Epilogues: Ringer - Chapter 6

With a muted thud, you hear the front door to the office close, the only noise now present being the soft, tinny hum of the space heater. Averting your gaze from your friend's discomfort, you rack your brain for something tactful to say. Something smooth to break the ice you didn't even know was there.

“Soooooo. Wanna talk about it?” You ask hopefully.

Smooth, Mike. Real smooth.

So smooth in fact, that you get no response from the laconic rabbit. You're left trying to sift through your scrambled thoughts, both your injury and Faz’s revelation leaving you dizzy nearly to the point of nausea. Well, she didn't exactly say no, either, did she?

“You okay, Beanie?” You offer as bait, seeing if she'll rise to it.

“All things considered, I'm just peachy.” She states flatly, clearly having to muster the effort just to say something right now.

“I don't know. I'd say you're more of a lavender.” You reply, trying to lift the rabbit’s spirits. Her head slowly lifts, and you can see her stare at you for a moment, eyes brimming. She gives you the barest puff of a chuckle, and a pained smile for a moment before it all fades, her lips trembling and her eyes closing before she rests her face in her paws.

“Why are you so good to me?” She asks, her anguished voice ragged and on the verge of tears it seems.

“Because you're my friend, and you deserve it.” You declare, meaning every word of it.

“No I don't.” She counters bluntly.

“Well, whiskers, Beanie, that's just stinkin’ thinkin’!” you reply in your best cornpone accent.

“Say that again and I rip your legs off to match.” She growls from beneath her paws. Okay, no Bonworth humor. What's left?

“You weren't supposed to find out. Not like this.” She says unprompted, voice muffled by purple fur, but clearly breaking again.

“So you do mean it.”

“I think? Maybe? I don't know.” She wavers, her train of thought bouncing around like a pinball.

“For what it's worth, I love you as a friend, Bean. I just never thought about it being more than that.” You say truthfully, hoping that she doesn't take that the wrong way.

“Of course not. Nerd girls don't get the boy. Ever.”

Well, shit.

“Bonita? Please don't put words in my mouth, okay? I'm just saying the thought never occurred to me because I never thought you'd reciprocate. I've considered my options, believe me.”

“And you never decided to pursue anyone because you didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.” She says, cutting straight to the point.

“I won't deny that played a part, yes. I wasn't willing to risk several friendships on anything I wasn't reasonably certain of. I wasn't sure of you because I never got the vibe you were even interested in dating, let alone me.” You add, still mystified that you're even *having* this discussion, least of all with the snarker-in-chief of your life. “And no, that's not because I think you're undateable. You've got a lot of good qualities.”

“Like what?” She demands, apparently thinking you're putting on airs for her benefit.

“You're smart, got a great sense of humor. Mentally tough.” You add, only getting a 'pffft’ in response to that point. “You're reliable, a good friend who doesn't hesitate to tell me when she thinks I'm wrong.”

“All hallmark nerd traits.” She interrupts.

“And you're actually quite pretty when you smile.” You add, stopping the both of you cold. She looks up again, and once again you have the frightened, frail bunny on display, but this time, there's something else. Hope?

“I like your smile, Beanie. Just wish you'd show it off more often.” You add sincerely, desperately searching her face for feedback.

“I wish I could believe that, Mike.” She replies, a weary half-smile trying to bloom to life but then flickering out like a candle in a hurricane.

“Why can't you? Seriously, I'm telling the truth here.” You fire back as gently as you can manage. There's something here that has the potential to tear the two of you to pieces, and you're having to dance blindly through the minefield to reach the girl. Your friend. Who's a girl. A blink and the notion of merging those two words flits across your consciousness before you shove it aside in favor of having what logical faculties you have left to you on hand to solve Beanie's problem.

“It’s… complicated.” She begins, and you can't tell if she's just dodging the question, or it's truly that hard to figure out. Split the difference perhaps?

“Maybe I can help you figure it out?” You ask, hoping that you're not pushing too hard. She looks into your eyes, her own conveying doubt and confusion, but her expression doesn't seem quite as dark as it did moments ago.

“I just… I’ve been burned. Too many times. I wasn't exactly prime dating material in high school. You saw my brother's yearbook.”

“Yeah, I did. For the last time, I wasn't making fun of your picture.” You say, only to get a furrowed brow framing a look of disapproval in response. “...that much. Everyone looks like dorks in high school. Most of us, anyway. I was just trying to point out how much you've changed since then. For the better, I might add.” You continue mostly unprompted, her furrowed brow giving way to a mere skeptically raised eyebrow.

