FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

-CHAPTER 12- Dream Of Mirrors

The morning alarm doesn't buzz for long before you're out of bed and rushing through your morning routine, thoughts of the last two days spinning in your mind as you shower. The cold water calms your thoughts of a certain raptor down long enough for you to get dressed and go and make breakfast.

Your relative calm and willful ignorance ends when you open your fridge. Foil wrapped barbecue sandwiches sit prominently on the shelves, reminding you of who sent you home with the food. Anya's smile and quiet insistence quickly broke your resistance, the grin on her face widening after she stole a hug. Rubbing the back of your neck in an attempt to dispel the sensation, you try to figure out if it's smart to bring the sandwiches to work. No, that might tip your boss off. You snag the leftovers for a quick breakfast.

While you heat the sandwiches up in your tiny microwave, a daydream about the parting hug you and Anya shared starts to eclipse your mind. Her feathers, her scent, her infectious happiness...

Phone buzzing in your pocket and microwave beeping at the same time, you're torn away from pleasant thoughts about the feathery raptor. Popping open the microwave door to get peace from incessant beeping, you struggle your phone out of your pocket and flip it open, expecting your boss to be asking if you're going to show up.

Instead it's a message from Anya. "Good luck at work! :)"

A soft chuckle parts your lips, the surprise of her greeting brightening you morning. Maybe those daydreams aren't so bad. You find yourself thumbing out a reply. "good luck to you too," you send. Followed by an impulsive, "up for pandamonium chat after work?"

"I'd love to :> I'll text you when I'm free from work."

"alright will do the same"

After a several seconds without a reply, you retrieve the brisket sandwich from the microwave. Biting into it, you find the barbecue isn't quite as good reheated, but it's miles beyond the plain rice and beans that sustained you through financially bleak times. You think about what you can do to repay Anya's kindness and how the next weekend date might go as you chew. Your phone buzzes where you left it on the counter, distracting you from thoughts about what constitutes a good date.

You wipe some sauce off your fingers before checking the message.

Instead of Anya like you hoped, it's a text from Mr. Crombe "Anon. Are you coming in today?"

Heart skipping a beat you check the time, and curse quietly when you see you still have an hour until your shift starts. Not wanting to piss your boss off anymore than you already have, you reply in the affirmative and go make a couple of ham sandwiches for lunch.

Lunchbox in hand and heading to the door, you check the time and see another message from your boss. Your heart sinks when you see the words, "Meet me in my office when you're clocked in."

"Just my fucking luck," you mumble under your breath, thumbing a polite reply as you head for your car.

---

You sit in a cheap folding chair and stare across the sparse desk at the graying weasel that controls your employment. He places his clasped hands on his metal top desk as his whiskered face judges you. You're not sure if his sour expression is his no bullshit personality projecting into reality or if he's trying to be intimidating.

"Anon, I am disappointed," Mr Crombe says.

Somehow you keep yourself from sneering and just sit there passively. He's using the same tone of moral superiority your mother used to berate you with.

Mr. Crombe steeples his fingers. "You had me worried about you when you didn't show up. You're a good employee, but as you know, the company policy for schedules is strict. I nudged records in your favor but I will not cover for you again. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," you nod.

"Good. If you need time off let me know, you haven't used any of your vacation days since starting. But I would take it as a favor," he says, tone making it clear it's closer to a demand, "if you wait on that until Craig's training period is over."

If you earn any paid days off, or you can predict the next disaster in your life, then you'll use your vacation days. Instead of saying that you just nod. "That won't be a problem, sir."

"It will only be another week," Mr. Crombe says, easing back in his chair. "Speaking of Craig, how is his performance?"

It takes a lot of willpower not to shrug. "He does what he's told and keeps his eyes open, sir. Nothing to complain about."

"And his personality?"

You feel genuine pressure for the first time in this conversation. "Sir, he's far more personable than me. But he gets along with everyone from what I've seen."

The weasel stares daggers at you. "Jameson asked not to be put on training duty with him again. If there's any trouble from that you let me know first, understand?"

No, you really don't understand the situation. Jameson is another guy usually on a forklift, so you have passing knowledge of him but you've kept your distance. However, if there are any problems you were going to report them to Mr. Crombe anyway. It's easy to agree with a bob of your head.

Mr. Crombe silently stares at you for twenty tense seconds. "If there are any problems with Craig, any at all, then you come to me first. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"Then you can get to your shift," your boss says, pulling out his phone and checking it for a moment.

Making sure you put the folding chair back, you vacate the office quick as you can without it looking like you're fleeing. Then it's back to mundane, mind numbing monotony of the endless work of a busy warehouse. Hardhat on, you enter the warehouse proper and go to the floor manager. He directs you to shipping - you are apparently on pallet breakdown duty today - where you find Craig already sorting boxes from one pallet to another two. The canine doesn't say anything to you, not that you'd hear it over the noise of the shipping department anyway, but he does give you a friendly nod and thumbs up.

You're certain you'll get an earful at lunch.

