FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

** Questions**

By Laz Briar

“Well, shit."

Benneck was in a tizzy. Flustered, red in the cheeks, pacing back and forth as he explained to Earl Respin and Carla Axli – sales product managers – about a very, very tight deadline. As in tomorrow. As in approximately eighteen hours from the second his feline jaw stopped flapping.

Ozzie fidgeted, fingers rolling together as his ears perked. He stood in a crowd of discontent faces and the mood was silently agreed upon: fuck.

BlueStar Fuel, one of Songbird's biggest clients, was about to pitch a complete overhaul to its message system. Every truck driver and shipping coordinator sporting the logo was expected to receive a shiny new app completely tailored to their specific routes. Problem was, they – the collective BlueStar administration - failed to mention this major change to Songbird two days before the expected release.

In other cases, Mr. Zan would've given them the collective “no" and told them the deadline was unacceptable and required a better timeframe. But this was BlueStar. They handled some of the last big fuel shipments for the collective States and even managed international supply. By utilizing Songbird, they were essentially a massive banner of sponsorship. And, well, it helped their subscription service paid enormous dividends. That nice little corporate expansion in mid-June was thanks to them.

“Shit, shit, shit," Ozzie muttered. Donne, a squeaky otter three months into his sales position, cast the yeendog a worried glance.

“What?"

Ozzie didn't take his eyes off Benneck. He figured the overweight feline was about to have a heart attack.

“Did you hear him?" said Ozzie. “We just got dicked by an insane deadline. From our biggest client."

Donne didn't understand. “Yeah? So?"

Ozzie tugged at his tie. “So, mix in a bit of Zanny's company culture bullshit and a mandatory delivery? We're working late. And by late, I mean all night, if we're lucky."

The otter's whiskers wiggled.

“W-what? No way. Why would we have to stay behind? We. . . already sold it, right?"

Ozzie almost chuckled. Poor kid.

“Yeah, and now we have to prepare follow ups to every single station expecting the app release. That means we have to verify all logins, provide new IDs and. . ."

Ozzie stopped. Dicks on a dime he didn't even want to think about it.

In denial, Donne shook his head. “Oh, oh hell no. Fuck that! I'm not staying for that."

Ozzie wasn't one for corporate obedience, but even he knew better.

“Don't expect to come in next week, then."

Muzzle tugged with a frown. It was less a threat and more matter-of-fact. Mr. Zan was one of those 'company loyalist' types, who expected everyone to stay on board, like a huge family. Especially in times of crisis. He was, at least, generous with overtime, but damn you if you jumped ship when things were south without a legitimate excuse.

“Oh, come on. You're kidding." Donne put paw-hands to hips, chittering.

“He isn't."

To Donne's other side, opposite of Ozzie, Tobas Yetsley cut in, a sharp mouse head of his division in sales.

Donne looked to the mouse, shock freezing his features.

“They'll let you ride home if you need to get some overnight supplies. But if you don't come back, fwit."

Tobas made a slicing motion with his hand.

Ozzie's attention went back to Benneck, who pointed to his subordinates and marched off.

Earl stepped up now, clapping his hands to get the crowd of coworker's attention. He was a slim, black wolf, probably as lean as Ozzie. Sharply dressed and sharper of tongue, a cutthroat who liked to talk business.

“All right, all right, everyone, square up. This is how this shit's going down tonight. We're folding in the reports division, account, and sales. Hope you got yourself a pen pal because the entire company is in lockdown. We are separating you into teams to get this shit settled out."

Ozzie tilted his head. No one cared about his casual crass language. It was precisely that: shit.

There were curious mutters.

“And yes," he said, tossing a stiff gaze over everyone. “This is overnight. We are not going home. Call your kids, call your wives, call your whores if you have to. We're giving you an hour and then we're hitting it hard."

Almost at once a torrent of groans and hisses washed over him. Carla – a white hair, white furred minx – crossed her arms while Earl shook his head.

“Save it, save it. Take that salt and put it towards work. The company is buying us dinner and we'll be doing coffee runs every other hour."

It did little to abate the angering crowd. Ozzie just let his head sink. God damn.

His thoughts drifted of home, of a nice beer. And of Anson. Dammit, where was his man? He'd find some way to get them out of this.

