Epilogues: Adrift - Chapter 2

You are awakened by a wheezing, gasping breath beside you, Cheeky beginning to tremble as pain takes hold of her conscious mind. The transformation is horrifying to experience, and you can only wrap her into your arms, shushing her as gently as you can manage as her agonized whimpering tears at your heart.

“What do you need, Lemondrop?” you ask softly, your nose nuzzling at her cheek. She offers nothing in response, her shaking arm coming to rest over yours as she tries to steady her nerves. You nervously give her a soft, gentle hug, feeling her tense even at such a minimal stimulus. “Talk to me, sexy. What can I do for you?” You ask again, wanting to do something more than just pressing your naked, sweaty bodies together.

“You think a shower would help?” You ask, grasping at straws. After a moment you can feel her nodding, and you squeeze her once more before moving to extricate yourself from the tangle of limbs you've both managed to create.

“Hot I assume?” You state more than ask.

“Yeah.” She replies, hissing through her teeth. “As hot as you can stand it. Going to need help.” She adds unnecessarily.

“Be right back.” You whisper, rolling out of bed as slowly as you can manage lest your movement jostle the sensitive hen. Tiptoeing to the foot of the bed, you fumble around until you find and slip on your thermal underwear, which is considerably cleaner than your novelty boxers, if you could even find them right now. Nearly tripping over your boots, you make it to the door, slipping through quickly and getting to the bathroom. Starting the shower, you check the temperature setting against your forearm and wince slightly. So hot it'll take a bit to get used to, which is just what the patient ordered. Thankfully, the shower was built with this kind of thing in mind, and you activate the cutoff valve built into the showerhead before you take a moment to relieve yourself and flush, exiting the bathroom quickly.

You silently pad across the hall, clicking Cheeky's door shut behind you and taking a moment to readjust to the darkness. You grunt softly in frustration, this won't do at all. “Watch your eyes, Lemondrop.” You say gently as a warning before flicking on the light, blinding yourself for a moment before you are thrown into a full blown panic.

The dirty yellow hen is collapsed on the floor, balled into a fetal position and twitching slightly. You quickly kneel beside her, hand on her shoulder as you try to comfort the suffering bird as best you can. “Got the shower ready, Cheeky. Come on, let's get you up.” You add gently, rolling her onto her back and then to a seated position, the curvy hen grimacing through it all. “What happened?” You ask, worried and a little frustrated with the expected answer.

“Tried to get up. Didn't go well.” She says between labored breaths.

“Damn it, I'm here to help, Cheeky. You didn't have to do this.”

“I'm a big girl, Mike. And don't you dare crack a joke about that.” She adds, a slight smile fighting through the pain to make its appearance.

“Last thing you need to be right now is stubborn.” You chide her.

“Yes, daddy.” She grumps back.

“I'm only doing what's best for you, sweetheart.” You reply, using your best approximation of a fatherly tone.

“You certainly were doing what was best for me earlier, stud monkey.” She fires back, gamely trying to power through her pain.

You smile at that, both for your friend's good humor, as well as the mention of her back to back orgasms. The feeling of her in your arms, convulsing in ecstasy, mmmmmmmmm, definitely a good memory there, Mike.

“Dirty girl.” You reply with a smile.

“You gonna spank me, daddy?”

You sigh at the futility of carrying on this line of conversation, despite how much you want to. “Rain check? Need to get you in the shower, Lemondrop.”

“Aww, c'mon. We've got some time.” She replies gamely, even as her alarm begins to chirp it's annoyingly cheerful tune. “Shit.” she sums up succinctly.

“Yeah, let's get you up.” You suggest, getting to your feet, crossing your arms and grabbing both her wrists. Bracing yourself against her not inconsiderable weight, you pull, drawing the hen to her feet and into your arms, where she falls heavily. “I've got you.” You whisper softly into what you assume is the general vicinity of her ear. You can feel her tremble, a great effort necessary just to get her feet under her. You pull her sweat-soaked nightshirt down over her otherwise naked body, all the preparation necessary for the short journey ahead. You slide your arm under hers and around her back, supporting as much of her weight as you can manage. Interestingly, it's not nearly as much as you would expect, months of somewhat steady exercise having taken their toll it seems.

“Okay, here we go.” You prompt, taking a small, shuffling step forward. You can hear her grit her teeth, but for all her outward suffering, this bird has an inner strength that you can't deny. Step after step inch you both to the door, which you awkwardly open, plucking Cheeky’s robe from its hook on the back of her door and tucking it under your free arm.

Three more steps and you're into the hall, the pair of you shuffling forward as best you can, the movement slowly easing the stiffness out of your friend and lover. Another dozen shambling steps gets you both to the bathroom, thoughtfully laid out for just this situation.

Plodding into the shower, you're thankful for the extensive accessibility modifications made, to include the grab handles on the wall and aggressive use of nonslip tape on the floor. Easing Cheeky down onto the low bench seat, you lift her arms gently and pull her nightshirt up and off, tossing it to the floor.

“Aren't you rushing things a bit, Catsanova?” The now naked bird quips.

“I'm helping you, Lemondrop. You ready?” You ask, before realizing this is going to get soggy awfully fast.

“As I'll ever be.” She says dryly, not realizing that you're busy behind her stripping down. You step forward, reaching up to resume the hot water flow to the shower head. “Damn, Bubblegum, of all the places to actually have a full coat of…” she begins before she's blasted in the face by the shower. Thankfully the brief interruption in flow means the first five seconds are merely very warm, but this quickly escalates to nearly scalding, steam rapidly beginning to build in density. You adjust the shower head so that its spray lands a little lower, the water beading on her feathers for a few seconds before it finally begins to soak in. The transformation isn't nearly as stark as the time you and Bonnie got caught in that sudden downpour, but it does slim Cheeky down a bit, and outlines her ample curves precisely to your appreciative eye.