---

To your amazement, from the time the lunch bell rings to the end of your first sandwich, Craig hasn't said a single thing. He simply followed you along, got a brown paper bag with his name on it from the break room fridge, and sat down at the table with you. The chili he's been eating of a tupperware is obviously cold, but it doesn't seem to bother him as he slowly spoons it down while staring at the table.

Of the many things you are, heartless is not one of them. Not today, and certainly not when you need him alert for the rest of the day. "You okay?" you tentatively ask.

He looks up, then back down at his cold lunch. "Yeah."

"No offense," you say, knowing this is none of your business but you can't stop yourself now, "but you don't look okay."

"Sorry," Craig says. "Weekend was a bust and I'm pretty sure I pissed off that Jameson dude."

Against all rational self interest, your mouth asks, "Need to talk about it?"

Craig shakes his head. "No."

You blink, wondering if this is the same Craig you worked with last week. He's still got the same dusty gray fur that you suspect is dyed, same messy fur on his head, same lanky height. But without the chatter at lunch it's like he's an entirely different creature. Left speechless, and the canine obviously more interested in picking at his chili than talking, you finish your second sandwich.

Fifteen minutes left for lunch break, you deal with your trash before sitting back down at the table with Craig. His container of chili is empty, yet he's still staring at the table. Wondering if this constitutes something you're supposed to tell your boss about, you abandon that thought when Craig raises his head.

"Yo, Anon," he says, sounding listless, "you okay? Nothing bad happened to you over the weekend, did it?"

"No," you say. A moment later you resign yourself to be somewhat talkative and shrug your shoulders. "A few surprises, but it was alright."

"That's good. I was worried about you, dude." Craig's ears droop. "And I'm pretty sure that's why I pissed off Jameson, I thought he might know what was up with you even when he said he didn't. Got chewed out after work for asking too many times."

You have no idea how to feel about the revelation that Craig was worried about you, or that he pissed off a coworker. The latter makes sense, except for his current attitude, and the former you refuse to think about. Lacking any idea of what to say, you go with, "Mr. Crombe is the only one who'll know if anything is up with me. I avoid socializing at work."

"So I've heard." He gathers his trash up in a pile but doesn't get up. "If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I don't mean to piss people off."

Biting the inside of your lip, you wonder if you should say anything or just silently accept the offer. Except you've got to work with Craig for who knows how long. Between being annoyed at lunch breaks and after work, and him being depressed, you'll take being annoyed. After all, people zoning out in warehouses can cause accidents so there's no way in hell you're going to let Mr. Crombe blame you for Craig screwing up.

"Craig, you haven't pissed me off," you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. "But I'll be honest, pretty much everyone figures out on their second day that I'm not a people person. It doesn't mean I hate you or anyone else, I just keep to myself. That said, I really don't mind showing you the ropes, you're a good worker."

"I'm just trying to follow training manuals," he says, looking in your general direction.

You nod. "Fact you read them at all is a point in your favor as not just a worker, but a person. We've had people who barely read the cover page."

"I want to take this job seriously." He sighs. "Not upset the people I work with."

Chewing over what to say, you suppose the obvious makes the most sense. "So why were you worried about me?"

"I thought you might've been hurt when you didn't show up for work, or were maybe skipping to avoid me," he says, his face honest and ears drooping in embarrassment.

He wears his heart on his sleeve, doesn't he? And it's only a hunch right now, but you think Craig's got something he's not talking about. Something that's weighing on him heavily, judging from the way his eyes drift down and his ears are suddenly lifeless.

"I mean, yeah, you have annoyed me several times," you admit, his ears drooping further. "But you've also listened to me and backed off when you've crossed lines, and I've got respect for that. If you're wondering where we stand, I'm just trying to look out for a coworker on the job. There are no hard feelings, and if you're really wondering my weekend was an absolute fucking rollercoaster." A moment later you add, "But it's all good now. So thanks for worrying about me, Craig."

His ears flick and he almost meets your gaze. You're shorter than him but he's acting like you're some kind of giant. "So we cool?" he asks

You nod.

"That's good to know." He looks over at the clock and sighs, the lunch break only five minutes from ending. "Thanks my dude. And so you know you made the right call, this weekend was a bust for me."

As he gathers his trash, you remember something about listening to how his weekend went, and given the choice between talking about yours and hearing about his, you don't hesitate. "What happened?" you ask.

"Hell dude, I didn't even make it to a bar," he says, going to the corner trash can a few feet away. "Tire blew out, dropped my phone and cracked the screen calling for help, and when my step-dad rescued my tail, I got an earful from him. Then…" He shakes his head. “I wasn't in any kind of mood for bar hopping after all that. And things went hella south from there, next couple of days were non-stop cursed luck."

A lance of sympathy spears you. As does an irrational worry that some of your bad luck rubbed off on him somehow. "Shit, sorry to hear."

"S'all good. I'm glad you didn't get dragged into the shitshow that started a bad weekend," he says, grabbing his hardhat and empty tupperware. "But hey dude, this is crapshoot but you know anywhere reliable that repairs phone screens?"

You scratch the back of your head, thinking back to when you first job hunted in this town. "My knowledge is a year out of date," you admit. “But where I'd suggest depends on your phone."