Oh, right, probably locked up in reports. God only knew what he had to do for the night.

“Questions?" Earl added, though he clearly wanted none.

After ignoring a few obvious “we really can't go home" inquiries, one caught him.

“What do you mean we're folding divisions?"

Carla stepped up for this one.

“It means, to expedite this workload, you'll be working with a person from either reporting, accounting, or both. We need everyone to be in the know. We don't have time for delays in communication."

More curious mutters. Everyone looked between each other.

Carla wasn't sure if they were just daft or didn't really understand, but she huffed anyway.

“Meaning Jack from accounting might pair up with Stella from sales. Got it? We're trying to print up battle plans as we speak and navigate a timetable."

A few hisses emerged from the crowd and someone managed a 'ridiculous.'

Earl shrugged. “Save it kids. We're all pissed about it. But if you want your jobs, stay put. Faster and better we work, sooner we get out of here."

He tapped his watch. “One hour. Get your shit taken care of now. If you don't come back, we won't see you Monday."

Threat received, asshole, Ozzie thought. Shame too. Earl was a good-looking wolf, but had the mannerisms of a wannabe big-wig.

Earl and Carla left soon after, as the min-crowd dispersed. Grumbles echoed throughout and even through thickets of fur, most of Ozzie's coworkers were red as hot blood. He didn't blame them. This was pretty unusual, after all. He had to stay late a couple times in the past, but nothing like this.

He returned to his cubicle, yanking out his phone and thumbing through it.

His first instinct was to text Anson.

Hey, you hear what's up tonight?

It was until the yeendog sat that his phone rumbled in response.

An all-nighter.

-*-

Anson was glad his hyena couldn't see him like this. He was flustered, to put it mildly.

His entire department just got shangheid into something hardly their responsibility. He couldn't go home. He didn't know when he'd get to see his boyfriend again. He was expected to work a shift well into the morning. That was just insanity.

His phone dinged. A sad-face chimera emoji.

Around Anson, his coworkers were shouting over what they needed for the night's work. Phones were ringing like screeching insects and a wall of messages poured in through his universal communication platform. Just. . . noise.

He thumbed a response.

I'm sorry, are you okay?

He blinked. He was apologizing for more than one thing, but couldn't say what.

It was almost autumn. The excruciating hold of SoCal heat as starting to let off and the first week of September promised cooler days. That was nice. But where did the time go?

It felt like only yesterday they were out there. In a place god forgot, in a world of strangers. Even though Ozzie and he had visited the distraught brother – Ronnie – all but two months ago, that was still so fresh. And the events of now, the pressures of company expectations, that wasn't helping.

Because it was chaos. Was this what happened when you kept secrets for too long? BlueStar apparently saw fit to make claims without telling its partner company what the plans were, and look what happened. Was that what he was doing?

By not telling Ozzie, was he sowing chaos?

His phone chimed.

Hell no. Want to go home. Feel like getting shitfaced. Miss you.

He could agree to that. Anson wasn't much for the bottle or casual drugs, but right now? That sounded just fine.

He stifled a chuckle.

Hon, I'm one floor above you.

Ding. An angry chimera emoji now.

I'm allowed to miss you. >:(

A smile. It'd be nice to hold his boy right about now.

After a bit more chatting, towards a direction a little too sordid for work, Anson was given a brief moment to actually leave the building and get supplies, if he needed them. He felt guilty, in fact, texting Ozzie he was off to the store to get some items for the night, but his boy assured him it was all right.

It was strange shopping for work. Stranger still how different his buying habits were now. Because everything included Ozzie in his process. Would Ozzie like this? Does Ozzie eat that? Is this drink okay for Ozzie? Did Ozzie need something?

When he finished at the grocery, he had snagged himself a few ready-coffees, snacks, and tea. The tea was for Ozzie, who – because of his biology – couldn't absorb caffeine in the same way, so coffee was off limits. The snacks were more like torn bits of raw meat, some Ozzie really liked.

Anson felt good. And then he felt bad. Because the only thing he couldn't buy was honesty.

