Epilogues: Adrift - Chapter 3

As waiting rooms go, it is one. Pleasant enough, and clearly belonging to the best oncologist in the state, if the plush loveseat you're both seated on is any indication. For the tenth time since you've arrived, you place your right arm across her shoulders, squeezing as tightly as you dare in the hopes that the gesture is in some slight way reassuring. Cheeky, at the very least, has the benefit of having been here before. For your part, you're as nervous as she is, but for a vastly less personally pertinent reason.

Your apprehension is mostly vicarious, your yellow-plumed paramour tense under your touch transferring her nervous energy to you. Not that you mind being here for her; you'd do this for any one of your ragtag family, even the ones you *haven't* seen naked. Offering her a soft smile and a pat on the shoulder, you lean in and nuzzle at her cheek, getting a tittering giggle from the saucy bird.

“There'll be time for that later.” She softly chides you, batting playfully at your chest with her built in feather duster.

“I'll hold you to that.” you reply with a wink, delighted to have distracted the dirty yellow hen.

“Just as long as you hold me afterwards, Mike.” She says, a knowing grin briefly flitting across her face before it fades back into the worried visage you've been trying to cheer up ever since you left the apartment. “Assuming there is an afterwards.”

“I seem to remember a certain hen telling me, in *graphic* detail, exactly what she wanted out of me.” You practically purr in her ear, free hand finger-walking across her belly to wrap her into a full, intimate embrace. “Or should I say, what she wanted *in her*?” you add conspiratorially, blushing at your own brazenness. That was something you did to cheer Cheeky up, pure and simple.

So why are you already at half mast thinking about it?

“I've created a monster.” She says under her breath, and you're immediately glad you're the only two in the waiting room as you feel her feathery wing slowly slide up the inside of your thigh. “But alas, that all depends on the doctor. If I go in for infusion today, I'll be out of commission for a couple days at least. I'll just have to be satisfied by my monkey love slave taking care of my every need.” She says with a wan smile, clearly appreciating your sentiment at least.

“I'll do what I can, Chica.” You vow, meaning every word.

“I know.” She acknowledges simply, returning your hug with a soft sigh. This tightens up after a moment, her resolve and facade crumbling as you hear a short sniffle in your ear.

“Hey now.” You whisper, patting her shoulder.

“I'm scared, Mike.”

“Of course you are. And that's okay. That's normal.” You reply, trying not to choke up yourself at how the situation is eating away at the confident hen you know and love.

“Not exactly reassuring, Mike.” She prods you, a hint of gallows laughter evident in her tone.

“I'm not going to lie to you, Chica. You're my friend.”

“Friend?” She asks dubiously.

“With *exceptional* benefits, yes. Truth be told, I'm a little scared too.”

“Why?”

“I don't want to lose you.”

“Really.” she fires back, not believing the sincere tone.

“Yeah. Who else am I gonna drink a beer with after I get off shift at nine a.m.?” You retort, getting a snorting chuckle of laughter from the plush bird.

After a long, comfortable pause, you feel her wings tighten around you again as she whispers in your ear. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you can *thank* me later.”

“Hey now, *my* name is Cheeky. Get your own.” She scoffs playfully.

Before you can formulate a suitable racy reply, you hear the door open to your left.

“Miss Weidlöd?” The nurse asks needlessly, as you're the only two here for the time being.

“Yeah, I'm comin’” Chica says, deflating even as she stands along with you. Following the somewhat curvy black-furred mouse along, she efficiently takes the worried hen's vitals, and you judiciously avoid noticing her weight. If Chica wants to tell you, she'll tell you. If any of the numbers are out of the ordinary, she doesn't make a fuss over it, so you're content to hold her free wing as the soft whir of the blood pressure cuff winds down with a final beep.

“All right, Chica, I'll need you to put any metal objects into the bag and follow me.” the purple-garbed nurse says with practiced ease, handing a large plastic bag with drawstrings over to Cheeky.

“Second MRI? Just make sure and use my right wing this time, okay? I'm still feeling the needle stick from last visit.” She says flatly.

“Beg pardon?”

“For the contrast solution?”

That stops the mouse short, and she rechecks the clipboard in her paw. Your curiosity piqued, you focus on her rather than Cheeky and immediately regret it. Clapping your hand over your mouth, you turn away to avoid making a scene over the mouse’s name tag.

“Says here just a standard MRI, full gyno series.”