“I had dates, but nothing serious or long term. Especially when word got around that I didn't put out.” She adds bitterly.

“Nothing wrong with standards, Bon.”

“I wasn't the one who had them. The popular guys weren't in any way short of girls who fawned over them, so I got stuck with the losers and dickheads. Plus, the idea of sex was just… squicky. I was young and confused. Only so many times you can go out on a first date and come home crying before you just… give up.” She says, looking down at the floor.

“I thought our first date went well enough.” You offer, trying desperately to lift her spirits again.

“You talking about the one where we nearly got vivisected, or last night?” She grouses.

“Well, there wasn't any crying involved.” You backtrack.

“Speak for yourself.” She admits, sniffling a bit as she turns away from you.

“Sorry.” You reply, crestfallen. “Maybe you're right though.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you kept insisting that neither of those were dates, soooooo, we're still good, right?” You ask hopefully.

“I guess.” She mutters quietly, but with an even voice that gives you some hope that she's stabilizing. Scooting your chair forward a bit, you lay a hand on her elbow, squeezing gently to reassure your friend, as warm a smile as you can muster on display as reinforcement. She turns back to face you, her gaze darting briefly to your hand before she covers it with a warm, fuzzy paw. A wan, wistful smile creeps onto her lips before she looks away again.

“Do you remember your high school prom, Mike?” She asks, setting your senses on edge with a clearly loaded question.

“No. Don't know if I didn't go, or just can't remember it.” You answer honestly, careful to not breach the fragile trust you've built this morning.

“Must be nice.” She says, sighing softly as her shoulders slump.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“I know.” She states simply, pausing to find the words, or perhaps merely the strength to say them aloud. “All through school, I'd always had one crush, one above all the rest. I'd squeal with delight, privately, if I had even an inkling he'd noticed me, which he usually didn't. Smooth talking fox, fancy car, big throwback hair, million dollar smile, track star athlete, you know the type.” She rambles a bit, and you only nod in response rather than lying verbally.

“Well, him and his girlfriend get into a huge fight on the quad one day, in front of everyone. She thought he was getting too much attention from this kangaroo exchange student, and dumps him a week before prom! Obviously, everyone's paired up at this point, so he ends up asking me to prom. I knew it was out of convenience, or maybe to make her jealous, but I didn't care. I was going to prom with the boy of my dreams, and that was good enough for me.” She adds, voice exasperated with her own stupidity.

“Mom forked out almost seven hundred dollars. Last minute alterations to a last chance dress, fancy furdresser, emergency dermatologist visit to clear up what they could of my acne. Mom sure thought I was pretty at least. She's still got the picture on her phone if you ask.” She adds with a sigh, your own interest piqued at seeing Beanie in *any* dress, let alone a formal gown.

“So there I am in the gym, surrounded by all the popular kids in their rented tuxes and fancy dresses, looking around for my date, who'd gone to go grab drinks for us. Some of them didn't even recognize me, those that did were laughing behind my back.” She grumps. You refrain from trying to dispel her apparent mild paranoia in favor of letting her unburden herself. “After a while, I decided to go looking for him. Didn't take me long to find them.” She says gloomily, and your heart sinks at the implications of that last word.

“Back of the locker room. Seems they'd reconciled their differences. With extreme prejudice” She spits venomously, absently nibbling on a fingernail and spitting out the trimming. “You know what that fucker said?” She asks rhetorically, and you can feel the tension building in her frame.

“Hey, babe, once I'm done, why don't you come over here and put that nerdy mouth to good use and clean me up? If you keep me hard, maybe I'll plow your tailhole too.” She quotes, voice trailing off at the end.

“Oh my God.” You breathe, unable to hold back the words.

“And you know what the worst part is?” She asks, her gaze sliding past you, focusing on a point miles away. “I wanted to. But I couldn't take the leap. I wanted him so much that I was willing to give up what little dignity I had left to have just a taste of him, and I couldn't even do that.” she says, her voice drab and monotone.

Biting your lip to keep from saying something stupid, you lean forward and gently place your arms around the purple rabbit, squeezing as firmly as you dare. Her cheek fur is soft against yours, and after a moment you can feel moisture there as well. You shush her gently, slowly rubbing her back, trying to reassure Beanie and help her let go. After several quiet moments, you hear her sniffle, her arms finally returning the hug, grabbing onto your torso like a life preserver in stormy seas.

You both stay there for what seems like an age, your ministrations having at least some positive effect on Beanie, her body relaxing enough for you to venture back out onto the conversational ice.

“You did the right thing, Bonita. You know you did.”

“But I wanted…” she says through a sob.