Craig flips his phone out, letting its case protected body clatter against the table before he slides it toward you. Even with the screen off you can see the web of jagged cracks beneath the screen protector. From shape alone you know the manufacturer, even though the only labeling they have is a fruit on the back. Your first instinct is to apologize to him that he has one of them but you restrain yourself; not everyone has your disdain for the company and its hipster cult, you remind yourself. That and the products work, you just hate the walled garden they've created for their device ecosystem. You shake your head, putting aside your personal biases.

"I can tell you what not to do," you say. "Don't bring it anywhere near a brand authorized repair place. They're pretty much required to screw you over on even a simple battery swap."

"Battery swaps are simple?" the canine mutters, looking at his phone with confusion. "You know about this tech stuff, Anon?"

"I've worked on phones and computers before. Made decent side money on it for a few years," you shrug, not wanting to get too deep into the details of your past. Or how you'd rather be working at a repair place than this job, but the pay is slightly better.

"Do you still do that?" Craig asks hopefully.

"Sold all of my tools and parts when I moved here," you say, shaking your head so you don't grimace. It got you much needed cash for a down payment, but you still regret selling your stock and set up. "But if you really want a recommendation, I still have a list of repair places from when I was job hunting. I can bring it for you tomorrow."

"You'd be the man if you did that," the canine says, putting on a weak smile.

"It's just copying some notes," you shrug, looking to the clock.

"Thanks, my dude," the self-proclaimed wolf says, looking at the time. "Damn. Guess we gotta go back to earning that dole."

As you both get ready to head back to the warehouse floor and work, a thought crosses your mind. Why don't you try applying to one of those phone or computer repair places? Or at least buy enough tools that you can start doing some repair work again on the side? Even if it's just fixing junk from flea markets and selling it online, extra cash and a constructive hobby would probably do you some good.

Shelving positive thoughts about the future, you and Craig get back to the daily grind of warehouse work and not getting crushed by forklifts.

---

Your unintentionally short work week sails by. You and Anya catch up every night, either in a video chat or string of messages online. A plan to meet up on Saturday for shopping and then dinner together takes shape, the prospect of another date exciting and nerve wracking at the same time. But seeing her nervously floof up in a video chat when you ask where the two of you should eat eases some of your worry; she's still the same Anya you've been getting to know. A feathery mess of nerves with a good heart.

By the end of your last work shift for the week, Craig's mood rises somewhat. He's animated in the mornings and you two actually engage in some light conversation during breaks. But he still spends long spells staring at his food during lunch breaks and hasn't followed you into the parking lot all week. The list of repair places you gave him seems to have worked out, as he proudly shows you his fixed phone screen on Thursday. You correct him on the fact it's been replaced and not fixed, but it probably goes over his head as he's too busy thanking you.

Somehow you survive to Friday without any incidents.

Clocking out for the day, you step outside and spot him ruffling his hair and ears as he stares down at his phone. From this angle, he looks even more like some kind of mutt dog with fur dyed gray than ever before, but for the sake of peace, you keep those thoughts to yourself.

As you walk by, he looks up, catching your attention. His mouth opens to say something, but he shuts it with a grimace. Pitiful eyes somewhere between a lost puppy and abandoned soul stare right at you.

A part of you wants to walk away. Leave him and whatever troubles he's got. Unfortunately, a twinge of your conscience keeps you in place. But the look on his face, it's something you must've worn a few times. Hard hearted despondency, like he's telling himself it's his fault or the world is just built against him. It reminds you too much of when supposed friends ditched you in your time of need after promising to be there the next day, or the first few times dates walked out on you in a restaurant. You groan on the inside as you realize you're actually sympathizing with Craig right now.

Cursed with a conscious and basic empathy, no doubt nurtured by Anya bringing some social interaction back into your life, you start toward the lanky canine.

"Hey Craig, everything alright?" you ask, fully aware that this is liable to blow up in your face.

His ears lower. "Uh, yeah man. Just..." his eyes flit to his phone, "just about to get an Uber."

You raise an eyebrow and look out into the parking lot. You don't spot his vehicle anywhere. "You haven't gotten new tires on your car yet?"

"I had to loan it to my step-dad," he says quietly. "He was going to pick me up but had to cancel last moment."

Maybe it's from being around Anya and her openness doing something to your reclusiveness, but your mouth starts speaking for you without consideration for the future. "If you don't live too far away I can give you a lift."

"Really?" he asks, looking up hopefully from his phone. Only for a wince of regret to dull his expression. "Ah, if it's not getting you in the way. I live off of Grovewood, out past the highway."

Which is the opposite end of town from your apartment, if you're recalling correctly. A few bucks in gas and at least twenty or thirty minutes added to your normally swift commute. On top of risking Craig thinking you want to be friends. You chew that mental math for a moment, but having been in his situation before, you won't feel good about yourself if you don't extend an offer. He may not be stranded like you, but the fact he's looking to get an Uber instead of asking another coworker tells you a lot. Whatever he did to upset Jameson must have him on edge.

"Other side of town, but that's not bad," you say, hitching your thumb out behind you. "I'll give you a lift home if you want it."