Bah. He swore at himself and returned to his department not long after. He knew why he didn't tell his boyfriend about Ronnie. Because Ronnie was a cesspit and a drug addict. He'd pull Ozzie right down with him, right into that pit.

That was what he told himself. That to protect Ozzie, sometimes it meant keeping things from Ozzie. Right? Right.

Few people looked happy coming back to work when they were supposed to be off. Some were getting off the phone, telling their furious family members they wouldn't make it in until late (if at all). Some tried to wear a veil of faux positivity, hoping their optimism would pay off.

Others, like Anson, accepted their fate and prepared for a grueling evening.

When he came back to his desk, he messaged Ozzie about what he brought back. YUM was the response. When he would actually get to see his boy, well, that was another matter entirely.

But it was still chaos. A half-hour later, one of the division heads came up to Anson, cheeks red, put down a stack of papers on his desk without a word, then marched off.

Anson blinked. It was like getting a syllabus for a class. With curious anxiety, he picked up the hastily printed papers and started to read through it. Most of it were names of sub-clients working with BlueStar. Associates, employees, interns, anyone who had touched Songbird's software was there. Because Anson wrote cybersecurity competency reports, he had an idea of what his job entailed.

With a deep sigh, he started to finger through the parcel, getting a feel for the leviathan task in front of him. It wasn't until a few re-reads he caught something.

No. That couldn't be right.

TEAM 32-O

ANSON H. – CYBESECURITY ANALYST SPECIALIST

OZZIE R. – SALES AND MARKETING REP

Under this, the same sprawl of names and accounts. Anson read over it, again and again. Did he misinterpret in the forest of different titles? Was his mind playing tricks?

No, there it was, plain as day. His “team" was with Ozzie, unless there was a different worker with the same name and initials.

At once, Anson felt a wave of joy. Holy shit, he didn't have to wait til god knew when to see his boyfriend!

And then he felt. . . anxious. He had never worked with Ozzie before. Even though they shared their lives, there were other aspects they didn't. And that was okay, Anson figured. Some parts, like the job, should be insulated. They were trained differently, possessed various methods for handling problems. Would he stop on Ozzie's metaphorical toes?

What if I get on his nerves?

Hmm. Worse. What if they got along well? Too well.

Amidst the rancor and stress, an image flashed through Anson. A little private something, a dark corner, a closet, holding Oz by the hips, stripping away jeans from his slim waist. . .

“Oh, fuck me," he muttered.

Well, he very well might. But that was a problem. Either he expected to stumble over his “coworker," or, they might end up fucking and getting fucked because of it. And that could cost them their job. And if it cost them their job, Anson couldn't take care of his 'yena, and he didn't know how to handle that.

Stop. You're overthinking this. Like you do with everything. With Jasper, with Ronnie, and now this.

Was he? The inability to control his situation was infuriating, or know how it could turn out. But he had no choice, and there was too much to focus on already.

In an attempt to distract himself, Anson went through the account listings all over again. Each had a space adjacent with contact information, like a number and/or address. He wagered this was for sending appropriate information regarding their message platform, like critical firmware updates or the like. Usually a simple task, but there were hundreds of names from dozens of branches across the states.

The tedium of the task dripped into his brain, forming a fuzzy, sloshing weight. His thoughts blurred and fatigue from the job already set in. Was it too early for coffee?

The hour moved on with brisk haste, throwing Anson against his task. He felt both willing and nervous. This was a different scenario. He occasionally saw Ozzie at work, and occasionally they made a joke, and occasionally the yeendog might wink Anson's way. But this was like sitting next to your best friend in math class or something. Robbed of focus because you couldn't stop talking with them.

Suko, a petite fennec, stopped by to give him a folder and directed him to meet with his “team." Second floor amidst adjusted cubicles. He nodded, apprehensive hand coming to take his work and march to B2.

Chaos had set in by the time he reached the elevator. Coworkers were rushing to and fro with the incessant chirp of phone rings blaring in the distance. Many checked their handouts, squared into teams, shaking their heads. They looked like the weight of the world had fallen upon them, crushing their spirit.

A year ago, Anson might've felt the same. But the strange thing about falling, it's easier when there's someone to catch you.