“Oh. Thank goodness for that, I guess. Needles are a particularly sore spot these days. How’re the kids, Mickey?” Chica asks, and you're one micron away from exploding into hysterical laughter.

“More of the same. I swear Minerva is going to get my husband thrown in jail some day. *Already* with the boyfriends.” She says with a groan.

“Seriously? Isn't she, like, eight?”

“Seven and a half.” The mouse replies flatly.

“Holy hell.” Cheeky declares with a mixture of disgust and awe at the little mouse girl's early start. “You okay there, Mike?”

“Fine.” You blurt out, unwilling to risk opening your mouth for another word.

“Okay.” Chica replies, an eyebrow raised skeptically. “Care to do the honors?” She asks you, leaving you wondering what the heck she's talking about until she lifts the back of her blouse and sweater to reveal the clearly straining bra strap over her spine. Mickey, for her part, seems rather nonplussed by the gesture, likely having seen more naked animal people than you'd care to count. Taking a moment to survey the closure mechanism (for future disengagement under less than ideal visibility, naturally) you reach both hands out to pull and lift, the four rows of hooks not all coming loose on the first try. The second effort yields results, the tension releasing forcefully as both ends whip around to the dirty yellow hen’s flanks. Reaching under from the front, Cheeky shuffles out of the constricting garment, dropping it into the bag along with her phone.

“I'll hold onto that for you, Cheeky.” You volunteer, getting the lightweight cargo handed over to you forthwith, but with a slight pout on the bawdy hen’s face.

“You're not coming with me?”

“Can't.” You reply succinctly, holding up your right arm. It takes her a moment to remember the amount of metal still holding your arm together, but she offers a sigh of understanding before wrapping you in a warm, feathery hug, which you return eagerly. “I'll be right out front, Chica.” You whisper, planting an affectionate smooch on her cheek. You relinquish your embrace of the fluffy bird, holding her wings in your hands as you offer her a reassuring smile. “Promise.”

“Okay.” She says simply, her own smile a mixture of affection and gratitude, and hopefully not just an affectation, given that you can see her brown eyes brimming with tears. Giving her feathery appendages another reassuring squeeze, you lean forward and plant another kiss on the tip of her beak, which sets the voluptuous bird blushing, and out of the corner of your eye, you can make out a warm, knowing smile on Mickey’s murine face.

Watching her go, your smile fades slightly, knowing full well how claustrophobic those machines can be for you, let alone the plus-sized bird. Chica and Mickey seem to be getting on fairly well, and you can't help but wonder how much of their conversation centers around you. More specifically, knowing how lewd your lover can be in casual conversation with a newly-met stranger, you ponder how graphic her tales will be with someone she knows well, by all appearances.

Shaking off what you can't control, you wander back to the waiting room, settling into an equally soft and comfortable armchair. The selection of magazines covers a wide variety of subjects, and to your surprise, none of them interest you in the slightest. Granted, a lot of them do tend to skew towards older demographics, given Dr. Grove’s clientele. Perhaps more depressing is the small selection of publications geared towards children. Most of them are simple, colorful energy sinks; coloring and activity books, though with understandably morbid themes. Tossing “Ethan Gets Radiotherapy” back onto the table next to “Priscilla Has Leukemia” you shake your head, thanking the powers that be for your relative good fortune. You can't even begin to imagine how Bonson would feel in that situation, or Fran.

Or you, for that matter. You've grown rather fond of the little bunny, after all.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, exhaling slowly to clear your mind a bit, barely registering the clack of the door coming from behind you.

“Mike?” You hear, a voice somehow familiar even if you can't quite place it. Turning, you find a lanky, silver-white lemur in khakis and a black polo, winter jacket slung over a lean forearm.

“Brad?” You reply, standing to shake his slender, surprisingly strong paw. “How've you been? It's been what, six months?”

“More or less. You're looking good.”

“Getting off a diet of hospital food will do that, but yeah, feeling a lot better. Thanks at least partly to you. You're not…” you trail off, wondering at his purpose here.

“What? Oh, no. Fiancee, actually.” He says, and the office door opens on cue to disgorge a slightly haggard black-furred squirrel female, her round ears hanging somewhat limp to match her weary eyes and thin pelt. Brad's omnipresent slight smile fades a tick before he takes a step to her side, wrapping her in a hug. As he squeezes, you can see her give a pained smile, grateful for the sentiment if nothing else. “Babe, this is Mike. Mike, my fiancee Angelina.”