"Really?" his ears perk up, and the rest of him relaxes when you nod in the affirmative. "Thanks Anon, my dude. I really owe you one."

"Just let me text my girlfriend first," you say, pulling out your phone.

Craig's eyes go wide as saucers. "Shit, this isn't gonna keep you from a date is it? An Uber's no big deal, seriously dude I got it."

Well, add one more reason why you shouldn't be shitty to him. It's hard to be mad at him when he's being considerate.

"No date today, that's for tomorrow," you explain, thumbing the buttons on your dumb phone. "I'm just letting her know I'll be late to a planned voice chat."

"Man, you sure? I don't want to be cramping your schedule or nothin'," he says, hands expressive with worry.

"I wouldn't have offered if it wasn't fine," you point out, while sending off your text to Anya.

She replies with a quick assurance it's fine, and with a flirty ;> emote while promising tomorrow will be fun. Your heart skips a beat. Well, you suppose that's all taken care of.

"Alright," you say, "it's all good on my end." You flip your phone shut and hold it up for Craig to see. "I'll be relying on you for directions, since this thing can barely text."

"Can do," he nods.

You make your way to your car, Craig ambling along beside you. Unlocking the doors takes a few moments since you have to do it manually. Then you get quite the sight, seeing someone as tall as Craig bend down to stuff himself into an old sedan. Your knees wince in sympathy when you see him cram his legs into the seat. When you get in you see his ears are pressed down by the roof of the car, folded halfway and making him look goofier than usual. He fiddles with his phone, so you get the car started and moving.

As you pull out of the parking lot you hear the synthetic voice of a navigation assistant say, "In fifty feet turn left on-"

"Stupid thing," Craig snaps, a split second before you were going to tell him to kill the virtual assistant before you chuck it out of the car. He's apologetic so you let your snap anger at unhelpful electronic devices simmer down.

Taking your eyes off the road for a moment, you see the map app pulled up on his phone screen. "That's a feature I do not miss," you comment, turning your attention back to traffic and you turn.

"Forgot to turn it off, sorry."

"It happens," you shrug, glad he stopped it before you impulsively got mean. What are you, your mother? You breathe out slowly, unpleasant memories trying to creep in.

A tense silence threatens to overtake the drive. It obviously bothers your passenger more than you, the canine shifting uncomfortably in the seat. After a couple of minutes he can't take it and needs to say something, you can see it in his body language. The way he looks around and squirms uncomfortably. Like the words bubbling up in him, demanding to be free. Until he can't take it anymore.

"Thanks again for the ride, Anon," he says. "S'cool of you. I'd still be waiting for that Uber if you hadn't shown up."

"Don't worry about it." Your fingers drum on the wheel, memories of events you want to forget stabbing at your concentration. Until you regretfully admit, "I couldn't not offer. I've been ditched or left stranded enough to know how much it sucks."

"You're a good dude," he nods, shadow on his face suggesting that he understands all too well. It bothers you on some level that you're sympathizing with him. "When I get my car back I'll pay you back somehow Anon, I promise."

Not wanting to hold him to anything, let alone a vague promise, you silently nod and keep driving. Past the turnoff for the highway he starts giving you directions, his eyes flicking between the road and his phone. That seems to satisfy his need to talk. He directs you into a neighborhood with large enough yards and houses you feel entirely out of place. They're on that uncomfortable edge between a house and a McMansion, screaming of large mortgages and square footage. Three turns later, and hoping you haven't gotten lost, Craig nods his head.

"This is good," he says at a corner. You pull close to the edge of the road and stop. He hurries to open the door, but doesn't step out, instead staring at you with the eyes of a lost dog. "Seriously, thanks Anon. Really good turn, y'know? And I'll see you at work on Monday?"

"Unless the world ends, yeah," you nod.

"My dude, I appreciate this. With any luck I'll have my wheels back on monday."

You shrug. "It's nothing, seriously. If the roles were reversed I get the feeling you'd do the same."

That seems to bring a small smile to the canine's face. "Hell, I sure will now."

He extracts himself out of the car. His knees loudly pop as he unfolds his cramped limbs. Okay, maybe he was stalling for a good reason. He's tall enough to have cramped legroom in even the front seat. You're glad you weren't snappy at him.

"Oh, and have fun on your date, my dude," he says, shutting the car door.

You give him a thumbs up before he walks off.

Well that went a lot better than expected, you think to yourself as you drive away. The sheer normalcy has you wondering if your bad luck might be at an end, or if this is all just a prelude to another episode of your life trying to fall apart. Or is this a turning point? Maybe things are finally on the upswing after a rotten few years.

Either way, at least Craig isn't as annoying as you first thought. Being wrong isn't so bad sometimes.

---

The next day you spend trying to distract yourself from the pre-date jitters. Which means attempting to cook a bacon and spinach soufflé for breakfast. It doesn't come out as nice as you'd hope, but it's still better than your last attempt. Then it's on to needlessly cleaning your kitchen, going on a jog, and a long shower. Even after you go out and get wrapping supplies for the gift you got Anya, you're back at your apartment and it's only a couple of hours past noon. It takes you all of five minutes to wrap the gift with your new supplies, and another ten to make certain you're presentable for a casual date. After all that's done, there's nothing left to distract you.