Still, even as thoughts of Oz comforted him, they contained the worries too. He tried to shake them off, reaching the second floor, dodging a crowd trying to muscle its way into the elevator. Beyond that, the sales floor – normally filled with excited voices making bank on commission – was a strange jungle of rearranged desks and cubicles. A fortress of adjustable walls now made spaces for teams, and strained yells banged around the corners of the floor.

Eyes were wide and muzzles were pulled with pained grimaces. Everyone was struggling to make sense of how to tackle their assignment. The clock was ticking.

But again, for Anson, it turned to noise. Background static as his focus switched, hungry gaze seeking out the only person mattering to him. He attempted to catch the shoulder of an orange, rushing tabby, but the fellow was too busy scrambling with a stack of paper.

He wondered if Ozzie had gone searching for him. No, no, not likely. Not in all this.

Feeling the fool, Anson did his best to wade through the forest of hurrying forms. The scents of stressed chimera filled the floor, a strange, panicked 'spice' stinging the air. This made finding Ozzie difficult. His boy liked to wear expensive scents and colognes, kinds that blended well with his natural odor, but amidst all this, it was impossible to pick out.

Finally, though, he caught a familiar sight. Quite brief, only a fraction of a silhouette. But, it was the unmistakable flock of black hair frosted gray. A lovely, styled mane accented by a pierced ear. Ozzie wore silver today, Anson remembered.

Despite everything, he felt a rush of an excitement and energy go through him. Something about seeing his steady flame made it all come together. Everything made sense with Ozzie, even when none of it did.

He rushed over. Ozzie had nose buried in a sheet of paper, eyes strained by the forest of numbers, accounts, and details plastered over it. He didn't even hear Anson.

“Slacking off as usual," said Anson. “Didn't even look for me?"

Ozzie's ears bounced and he spun to see his man. Surprise stretched his features.

“Wha, hey! What the hell?" Ozzie set down the paper, his cheeks flushing.

“Anson?" Ozzie looked around, like the meeting was a sordid affair. And it kind of was. “What are you doing down here?"

It dawned on Anson he hadn't texted his boyfriend about the change.

“They didn't say? We're a team, apparently."

Ozzie gave a furious tail wag, blinking.

“What? No way. . ." His hands shot over to the file he had been browsing, picking through it again.

“How did I miss. . ."

“Maybe it didn't say?" said Anson, offering up his own stack, showing the indicator.

Ozzie looked between the two sheets, face brightening. His muzzle, half agape, pulled into a grin.

“Well damn, my kind of surprise." He had to curl his fists and his frame gave an excited wiggle, struggling not to embrace Anson.

“Are you sure it's right? Sure you didn't just come down here to see me?"

Anson nodded. “Checked and double checked. We're working together, friend."

Ozzie's eyes dilated, his tail still whipping back and forth. It was a warm thing to say. Together. Friend. And it held a certain excitement, seeing as how company relationships weren't technically allowed. No one followed the rule, but no one was exactly “out" about it either.

The yeendog crossed his arms. “Okay Mr. Hillwick. I need your help with these reports," he said, tapping the papers.

For now, the anxiety of working together faded. It just took a playful 'yena to set Anson's worries aside.

“And gosh, I just don't know if I can do it all myself." Ozzie tilted his head, pursing his lips like a pup.

“I need a big, strong man to help me. Do you think. . . you could, mister Hillwick? I'd be soooo grateful."

He winked. Anson laughed.

“Okay, you're making this impossible."

Here, Ozzie offered a come-hither, half lidded glance, cheeks all bright, red, and excited. He leaned, whispering.

“I can make it much more than impossible."

Anson looked around. “Ozzie."

Half excited, half concerned. They weren't going to get anything done if his 'yena kept going for his dick.

“Okay, okay!"

He sat, patting the table the couple was assigned.

“We can get to work if you're in such a rush."

Anson shook his head. He set the snack bag on the table, sighing.

“No, definitely not," said Anson, marrying his list with Ozzie's own. “It's a lot to sort through. What did they give you?"

The yeendog took a sniff at the bag, nose flaring at the cuts of raw meat.

“Probably the same as you. Lots of names, locations, and account references. Some of the ID are only for sales though."