“Pleased to meet you.” You say, offering your hand.

“Likewise. Damn, and here I thought radiation did a number on *me*.” she says, voice at once shocked and sympathetic.

Well, that's a new one at least.

“Oh, no. That's normal. For me, anyway.” You deflect, trying to keep anyone from prying too far into your exact taxonomy. Continuing on, lest Angelina feel awkward about the misjudgement, you clarify further. “I'm here for a friend. You remember Chica, right? She certainly remembers you.”

“Oh, really?” The ebon squirrel asks sassily, arching an eyebrow at her future husband.

“Mike and Chica are both former patients at the rehab clinic, babe.” Brad explains, seeming to be happy at her energy at least.

“Uh huh.” She replies, clearly dubious, or putting up a front of it. Regardless, it gets answered with a tender kiss on the cheek and those magic fingers kneading her shoulder in an affectionately therapeutic manner.

“You're lucky I love you.” She mutters.

“I never said otherwise.” He replies, nuzzling at her neck.

“Mike?” You hear from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to find Mickey looking expectantly at you.

“Well, that's my cue. You both take care, and congratulations!”

“Thanks, Mike.” Brad replies, slipping Angelina's jacket over her shoulders before doffing his own.

You retrieve the plastic bag with Chica's things and follow the coal-colored mouse onwards into the clinic, her tail swaying limply, just clearing the floor. Several turns later, she opens the door to exam room seven, and you find your naughty bird, whose expression brightens upon seeing you. Closing the door behind you, you hand the bag to Chica, who hesitates not a moment to shuck her top and sweater before fishing out her bra. You can only grin like a lecherous idiot watching her getting dressed, the garment indeed the heaviest of duty to contain her massive bust.

“You didn't have to do that so quickly, you know.”

“I'll make it up to you later, Mike. For now, I just want to get this done and over with already. The anticipation is killing me.” She replies curtly as she pockets her phone, and you can feel yourself tense in response.

Allowing her to compose herself, you step forward, straightening out a stray headfeather before you cup her cheek in your palm, giving her the warmest smile you can. “I'm here, no matter what, Chica.”

“I know.” she says quietly, nuzzling into your hand. “You couldn't resist me if you wanted to.” She adds with a touch of her signature sauce.

“Hey now, you were the one drooling over me the first night we met.” You fire back playfully.

“Too bad you were too scared to admit how much you wanted some chicken. Could've been a hell of a year.” She adds wistfully.

“Ehh, was a hell of a year regardless. All things considered, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well, maybe the broken arms and ribs.” You add, feeling a slight twinge in your right forearm. You're at once dreading and looking forward to getting the last of your hardware out, though that won't be until after the beginning of the year, what with the ongoing legal rigamarole involved with the final disposition of funds from Humanimatronics Unlimited’s dissolution.

“So where would you like to have dinner, Chica?” You ask, deliberately changing the subject. “You have a hankering for anything in particular? Besides monkey, I mean.” You add, trying your damnedest to lift the somber bird's spirits.

“Perv.” She says flatly, though you can see a smile there too. “But whatever. Chemo fucks up my sense of taste *and* kills my appetite. Please don't be upset if I don't feel like going anywhere but home after, okay?” She asks you, trying to defuse any potential disappointment before it happens.

“How about that Italian place we passed on the way here? Something nice and garlicky might help.” You suggest.

“Okay.” She replies, humoring you at the very least. You take a wing in your hands, squeezing gently to reassure and calm the troubled bird, and getting a soft sigh in response.

The door opens again, and you're greeted by the sight of a royal blue otter in a lab coat and scrubs, slim, professional looking glasses perched on his broad snout. “Hello, Chica, how are you today?” He asks, voice a low baritone and quite comforting.

“I'm here.” She quips. “Doctor, this is my friend Mike. He'll be making sure I get home safely.” She adds, and you're pleased to detect not a trace of doubt in that pronouncement.

“Tunstall Grove.” He greets you, extending a stubby-fingered paw, which you take in a firm, reassuring pawshake.

“Mike Schmidt.” you reply, puffing up slightly at another male presence around your bird. The three of you take a seat, and Dr. Grove taps a few times on the large, high-quality tablet computer he's carrying, presumably bringing up Chica's chart.