You can't stand the waiting anymore and have to send Anya a text. "still meeting at 3:30?"

Knowing better than to let the waiting drive your nuts, you go to your laptop and try to distract yourself with mindless videos as you wait for a reply.

It's not entirely successful. No matter how interesting it normally is for your nerdy side to see someone replace dried out capacitors on an ancient microcomputer's power supply and explaining the history of a product nearly twice your age, you can't get into it. Your stomach is too busy nervously churning at the thoughts of where the date with Anya might go after the events of last weekend. For someone so nervous, she sure knows what she wants once she's comfortable. And she sure got comfortable last weekend, grinding herself on you like that.

Your phone buzzes, pulling you away from the video and recent memories. The buzzing continues, telling you it's a call and not a text. Hitting pause on the video, you answer without checking who it is. "Hello?"

"Hi Anon," Anya says, voice tinny because of your phone's crummy speaker. "Sorry, I just got out of the shower and saw your text."

"It's alright," you say, while the mental image of her naked and floofed up fills your mindseye. "I just wanted to check if our date plans are still the same."

Shopping and dinner. Simple, normal, and not too hard on your wallet since she's only buying you a shirt. Though you'll be paying for dinner, even if you have to do some dirty tricks.

"Yup. I'll be over there to pick you up in, uh," her voice gets thinner for a moment, no doubt checking her phone screen, "thirty minutes. Ha, crud, I need to get dressed quickly."

"I'll let you go then. See you soon, Anya."

"Oh hey, uh, before that," she bumbles out, voice raising in pitch with her nerves, "do you want to pack an overnighter? Just in case?"

The mental image of an increasingly nervous raptor poofing out delays your brain's ability to process what she just said. When it hits that she's roundabout suggesting you can stay the night, your tongue finds its way between your worrying teeth. Wincing, glad she can't see your silent reaction to biting your tongue, you force out, "Yeah. Can't hurt to be prepared in case we lose track of time."

"I was thinking that you could, uhm," she stalls out, only able to continue a few seconds later, "uh, n-nevermind. I'm going to go get dressed before I turn into a total doof."

"You're doing fine," you assure. "I'll be outside waiting, since it's pretty nice today."

"Thanks, Anon," she mumbles, tension in her voice lowering. "I'll be there in a bit. Top down." A moment later, she adds, "C-convertible top down, I mean."

If her voice wasn't warbling you'd be convinced she was trying to goad you into imagining her naked. Before she gets even more anxious, you say, "Alright. See you soon."

"Y-yeah," she stammers before abruptly hanging up.

Well, at least you can understand why she was so quick to hang up this time. Poor raptor. You still aren't sure on the exact details of her last relationship but having to hide things sounds awful. Still, it's clear she's trying to break out of that shell. You just hope the small gift you have for her won't cause her to melt down. You reason it will be wise to give it to her at her place.

Breathing out a sigh, nerves on edge as the meet up time nears, you go into your bedroom to get that overnighter packed. Underneath your dresser, you find the laptop carrying bag from your college days, which seems like a better choice than the backpack you've got hidden in the cabinet above the fridge. Boredom based cleaning sessions mean there are next to no dust bunnies to pick off of the dully colored canvas. You grab a change of clothes to stuff inside, then in goes a plastic bag to put your toothbrush in. The battery on your phone is a bit low so you make sure the charger gets packed as well.

Deciding that's good enough for what's only a possibility, you start to head out of your apartment. Only to abruptly stop at the door and turn around. You rush to grab the shirt Anya loaned you after she, in her emotional anguish, accidentally ripped open the back of the one you'd been wearing. "Can't forget this," you mumble, the 'DINO' parody of the best DIO album artwork bringing a smile to your face.

How you found someone with such fantastic taste is beyond your comprehension. All you can do is go along for the ride and hope things don't fall apart.

Cautiously folding the old band shirt, you lay it over your arm and head out of your apartment. It only takes a couple of minutes to lock your door and get down the stairs, the weather nice and pleasant. You reach the cracked concrete sidewalks and meander around the building. The parking area is filled with the usual shiny leased vehicles, old junkers, and everything in between. Your little white sedan is one of the latter, the paint not flaking but undeniably close to it. Resting against the trunk, you shuffle your bag and the shirt you're carrying aside to pull out your phone. No missed messages, and it's still a few minutes before Anya could conceivably get here. So you put the device away and stare up at the clouds lazily drifting across the blue sky.

It takes maybe a minute before you're thinking of the white, downy feathers that run from Anya's throat to much, much lower. How pleasant it's been to feel her feathers glide against your fingers or brush past your nose. The way she tries to wrestle your tongue into submission. Her breath mixing with yours while her hips lay against yours-

You force yourself to look away, breaking the daydream before your body reacts to those mental images and memories. You try to tell yourself that today is nothing more than a swing by a clothing store, a trip to some music shop, and dinner with Anya. Unfortunately, the overnight bag you packed keeps you from truly deluding yourself. She's into you, and you're more than into her. It's no accident she asked you to bring an overnighter.