Anson took a breath. Okay, this was it. Foot in the water. Here, they were officially working together. All Anson had to do was treat this like anything else, right? Like a team, like two lovers taking on the world's challenges. It's how it always went in those soppy romance books, anyway, where all obstacles were just a stepping stone into the next romantic kiss or sex or something.

He compared the two lists, checking for the serial. Yes, Ozzie was right. His list had specific number sequences.

“What are they for?"

Ozzie dug through the bag, not looking up, pulling free one of the tea cans.

“This mine?"

Anson nodded.

Smiling, Ozzie snapped it open and took a quick draft. “Seller reference points," he said between sips. “If I log that into my hub, I'll get an account timeline. Reach out date, when the deal closed, that kind of thing."

Anson blinked. “Why is that important?"

It was more thinking out loud.

Ozzie shrugged. “Account priority?"

Anson tapped his fingers. He need a little more than a shrug. They couldn't afford maybes and half-measures here.

“Hmm, what's to prioritize?"

Ozzie set down the can, sliding next to Anson. He touched the account serials.

“Not all clients are equitable. Some are business owners, franchise managers. Others are just bottom tier employees."

Wheels started to turn. But now it was Ozzie's turn to ask a question.

“What's on yours?"

Referring, of course, to Anson's documents. Not too much was different, except for the security serials.

“Oh, uh. Well, I do mostly reports, but I recognize the 'language.' If these are right, it should tell me what tier of software the person is using. If it needs updates or stuff like that."

“Are they?" asked Oz.

Anson looked at Ozzie.

“Do you know if they're right? I'm not second guessing you but, management's running around like they lost their cocks. Could be some errors."

For the first time, Anson wasn't sure. He paused, like that would help. The silence spoke for him.

“So we don't know for sure," Ozzie concluded. “S'okay. Less work for us."

Anson scoffed. “Oz, we should probably get it right on the first go."

“Hey, technical problems are expected. Not everyone will get it one hundred percent. That's an issue for PR and the managers, right?"

Well, it was, but that was beside the point.

“And we get heat if we deliver a faulty product. One hundred angry employee calls about software that doesn't work. They take their business elsewhere. Management gets mad and rolls heads."

Ozzie rolled his eyes, taking another sip, perhaps to stifle his response.

“Yeah, I get those calls. It happens."

“It shouldn't," said Anson.

“World's not perfect, Mr. Hillwick."

A pause dangled between them. Anson forced a nod, but it clearly bugged him.

The yeendog grumbled. “Then how would we fix it?"

Again, Anson grew quiet. He. . . didn't know.

“I'm not sure," he admitted.

Ozzie didn't chide him, just smiled.

“So let's worry about it later."

Anson felt heat. Not the good kind, the kind pushing you from the line of sense to the path of frustration. Irrational. He always had the answer. He always had control, always knew what to do. And now Ozzie did.

This was his department. He felt like a child.

As if to redeem himself, he offered a plan. “Okay, well let me tag these one by one and give you a list. And then we can go down, one by one. Call them up, probably."

Ozzie chewed it over, looking at the list. Around them, the noise and raucous of the office started to fade into a bland, mushy audio.

“Hmm. Or we could sort by tiers? I figure going after the big names first might be a good idea. We want to keep them happy. When I sell big accounts, it's to a manager, usually."

This made more sense to Anson. Goddammit, Ozzie. He was so used to assuming Ozzie needed help with a problem, not the other way around.

“We have to call them one by one?" Anson said, an attempt to sound useful.

Ozzie thought, looking at his screen.

“Hmm, maybe not. I have an auto-call feature. Could do the same for your tech message thing."

Anson considered. Really, why didn't he think of that?

“I mean, if you think that works," said Ozzie, catching Anson off guard. “Do you?"

Well, of course it did. Automating a task like this was an enormous time saver. Doing it any other way was just wasting resources.

And yet, Ozzie still wanted approval. Still doubted his own method, looking to Anson for insight. Even when Anson felt he had little to give.

Anson managed to hide himself. “Yeah, it works great, actually. Saves us a lot of time, might get us out of here earlier."

Ozzie's features brightened. “Then lead the way, Mr. Hillwick," he said, returning to tones sultry.

