes sparkling down at him from on high. And although his mind was gone, and he simply could not think nor reason, the words still floated through his mind, and their meaning too: How had he come to be so lucky? How had this angel come to him?

And even in his pain and silence and darkness, then, was he happy.