You stare at the apartment building, trying to stave off doubts and self-sabotaging thoughts. For maximum distraction, you look for all the spots the maintenance crew missed last time they washed the siding, which turns out to be fewer than you expected.

As you decide that maybe the groundskeeping crew actually deserves some of the money they get, the purr of an exotic engine and garble of second hand music snatches your attention.

A sleek, green convertible pulls into the dingy parking area of your apartment complex, the agile shape and curves making it an ill fit for the neighborhood. The music cuts down right as you recognize the bass and whiskey blasted vocals. Behind the wheel sits the scaly and feathery form of your date, a pair of uniquely shaped wraparound sunglasses covering her eyes, sleek and stylish as her car. As she drives closer, you can make out a smile lifting the edges of her mouth. She parks as close as possible to you before waving you over with gusto.

You return the wave, a thin smile crossing your face as you go to her car. She's in an Iron Maiden band shirt, with glorious heavy metal artwork straight out of the 80s, and jeans cut at the knees. Even when she's sitting down it's hard for you to resist looking her over, or staring at the fluffy down at the neck of her shirt. She doesn't have the biggest breasts, but she sure seemed to enjoy it last week when you were cupping the handful she's got.

Swallowing, trying to keep your thoughts on the important things, you let your mouth run on autopilot. "It's great to see you again, Anya."

"Took the words out of my mouth," she nervously chuckles. Despite her wearing sunglasses, it's easy to tell where she looks thanks to her head shifting along with her gaze. Anya makes no effort to mask it, she's sizing you up, and hopefully she's not disappointed with what she sees. After a moment she asks, "Do you want to put your stuff in the trunk?"

"Yeah," you say, her claws working quickly to tap something on her keys.

The rear of her car pops up with a distinctly pneumatic hiss. You circle round and look inside the trunk, seeing only a tool case snugly strapped down. Slinging the bag off your shoulder, you set it inside, and nearly jump out of your shoes when feathers brush against your arm.

"Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you," Anya says, backing up half a step.

Someone in flipflops really shouldn't be that quiet on concrete, but the contrition on her face is genuine and unacceptable. "It's alright," you grin, trying to ignore the crazy beat of your heart. You flip the shirt off of your forearm, holding it out for her to take. "But hey, since you're here I can give this back to you."

Her claws delicately take the folded band shirt from you, the raptor intentionally letting her touch linger on your skin. "Thanks," she grins, tail swinging as she hesitantly takes half a step forward. Scaled lips press against your cheek, only for her to quickly dart away in embarrassment. You take the semi-public affection as a good sign. "But if I'm being honest," she says, fingers twiddling, “I think it looked better on you than me."

Since she's being so forward, you return the gentle kiss, getting her on the tip of her snout. If she could blush she'd be red right now, but she shows it in other ways. The fluff of her headfeathers is cute as ever. "I haven't seen it on you," you say, "but I think I'll disagree anyway."

"I, uh," her feathers ruffle up a notch in embarrassment as she smiles. "I guess I'll wear it for you sometime."

"Only if you want to," you encourage, worrying you may have overloaded the romantically nervous raptor.

Anya, fluffed up from some simple flirting, flips the shirt into the trunk, laying it over your bag. "I think I kind of want to," she manages, before shutting the trunk and turning to you. "So, uhm, ready to go?" she asks.

"Yeah. But you sure you're okay with just hitting a big-box store?"

"Mhm," she nods. "If that's where you're comfortable getting a replacement shirt from." A tense, guilty smile turns up the corner of her mouth. "That and the music store I want to take you to is across the street, so two birds with one stone."

"Sounds perfect to me."

Tension melts out of Anya's smile when she sees you're comfortable with the idea. There's still a tightness to her grin, but you chalk that up to lingering guilt about the accidental death of your old shirt. She goes to the driver's side of her convertible, clearly in a hurry to get back on track, so you mirror her motions. Mostly. She hops over her door instead of opening it, landing with practiced poise before guiding her tail into the hole in the back of her seat.

Once you sit down, she turns the music back on, switching from Motorhead to the band on her shirt. With Iron Maiden going, neither of you even need to ask, you both just start singing along like a couple of content idiots. She nails the higher notes while you butcher them, but who cares? She certainly doesn't, sharp-toothed mouth following the lyrics along as her fingers tap on the steering wheel along to the wail of guitars.

This is what both of your souls need right now. Forgetting the grind of work, the misery of personal demons, and any judgments from those around you. Enjoying something as silly and simple as singing along with someone whose company relaxes you. Every flick of her claws, rustle of her feathers, and twitch of her smiling scales has you falling farther into her pace. There's only the now and this unrestrained bit of fun you're sharing with Anya.

Before you know it, the drive and singalong ends, both of you winding down as Anya pulls into the parking lot of the clothing store. Once you get out of the car, a small pit of dread about having to meander through the store fills your stomach. If it were up to you, the shirt would be forgotten, just an accident that didn't matter. She really doesn't need to do this for you.