Anson nodding, pushing away. . . everything. The monotony of work, at least, was a useful distraction, a blur of names, numbers, and noise. The quick rush of excitement faded. The pangs of anxiety lingered. It was going to be a long night.

-*-

One thing chimera had over humans was their “second sense." Their innate understanding of feelings beyond the surface of skin, like they could get a deeper read on someone just by giving them a long, studious glance. A sharper nose and hyper-evolved hearing helped too.

And god, Anson was stressed. It stuck to him like an unpleasant fragrance. Ozzie caught it a little ways into their shift, an hour after they had waded through the first batch of accounts. But, why?

Stress was the obvious answer, right? Except this wasn't the usual stress. No.

Ozzie mulled it over. He had a moment to himself, printing out a list of side accounts the couple couldn't find after digging up an unlisted business. Something minor, a tiny setback. But while he had this break, staring at the nuanced flash of the humming printer, his mind paced.

Humans had an odor to them, always subtle. But it stuck out like an oily fog to chimera. And this was no different, because Anson had whipped himself into a tizzy. Again, not from work, because he recognized this scent. Quite unique, perking up when he confronted Anson about Jasper's letter, or when they drove out to the slabs. A “something I'm not telling you" smell.

But what?

What's he hiding?

Ozzie growled, at himself. This was the wrong line of thinking. Maybe early in when the two were still a foot deep in their relationship, everything “wasn't all out there." Anson was reserved, kept things close guarded. It's how he was raised. But when the chips were down, he opened up. He held a distinct, mature honesty.

Unlike you. Haven't even told him about Jaxon. And you have the nerve to accuse Anson of something?

Yeah, what the hell was Ozzie on about? What kind of boyfriend was he to even humor the idea?

Yet, still. . .

Several steady beeps indicated the printer was done, interrupting his thoughts. He yawned, shaking away his dismal mediation, heading back to his “coworker." Ah, it was probably just the hour. They were at it three hours past the closing shift. It was getting close to ten with a break coming up. Food and coffee breaks were on the house, but Ozzie just settled for his raw meat snack and tea.

He could go for some other raw meat about now.

As he pranced back, his mind attempted to stay focused on work. But an eleven-hour shift was starting to take its toll. The accounts were less of a priority in his head. At this point, Anson was just checking names while Ozzie ran them through his software's auto-dialer.

So while this numbness, this break in routine set in, he started to think again. Down the hall leading back to sales, he slowed.

You know. Anson smelled that way too. When he came back that night. Right before I left, right after he had some words with Ronnie.

Huh. Yeah. He did, didn't he? Ozzie didn't mull it over much. They were exhausted heading back through SanFran and Ozzie only recalled waking up at Anson's place.

You know. . . Ronnie was always kind of wild. Did he. . . make a move?

He stopped. He was at the end of the hallway, overlooking the crowd of cubicles and coworkers. No. That was dumb. Ronnie wasn't even Anson's type. Pretty sure Ron like his boys lean and wild, too. But, Ron liked to experiment and he always did like to get into Oz's things. And how long did it take Anson to get back, anyway? It was strange that Oz didn't get to say goodbye. . .

This is so fucking dumb.

Ozzie caught himself. Was he actually considering this? Was he real with himself right now?

And so fucking what! Ron was out of his mind. Why am I being so hard on Anson? He'd never fool around. Maybe Ron tried to get his pants off and. . .

Enough. Ozzie needed to ease off of this. It was just late. Anson was probably stressed from the workload, and why wouldn't he be? It was different. He was a bit terse, stiff, and not the good stiff. Anson liked his order and he wasn't used to working with others. That was all.

Resolute, Ozzie went back to their desk. He offered a tired smile sitting back with Anson, handing over the freshly printed paper.

In the deepest recess of his mind, however, a thought remained. I'll ask him later.

Midnight strolled in not long after. Eight minutes past the witching hour, most of the accounts were solved. A few were unreachable, outdated, or junk data. Everything else though was nice and tidied up, and thank god, because the two were running on fumes.

The office went quiet too. Low voices bubbled up here and there with the occasional clicking of keyboards. Monitors provided dismal illumination as most of the company lights were switched off, many coworkers now “sleeping" in bedrolls with makeshift pillows.