“All right. If you recall, we found something in your last MRI that needed looking into.” He begins, turning the tablet for you both to see. The various blobs and squiggles are indecipherable to you, until he uses his pen to point to one spot in particular, where a nearly opaque white blot is attached to a somewhat larger muddy grey blob. “Here's the left ovary, and here's the cause for concern.” He continues, highlighting the larger and smaller objects successively with a circular motion of the pen tip. “This is your MRI from two weeks ago, and here it is…” he says, swiping across the screen “today.” He says, allowing the both of you to examine the image yourself.

“It's gone?” Chica asks, almost dumbfounded.

“Yes. Biopsy results came back benign. Routine ovarian cyst. Biopsy needle appears to have lanced it enough to resolve on its own.” He clarifies. “Your labs from last visit show no elevated cancer or pre-cancer markers, and only slightly elevated liver enzymes. That can be explained by weight alone, and I'll not nag you about that. You already know my medical opinion on the matter.” He adds, somehow managing to make that statement sound completely non-judgemental.

When you look to her, Chica's face is curiously neutral, and you can't make out what her reaction this is, which is troubling in its own right. It's all you can do to keep from shouting joyously at the news.

“I'm going to downgrade your risk profile, Chica.” He begins, tapping away at the tablet now to make the appropriate annotations in her file. “We'll have your next appointment in three months, instead of the monthly visits. How is your nerve pain these days?” He asks, moving on from the spectre that had been looming over both of you all day.

“It's… still there. No change.” She says numbly.

Dr. Grove sighs softly at that, his mouth twisting in contemplation. “I'm going to write you a referral to a pain management specialist. Perhaps Doctor Starr can find something that works for you. A little out of my purview and specialty, truth be told.”

“Thank you.” Chica adds, tone still flat and lifeless.

“Mickey’ll have your paperwork up front, Chica. Any questions?” He asks, getting only a slight shake of a feathery head in response. “All right then, on to the next patient with me. Nice to meet you, Mike.”

“Same to you, Doc.” You reply absently, focused on the bird sitting next to you. The bespectacled otter departs without further comment, and you shift in your seat, taking both of Chica’s wings in your hands. “Hey.” You say simply, smiling gently for her benefit. She tries to return the smile, but it soon cracks and melts into a tearful grimace, and you pull her into a tight hug immediately.

She sobs the moment you do, and you shush her softly, rubbing her back to comfort her as best you can. “It's okay.” You murmur over and over, her sniffles and quivering taking a seeming eternity to subside. “Let it out, Chica.” You add superfluously, merely reassuring her that her current course of action is both allowed and desirable.

You hold her for several minutes like this, tension slowly bleeding from her pillowy form until she lies still in your arms. “Better?” You ask softly, getting only a slow nod, her downy cheek wet against yours. Pulling back a bit, you place a gentle kiss on her forehead, almost like a parent with a frightened child. She smiles again, this time genuinely, even through her tear streaked face she conveys hope now.

“Good thing some dumb monkey convinced me not to wear makeup today, huh?” She asks, voice a hoarse whisper.

“I suppose so. Not that you needed it to begin with.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mike.” She chides you gently.

“Guess I'll have to go with the liberal application of carbs then.” You reply. This gets a short puff of laughter from her nostrils, a dawning awareness in her eyes.

“You remembered.” She replies simply, voice slowly getting back to her coy, saucy norm.

“Hard to forget you, Chica.”

“Damn straight.” She pronounces with authority. “I must look like a disaster.” She adds, her eyes downcast in embarrassment.

“You know what I see?” You ask, getting her looking back at you. “A beautiful hen who's got a hot date in a little bit.”

“Oh? Who with? I don't consider just any guy hot. I have *standards*.” She says, arching an eyebrow coquettishly.

“Seem to remember Marion telling me the same thing, could be related.” You reply coolly, getting a soft *paf* of feathers in the face for your troubles.

“You're lucky I like you.” Chica says, feigning offense.

“I'm lucky I like *you*.” You agree. “Shall we?” You ask, standing and offering the ribald hen your hand. She smiles, rising wordlessly and hooking her wing in your proffered arm, like a graceful belle with her gentleman caller. You open the door before you, glancing over at the bird on your arm and favoring her with a gentle smile which she returns, just a wisp of doubt and melancholy left now.

“After you.” She says simply.

“Ladies first.” You retort.

“Age before beauty.” She replies, getting a soft chuckle from you.

“You saying I'm ugly?”

“Just not as ravishingly beautiful as me.”