“I wanted to do a lot of stupid things when I was younger. Doesn't make me a bad person. Doesn't make you a bad person either.” You elaborate making sure she understands. “I don't think any less of you because you had a moment of weakness. I can't even imagine what that was like for you, but I still care for you just the same. Maybe even more.”

“I didn't tell you that so that you'd feel sorry for me.”

“And I'm not. Not like you think anyway. I feel sorry that it happened to you. But at the end of the day, you're you, in part because of it. And I wouldn't trade you for any other version of you that I can think of. You don't pity me for my issues, right?”

“No.”

“Then I promise I am not, nor will I ever, pity you for yours. You're my friend, maybe even more than that, if you'd like.” You add, hoping you're not pushing her too hard, too fast.

Getting nothing in the way of protest, you continue. “Tell you what, Bean. You wanna try a real first date?” You ask, letting her go so you can gauge her reaction.

“Sure.” She says after a moment, a slight smile beginning to form on her lips.

“Okay, so are you free, ohhhh, five minutes from now?” you ask coyly.

“I might be able to clear space on my calendar.” She says, her smile mutating into an appreciative smirk.

“Good. Friends and I are having a Christmas party, and I'd love for you to come with me. Food's gonna be awesome, I know some good cooks.” You add, getting a soft puff of laughter from the low key lagomorph.

“I can see that.” She remarks dryly, poking what's left of your pudgy belly.

“You had to go there?”

“I was taking it easy on you. Don't want to be verbally abusive to my party date, now do I?”

“Fair enough. Shall we go?” You ask, standing up and offering Beanie your hand in as gentlemanly a manner as you can muster. She regards your chivalry with a dubious eye for a moment, before deciding that you're genuinely trying to help and not treating her like some damsel in distress. At least you hope that's what she's thinking. She takes your hand in hers, placing as little of her meager weight upon you as she can manage while still not being rude about it. Rising to meet you, she wraps you in a hug once again, but a brief one this time.

“Thank you.” She says simply, and you know there are enough possible reasons for her to do so that you don't bother pressing for an explanation. You're just happy to have helped someone you truly care about.

“Before we walk outside, a couple things?” You ask, getting a silent nod in response. “First, if we do this, we go as slowly as you need to, okay?”

“As *we* need to. Told you to stop paladining.” She corrects, and you breathe an inward sigh of relief that her sense of humor and self both seem to be returning.

“Fair enough. Second, if I already know that asshole, or we ever happen to run into him, don't tell me. I'd rather not end up in jail for kicking his teeth in.” You say sincerely, surprising yourself with how matter-of-fact your tone is.

Beanie studies your face for several moments before speaking. “You mean that, don't you?” she asks quietly.

“Yes. Yes I do.” You reaffirm.

“Well, don't worry about that. Last I heard, he moved to Brazil. Besides, he got his a long time ago.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I didn't tell him, but my brother was always good at reading between the lines. At least where I was concerned. One of Bonworth's friends ‘accidentally’ blew the guy's knee out with a shotput during their college tryouts the following year. Lost his scholarship and everything.”

“Damn. Not that I feel sorry for the guy, mind you, just…” you trail off, blowing a soft whistle between your lips.

“Ehhh, she might have been trying to impress him. It really was an amusing four years watching my brother trying to diplomatically tell a three hundred pound tiger that he wasn't interested.” She says dryly, eliciting a quite amusing mental picture.

“Okay. With all that said, I promise that if you want to try and make this work, I'll try to be the best boyfriend you've ever had.” You say sagely, only barely putting up a front for the fuzzy purple bundle of snark.

She considers your words briefly before embracing you again, squeezing you tightly to her and planting a warm, furry smooch on your cheek. “You already are.” She whispers in your ear, and you pull her even closer to you, your heart racing far more than it should.

“Don't let it go to your head.” She admonishes, and you chuckle softly, knowing that Beanie's still Beanie.

“I'll try not to.”

As you're turning to leave, you spot a blot of white on the otherwise gray formica of the desktop, and stop a moment to ponder your course of action. You reach down and slide the photo strip off the desk, regarding it briefly before you feed it to Marion's underdesk paper shredder. “Suffice to say no one needs to know about that, right?”

“I still can't believe it myself, Mike.” She replies, clearly wary of the subject.

“Me either, Bean.” You admit. “Me either.” She offers you a gentle smile, squeezing your shoulder to reassure you. You chuckle softly at how quickly your roles seem to have reversed, and then the realization that this is what love feels like. You think. Probably.