A feathery arm wraps around yours, halting your second thoughts. You look down at Anya and see her green eyes, her sunglasses gone. There's a tiny cringe on her face from her spur of the moment physical affection, as if she's struggling against an instinct. She's as nervous as you are uncertain, her headfeathers starting to rise with each fraction of a second you don't say anything.

"I guess I don't need to ask if you want to hold hands," you quip.

"I hope you don't mind if I'm clingy and touchy," she smiles nervously. "It really relaxes me."

"Getting to be close to you relaxes me," you chuckle, setting off with your deinonychus date. "And hey, we can't lose each other in the store this way."

Her grin eases, starting to shine with her hopes for the day. "Careful," she says, her hip bumping yours intentionally, "you might give me ideas about future outings."

"Maybe I want to give you ideas," you tease, as both of you enter the building, Anya's uncertainty seeming to stay at the door.

The place is higher end than where you usually shop, but it's still a mass market, heavily stocked big box store. They just keep it cleaner, have more inviting lighting, and take more care with how everything is laid out. The two cashiers you see are humans, but half the customers seem to be anthros. And if you aren't mistaken about a skink and human pair at a register, the lizard man and human woman holding hands. You and Anya aren't the only human and anthro couple here. A tiny weight lifts off your shoulders, seeing that no one is batting an eye at the coupling, but that's a personal demon you put out of mind almost immediately.

Your raptor companion, oblivious to your thoughts, holds onto you while snatching up a bright red, handheld shopping basket. "I can't run you over this way," she half jokes, half apologizes.

"Works well for a single shirt too," you say, leading onward.

Not that you have any idea of where to go, but Anya doesn't seem to be in a hurry, so neither are you. It gives you a chance to amble by the jewelry and accessory area. You pay keen attention to where she looks, hoping for clues about her tastes. Unfortunately, her gaze wanders seemingly at random, the raptor not missing a step as you walk along. Eventually you make it to the men's section nestled in the back corner of the store.

Her green eyes light up at the lone display with graphic t-shirts. "Heh," she chuckles. "Never thought I'd see that in this place."

"See what?"

She points a claw at a shirt with a dark, edgy graphic of skeletal snakes emerging from the eye sockets of a demonic skull. Your brain clicks the gears together a moment later. That's the logo of Scale Snatcher, her favorite band. It is surprising to see a shirt from them in this store, but from what you know their last couple of albums went gold. "Sorry," she says, letting go of your arm and fishing her phone out, "I've got to get a picture. This is too damn funny."

A little confused by what she means, you nonetheless find her energy endearing. Not wanting to be a snoop, you do your best to avoid looking at her phone screen when she brings it up with a tap. But the background picture catches your eye as she taps at the glass. A simple, cartoony turtle of some sort, surrounded by hearts. Doing your best to repress a smile at seeing hints of her girly side, you wait for her to snap a few pictures.

"Sorry about that," she says, tossing her phone back into her purse. "So, anything catching your eye?"

Even though you don't want to have her buy you a replacement shirt, you know it's important to her. Might as well get her help then, right? "I'm not sure," you admit. "You've got a way better sense of style than me, if I could tap your help I'd owe you one."

Anya fidgets, as if caught between confusion and excitement. She must settle on acceptance, her head bobbing as she looks around. "I c-can do that."

Oh hell, you didn't mean to stress her out. But before you can say something, she offers you the shopping basket. Then she moves behind a rack, her tail swaying behind her like a floating, feathered serpent.

When you catch up to her, you don't see a nervous raptor but a very focused one. "Let's see, which one..." she murmurs, grabbing a couple of shirts.

"This would look good with your eyes, I think," she says, holding up a dark gray shirt on a coat hanger, which means it's going to be pricey. "And this would look good too," she says, lifting something blue.

Approaching to stealthily check the price tags, you're stopped when she shoves the shirt into your hands. "Hold it there," she says, pressing it against your chest while she takes a step back. Anya's head tilts and twists as she looks at you from several angles. "Hrm," she mumbles. She exchanges the shirts, swapping gray for blue, and you decide to give up looking for the price tag. For now.

"Maybe that one," she says, tapping a claw against her chin. She tilts her head. "Or maybe the gray is better?"

"I'm surprised you haven't suggested green."

She grins. "Green is nice, but I really love what gray and blue do for your eyes."

"Really?" You raise a brow at her. "Which one works best then?"

"Hrm." Anya brings the gray closer, pressing it against your chest and looking quickly between your eyes and chest. "I think," she says, so close you can make out even the tiniest scales on her snout, "I think they're equal. So I might as well get both."

"You sure about that?" you ask, right as she starts folding the first shirt to place into the handbasket.

"W-well, you could always pay me back by wearing them," she quickly says. "I, uh, really do like what they do for your eyes. So you could think of this as a selfish investment."

Unwilling to argue with that logic, not when she's being so honest, you nod along. Looking to break the tension that's formed, you jump on the first thought you have. "I guess I'd better do that. But I'm pretty surprised you didn't recommend a Scale Snatcher shirt."

"Hm?" she glances back to the graphic shirt display, then nervously at her hands as she folds the second shirt. "Oh. Nah, that would be a little too..." she trails off. Then starts back up, "I like them, but I'd rather see you in your favorite band shirt. For that real metal energy, y'know?"