Anson sighed, pushing away from the monitor. He forced a smile, features exhausted.

He spoke first. “You were amazing today," he said in hushed tones.

Ozzie flushed. He looked around. Fuck it. No one could see. He pushed into Anson for an embrace, muzzle under chin.

“Mmm. You run a tight shift, Mr. Hillwick."

Anson laughed, kissing his boy one the forehead. This procured a tail wag from the yeendog. A hand pet the back of his soft fur, and it took all of Ozzie's willpower not to fall asleep right there.

“Not as tight as you," Anson muttered. Ozzie yipped with laughter. Did he mean to say that?

“I mean you're really good," he added. “At work."

Ozzie nosed his man in the cheek. “I'm good at a lot of things."

His cheeks flushed again, accompanied by a traveling hand which raced over Anson's knee. Then thigh, then. . .

Anson sucked in a breath. “Ozzie."

He looked around, like someone would see.

Ozzie didn't care. His palm pushed into Anson's crotch, massaging it through the fabric, gently gripping the dimensions of his testes and shaft. His previous, troubled thoughts melted away. Instead, a long, long day compounded with stress and desire took their place. Ozzie wanted to blow off some steam, and if he couldn't with a drink or drug, he'd blow Anson.

Anson's legs parted. “Ozzie. . ." he hissed, like that would stop the yeendog.

Ozzie just tilted his head. “What? You like it."

Oho, yes he did. Ozzie felt the shaft spring to life, hardening against the confining suit pants.

Anson breathed, again looking around. He was tired and couldn't muster the resistance to fight his urges. And it was so dark.

“What if someone sees?" he muttered. No one would, of course. And a part of him didn't really care, because the prospect of feeling Ozzie's warm, soft lips wrap around him was just the kind of thing to top the evening off.

“Then I'll go under the desk," chimed Ozzie. He smirked, kissing his Anson on the lips, massaging the nethers with growing haste.

“Bet you'd like that, mm? Be nice to have me there all day, yeah?"

Anson grunted with approval. His mind was fuzzy, and the fatigue made him hungrier. With the barriers of sense and reason lost to exhaustion, the only thing left was the primal him.

“Yeah," he managed.

Ozzie wagged. He didn't need much encouragement. God, his man was stressed, and that was enough to worry him. And perhaps, after he fact, he could find out what else was going on. But not now, Anson didn't need that. Neither of them did.

The silhouette of his lithe, canine frame slipped under the desk. Darkness covered the couple, where Ozzie was invisible to even the leeriest eye. But he wasn't concerned with that anymore. A pleasant breath escaped him when he felt digits undo his belt and zipper. A nose came to his crotch, nuzzling the shift hidden by briefs. Warm, muffled moans rumbled Ozzie's muzzle, while hands massaged Anson's knees.

Anson had little to say. His head titled, and soon, the silky, wet embrace of tight lips came to his tip. Ozzie pulled his cock free from the hole in his briefs, exposing it to the yeendog's ministrations.

Supple, soft kisses arrived after, quick and relentless. The sides were pecked, then long, adoring ones at his tip. A wide, wet tongue flicked free and embraced Anson's tip, letting it rest on the pink warmth. That same tongue rolled along the under-flesh, then testes, lapping at Anson's stones as if to polish them.

“Mmm. . ."

Ozzie vibrated the flesh with a satisfied mumble, outright slurping the inches and testes as he continued his worship of the cock. For Anson, it was like a dream, a strange hazy experience occurring in the office, surrounded by coworkers. All any chimera had to do was walk past him and no doubt could hear the gentle suckling smacks emitting from his waist. And yet, he still didn't care.

Slowly, Ozzie bobbed his muzzle along the twitching length. It wasn't long until Anson felt his inches buried in the embrace of his boyfriend's throat. Tight, hot vacuum pressure surrounded his mast, Ozzie's chin dribbling with strings of saliva.

There was little Anson could do to reciprocate, tired as he was. But the yeendog didn't might, bringing him to peak not long after. White seed spilled from Anson's tip and his entire frame shook, buckling over to hide his actions.

Ozzie offered a quiet yip of approval, slurping and releasing the sticky pike from his grip. He let hot breaths touch the flesh, nosing the crown with servile admiration.