You spend a moment enjoying the look of her warm smile, reaching up to smooth the fur of her cheek out where it's gotten damp, prompting her to briefly nuzzle into your palm. “C’mon, Bean. Let's go break some hearts.” You say glibly, hoping that humor will keep the both of you from truly worrying about the implications of being romantically involved for your friendships around the complex.

“Ehhh, fuck em.” She barks out with more bravado than you expect. Either that or she's covering up the fact that she's holding on to you for dear life. “Ain't none of them girls layin’ hands on *my* man.” She says in the most over-the-top hick accent you've ever heard, echoing the cheesiest earworm of a country song ever made, if your shared mockery of it is any indication.

“Darn tootin’” you reply, sharing some genuinely lighthearted laughter. In the end, maybe it doesn't matter, now that you have each other. You ruminate on that hypothesis as you escort her out the door and into the cold. It's started snowing again, but at least it's the fat, pretty flakes. Even an apartment complex can be beautiful when draped in winter's pageantry like this. A blanket of fluffy white covers the low traffic areas, even giving the grey-brown slush in the parking lot a fresh ermine-colored dusting. The windows are mostly decorated, some more than others, with several lit Christmas trees on full, cheery display.

“So, Mike, any crazy ex-girlfriends I need to worry about?” She asks cautiously.

“You mean aside from… her?” You reply with total sincerity, both of you pausing with bated breath it seems. “No. Nobody I remember, and certainly nobody we're likely to run into.” You clarify, getting a sigh of relief from your newly-minted girlfriend. “Sorry, Bean.”

“For what?” She asks, taken aback.

“You've got to deal with that now. My memory, I mean. So much missing.” You ramble on glumly.

“Well, Mike. My grandma always said we've all got holes in our lives. Places where God made us incomplete, so that we'd have to find each other. And some of us try and fill those holes with the wrong things. Drugs, booze, thrillseeking, the wrong people.” She lists, and you're struck by how none of those seem to apply to her. Or you, if you're being honest. Neither one of you is trying to complete yourselves with *anything*, and maybe that's why you're both here now.

Doesn't keep you from trying to be a smartass though.

“So what you're saying is you need your holes filled?” You ask, a smirk plastered on your face.

The first response you get is a furry purple fist in the shoulder. “Fucking perv. That's not what I meant.” She says, clearly trying to put on an angry tone but falling just short due to her obvious amusement.

“You would have done the same, ma’am.”

“No, I would've done *better*.” She fires back, a little more testily this time.

“Sorry.” You reply sheepishly.

“You know, maybe this is just a bad idea.” She says, casting her eyes down into a snow-covered shrubbery.

“No. Don't go there. We're going to make this work together, okay?” You plead with her, taking both paws in your hands. “We're gonna have ups and downs, but what relationship doesn't?” You ask, pretending to experience you're not even sure you've had.

“Sorry, Mike. Mom and dad never fought like this.”

“I didn't think we were fighting. Or married.” You add, hoping that you can joke her out of her bad mood.

“I'm being serious.” She says, a hint of laughter in her voice betraying at least some success.

“I know. Just want you to know that I'm not going to dump you over harsh language or cross words. You're a little prickly to handle, Beanie. And I like that. You keep me on my toes.” You add with a gentle smile.

“I guess.” She replies, deflating once again as she resumes her trudge back to her apartment. You take several quick steps to catch up and pass her, interposing yourself between her and the door some fifteen yards away.

“Hey, wait.” You begin, clasping a hand over her shoulder momentarily. Your brain is scrambling for a solution, your resolve to make her happy before rejoining everyone else at once strong and desperate until you finally latch onto a ploy that might just get you what you want.

Or killed. But who said love was easy?

“I need to ask you something. Something serious.” you begin, already loading the conversation with tension, from the way she looks almost cowed.

“Your grandmother's right. I do have holes in my life. That's what I was talking about last night. I've got all sorts of pieces missing in my life that I can't even hope to get back. But I think I might have found the perfect fit for one of them.” You say, reaching a hand into your coat. “Bonita Lilac Rabbinson, will you make me the happiest man on Earth…” you begin, as if you weren't already by default, and taking a knee in front of her, presenting the small wooden box to her deferentially “...and be my Stronghold Master™?” you ask her with all the gravity you can muster.

It takes her a split second to shift gears before she begins to snort in laughter. “Mike, you fucking dork…” she begins, shaking her head at your silliness, but freezing the second you open the small, cubical container for her. Beanie's eyes go wide, paws finding her mouth as her voice drops to a low and reverent quiet. “Oh my God, is that what I think it is?” She asks you.