She's not looking at you so you know something is up, but you're so desperate to save the conversation you let whatever is up slide. "I think I get it. Though that DINO shirt you have was incredible."

"Heh," Anya chuckles, taking your arm in hers, "it really is. Maybe I can get my claws on one for you so we can match."

"That would be something," you smile, half-convinced she might do it as you make your way to the front of the store.

The checkout goes smoothly, Anya ignoring the price and using her debit card while you balk at the numbers. That much for two shirts? You know she must make decent money, or get a lot of support from her family, but it astounds you how cheery she is once the transaction is done. Or maybe she's normal, and you've become a miser because of the necessities of penny pinching? It doesn't matter as much when she's got your arm in hers again, your mind soothed by the content look on her face as you head out to the parking lot. It's like a weight got lifted off her shoulders, and that's good enough for you to put aside your own issues.

While she opens the trunk to put the bag away, you ask, "Do you want to walk to this music store?"

Her head shakes, headfeathers moving just a touch slower than the rest of her. "Nah. I don't want to leave my baby out here unattended," she says, patting the trunk fondly as she shuts it.

It is a nice car, so you don't blame her. With the top down, you wouldn't put it past a particularly dumb teenager to try and sit inside. Or a less savory individual trying to do more than that. With the decision made, you both get in her car for a short ride across the road, into a stripmall with a wide range of shops. Near the middle is a simple sign, "Dob's Records & Strings," with the two O's in the shape of vinyl 45's. When she parks in front, you see that the store takes up two spaces, which means double the rent to your miserly mind. Either this hypothetical Dob does killer business or it's a vanity project by someone who loves their music hobby.

You get out of the car and meet up with Anya, who reaches for your arm. She breaks out into a self-conscious smile when you take her hand instead. "You're really okay with this for a date?" she asks, shuffling her feet. “I know I'm way more of a music nerd than you."

"And I like that about you," you grin. “Would kissing you on the nose help prove how serious I am?"

She fluffs out in embarrassment, but the smile on her face tells you she's enjoying it. "M-maybe some other time. Going in together seems bold enough when I know the owner."

"Oh?" So this date is layered for her? A test of her conviction, or limits maybe?

"Yeah," she says, rubbing her snout as you both get on the concrete in front of the store, where she stops moving. She stands there, obviously needing to say more. "Dob's a family friend and a total music nerd. But he shouldn't be here today, so there won't be any awkwardness."

"I'd say we survived some of the worst awkwardness possible," you point out, hoping it's not too much to bring up last weekend's unfortunate event.

"Heh, y-yeah. But anyway," she shakes her head, "we're here to geek out together. The selection is great, but the real cool thing is there are some of those old demo setups. The ones they had before MP3s took over everything."

"Sounds like an amazing date," you grin.

"There's also a ton of guitars," she says, starting for the door. "So if by some stroke of bad luck and Dob is here, I can maybe, uh, play a bit for you?"

"I'd love that. I haven't wanted to pressure you, but I've been curious ever since I learned you could play an instrument," you say, opening the door for her.

"I wasn't sure if it would be weird to offer playing for you," she grins, toeclaws tapping on the concrete before she steps in, with you trailing right behind thanks to your intertwined fingers.

"It's not weird at all," you say.

Anya seems pleased by that, her eyes drifting away to look around. You do the same, getting a feel for the layout. There are rows and rows of CDs and vinyl on displays that are practically neck height and built for maximum storage space. The far wall is dominated by vintage posters framed and priced, while the nearby wall has a counter and register, along with guitars lined up. You see a lot of music equipment on the back wall, but the people in the store catch your attention. There's a tall gator behind the counter, his wider snout letting you tell him apart from the crocs you've seen, dressed in a sharp looking polo and khakis. Not the look you expected, but more eye-catching is the person leaning on the counter and talking to the gator. With how much time you've spent around Anya you can recognize him as a raptor right away, his black head and arm feathers tipped with striking white.

"Oh fuck," Anya hisses besides you. "Okay, uh," she glances at you, then to the door, "shit, uh, how about we come back another time Anon? This is-"

"Anya!" booms a deep, gravely voice. You see the gator smiling wide, while your raptor date goes stiff beside you. "It is you! Come on over little chickadee, we were just talking about you."

You can hear Anya muttering under her breath as the raptor at the counter turns around. "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit," she mutters so rapidly you wonder if she replaced her heartbeat with that obscenity.

The male raptor looks dead at you both, a lopsided grin on his darkly scaled face. White strips loop around the top of his snout, reminding you of something you can't place. It feels like you've seen him before but that doesn't make a lot of sense, Anya is the only raptor you've met in person. Then he opens his mouth and speaks, "Hey there stranger, I didn't think I'd bump into you here!"

Oh hell, you know that voice. That's the same one that bumbled into her apartment when you were face first in Anya's slit and she was polishing your knob with her wickedly long tongue and hands. Your heart starts racing, leaving you frozen while Anya breaks free from her paralysis.

"Hi dad," she says, trying not to sound like she's forcing the words out.