“Better?" Ozzie said, sucking away the last drips and zipping Anson back up. Anson returned with a slumberous head nod.

Ozzie could tell it helped. The 'scent' of stress started to leave Anson, though it still clung to him like a cologne. He was just glad his man felt better.

A yawn. Anson's head dipped. “I'm exhausted, hon."

Ozzie rose and kissed his boyfriend on the neck. “I know. Me too."

Typically, this was the part where Ozzie embraced his boyfriend and they fell into the haze of sleep. But, they were limited. So, unfortunately, they had to settle for a couple of uncomfortable bedrolls. The floor was harsh and uncomfortable, and the idea that when they woke up again they would still be at work was unsettling.

But. . . Anson was home, no matter where they were. It was all the comfort Ozzie needed.

Sleep came soon.

Ozzie thought about their trip to Slab City once more before drifting off.

-*-

Benneck was pleased. Or tired?

The usual puffy feline cheeks were tugged with a plump smile, though his eyes vanished in a sea of dark circles. Most of the company was the same.

In fact, the crowd from the day before hardly absorbed Benneck's elaborate congratulations on a job well done. Everyone had the same thought: let us go the fuck home. Even Earl, one for business and “knuckling down," looked exasperated beyond words.

Anson and Ozzie could hardly make sense of what was said. Something about all the appropriate departments hitting their marks with the software ready for deployment. Tech-speak and corporate jargon.

Eventually, Earl stepped up and forced a smile on his wolfish muzzle.

“You all did well and got overtime. Go home. Management is handling the rest. We'll see you Monday."

There was a celebrated cry from everyone – those who had the energy for it at least. As the faces dispersed, Ozzie saw Donne, the rookie otter. He gave a nod of approval – kid had nuts of steel to survive a night like that.

And speaking of. . . the yeendog turned to his partner, nudging him.

“I'm gonna die. Carry me."

Anson managed a chuckle. “I can't. But I will when we get home."

“Up the stairs too?"

Another chuckle. “Better get one hell of a blowjob for that," he said, joking. Mostly.

Ozzie flashed him another sultry glance as they turned to exit the department. He added a little toss to his hips as they left, a joking tease. Mostly.

They found an empty elevator and set it for the first floor. They were both tired, so a gentle quiet filled the air. Except something came back to Ozzie, something he remembered from the murkiness of the night previous.

He glanced at Anson, wondering if he should even ask. But if he was afraid to ask, then there relationship was in trouble, wasn't it?

“Hey Anson," he started. “I've been thinking. . ."

Anson looked over but remained stiff. “Yeah?"

“I know it was like, two months ago. You probably forgot or whatever. But has something been buggin' you?"

Anson did his best to remain neutral, but his heart skipped a beat. And the worst part was, he knew Ozzie heard that. If he tried to act the “same" he'd just dig himself into a hole, because chimera – especially Ozzie – had a knack for reading between the lines.

“How do you mean?"

Ding. The elevator felt slow, heavy.

“Hmm."

Ozzie stared at the wall. He let his back rest against the elevator's frame.

“I can't shake the feeling. Did. . . something happen at the Slab? Between you and Ronnie?"

It was blunt and quick. Anson closed his eyes. Well, fuck.

There was nothing else he could say but 'yes.' To say no, to lie, was to make this far worse than it needed to be. No matter how much Anson wanted to protect Ozzie, no matter how much he thought Ronnie was a waste of drug-addled time, he had to tell Ozzie.

The silence continued, and the longer he held it, the more obvious the answer was.

“Fuck, Anson," Ozzie whispered. “What?"

Ding.

Anson nodded. “Something did. But, not here. I'll tell you when we get home."

He blinked. “I didn't do anything with him. We didn't fool around, if that's what you're asking."

Ozzie stared. “Promise?"

Anson was surprised he needed to defend this, but he reciprocated the gaze. “Promise. I mean he's not even my type."

This did little to settle the yeendog's nerves.

“It's worse than that?"

Anson wasn't sure how to respond.

“People make choices, Ozzie," he finally said. Ding. The elevator door slid open.

“Sometimes they aren't the best ones."