“Yup.” You reply succinctly, coming back to your feet, cradling her gift in front of her like the tiniest baby sparrow fallen from its nest. “Dice of DHOOM™ Limited Edition D20, one of twenty. Purest tungsten milled to geometric perfection within a tolerance of two microns, laser etched with variable depth to ensure perfect weight distribution. 220 grams of pure randomness, for your most important throws.”

“You memorized the sales pitch?” she asks dubiously.

“You were very convincing.” you reply with a hint of admiration.

“Nerd.”

“Merry Christmas, Beanie.” You retort, handing the small box to her, and she nearly drops it, the weight taking her by surprise, much as it did you last night. For a moment, she simply stares at it, unable to form words.

“You drew my name?” She asks quietly.

“Yeah. Though I might've gotten it for you anyway.” You concede.

“But the limit was twenty dollars. Everyone agreed.” She says, mildly upset about… something.

“I managed to talk Cyril down from his asking price.” You say glibly.

“Not *that* far you didn't.” she replies, mildly annoyed.

“And you and I are the only ones who know that. It's Christmas. You deserve it, and not just because you're my girlfriend.” You add, and the both of you freeze at that word being spoken aloud. You’re surprised by the ease at which that word came out of your mouth, and Beanie looks like she's about to cry again, prompting you to anxiously prod the conversation along. “You like?”

“YES!” She screams, loud enough that Faz is going to get a text from Mrs. Presto in the next ten seconds, planting her hands on your cheeks and her lips forcefully on yours. As first kisses go, it's not a tender affair, but enthusiastic and completely unexpected. Also unexpected is the feeling that your heart's about to explode with joy, the sight of fireworks despite your eyes slamming shut the second you recognize what's going on, and the muffled roar of the crowd cheering you both on. You just roll with it, your left hand finding the small of her back, your right cradling her head, lest she break the kiss prematurely. And by prematurely, you mean before the heat death of the universe.

Alas, the moment is broken anyway, by a newly familiar voice.

“Nobody special, huh?”

You reluctantly break the best kiss of your life, peering over Beanie's shoulder to find a very amused midnight blue bunny looking right back at you.

“Oh, hey, you made it! Awesome!” You exclaim, genuinely happy to see him, in spite of him rudely interrupting the best moment you've had all year. “Love, this is…” you begin, before you're dropped like a hot potato, Beanie practically tackling the veteran cop.

“Bonnie!” She squeals joyfully, embracing him.

“Well, good to see you too, young lady.” He says, clearly at a loss.

“Bean?” you ask, equally confused and trying to hide the fact that hurt just a little.

“Wait, Bonita?” He asks, happily shocked it seems. “How long’s it been?

“Too long.” She says, snuggling into his chest briefly before turning to face you again, her smile melting any pain away, and probably all the snow within ten feet, but you can't be bothered looking away to confirm. “Mike, this is Bonnie, his daughter and I were friends when we were little. Me and my brother would stay over at his house when Mom and Dad were working late. How's Amber?”

“Busy as ever. She's going to the Olympic trials in June.” he says with no small degree of pride. “Didn't know you were living here now or I would've dropped by.”

“No worries.” She says, and you're stuck wondering whether she's downright bubbly from her reunion with a family friend, or (hopefully) smooching you.

“Wait a minute. You're *that* Mike Schmidt?” He asks.

“Maybe? Depends?” You reply, squirming at being put on the spot so suddenly.

“I have to thank you for bringing Bonnie home last year. Hell, her dad wouldn't shut up about it for months. You look better than the last time I saw you. Well, the time before that I should say.”

“Beg your pardon?” You query, still completely lost.

“Last year, at the restaurant. I helped load you into the ambulance.”

“Oh, that. Well, saying I look better than the end of that night isn't saying much.” You half-mumble, flexing your suddenly sore left hand.

“No kidding. Oh, hey, Carrol.” He slips in, directing the last over your shoulder.

You whirl about in a panic, finding your girlfriend's mom standing there with her arms crossed in front of her colorfully printed scrubs, and you can't tell if that's consternation or simply keeping warm. She's got her mouth clamped shut, chewing on the inside of her lips as she regards you silently for several moments, shivering, or trembling, slightly.

“Hi, doc. I… oof.” You grunt as she wraps you up as forcefully as her daughter just did to Bonnie. Still squeezing you tightly, she stands on her tiptoes to gently kiss your cheek before panicking you even more than you already are.

“Welcome to the family, Mike.” She whispers happily.

“Ummm,” you begin, peering past her snowy white ears into the front window of 93A, where the pine garland and lights frame your entire circle of friends like a postcard as they crowd together, all of them looking at the small group of you outside.