Cheeky moans softly, letting the hot water slowly ease her aching nerves, leaving you to contemplate your own hygiene, and hers. Using the off-spray from the now well-soaked hen, you manage to get your body mostly damp at least, before grabbing what must be Haddock’s combination shampoo and body wash. “Captain Croc’s Caribbean Calypso Cannonball” proclaims the (naturally) pirate-themed labeling. “What the hell does a Calypso Cannonball even smell like?” You mutter, opening the top and squeezing a whiff out of the half empty bottle. Lime and coconut apparently.

You squirt as small as portion as you think you can get away with into your hand before you massage most of it into your scalp, generating enough lather to work over the rest of your body. You work quickly, lest you begin to dry out, as well as knowing Cheeky is likely going to need help in this arena as well. You pay extra attention to all the smelly bits, as well as your slightly encrusted mat of pubic hair, making sure you're going to be presentable at the doctor's office.

“If you scrub it more than five seconds, you're playing with it.” Your feathery showermate declares lewdly. “Not that I'd mind watching.”

You chuff softly at her returning humor, and apparent relief, stepping in front of her to rinse off. You can feel rafts of suds sliding over your naked body, even as the hot water turns your skin a bright shade of pink. “You know it's not nice to shake anything resembling a worm in front of a chicken, right?” She asks, and even though you have a pretty good idea where she's headed, you decide to play along.

“And why's that?” You ask coyly.

“Verrrrrrrry tempting.” She practically purrs.

“Oh really?” You ask, gently wiggling your hips as you rinse the shampoo out of your hair, completely unintentionally of course.

Your answer comes when you feel the touch of a somehow-hotter-than-the-shower-water tongue caressing the tip of your manhood, lifting it gently before sliding along the underside. You feel a soft pinch as the edges of her beak come down on the base of your shaft, her breath hot against you. Looking down, you see a soaking wet hen with her head buried in your crotch, and more importantly, smiling as her tongue gently bathes your rapidly hardening cock. She hums softly, affectionately, barely perceptible over the noise of the shower itself, tasting you thoroughly and intimately. Your hand flails a bit until you find a handhold on the grab bar there specifically for the purpose of keeping the disabled from losing their footing. Given the situation, you certainly feel like you've got some sort of palsy.

Your free hand cups her cheek as hers find your hips, holding you in place as she at last opens her eyes. Looking up at you, with vestiges of makeup dripping slowly down her face, you can see nothing but pure, animal lust in her eyes. With a throb even you can feel, you're getting even harder in her mouth, and you can tell she felt it too, a soft humming laughter felt more than heard against your sensitive flesh. A fiery glint can be seen in Cheeky's eyes, and you suddenly come to the realization of just how dextrous and broad her tongue actually is as she rolls it into a tube that nearly encases your member. She slowly works the hot, fleshy tunnel up and down your length, sending sparks through your field of vision. You moan through gritted teeth, trying to stay quiet but failing miserably. Any thought of discretion and privacy is a distant whisper against the thunderous cacophony of pleasure being given to you by your feathery lover.

Several lewd, wordless exchanges, and what feels like an eternity later, you can feel yourself building, quickly rushing toward a climax that threatens to blast your soul to flinders. “Cheeky, oh God, so close. So close.” You whisper hoarsely, barely able to form words at this point. Her only reply is as much of a giggle as she can manage with her mouth full, a tightening of her grip on your hips, and a slight uptick in the speed of her ministrations. With a choked, grunted roar, you explode, your shaft throbbing powerfully with each jet of sticky cream you give your lusty hen. Her tongue shifts gears, pinning you firmly against the roof of her mouth even as the tip flicks back and forth across the sensitive underside of your tip, her humming a satisfied cooing now. You nearly lose your footing at this extremely pleasurable stimulation, thankful for the handhold as well as Cheeky’s grip upon you.

A long, tinglingly torturous minute later you finally relax, the gentle scrape of her beak edges along your length pulling the last of your seed from you. She looks up at you with that same wicked gleam as she does this, making a show of running her tongue through the small puddle of cream accumulated in her lower beak before closing both beak and eyes. She swallows visibly, her whole body quivering a moment before she opens her eyes and beak again, looking up at you with slightly satisfied lust and a bare tongue presented as evidence of her devotion your personal pleasure.

“Holy hell, Chica.” you finally manage to gasp.

“Girls in school used to make fun of my short, rounded beak. I turned it into an advantage.” She says with a satisfied smirk. “No other hen is gonna be able to do that for you. Just sayin’” she adds, a saucy wink thrown in for good measure.

“You didn't have to…”

“I wanted to, Mike. And I enjoyed it. Very, *very* much.” she emphasizes with one last slow lick of your flagging erection.

“Me too.” You admit, a goofy smile plastered on your face. Smooth, Mike. Real smooth.

“Now we're even.” She says with a giggle.

“Mmmmmmmmm, I suppose we are.” You reply, slowly coming down from your high. Your perception slowly begins to register again the sounds of the shower, the soft hiss of the spray and the pattering fall of water off your body. Reluctantly, you break free of Cheeky's grasp, turning around to finish rinsing off, which gives her the opportunity to fondle your rear with rough, lusty familiarity.

“Not that I'm complaining about the attention, but we really need to get you cleaned up, Lemondrop.” You chide softly.

“Awwww, you don't want get a little more dirty before that?” She asks coquettishly.

“I would love to, sexy, but right now I don't think either one of us could handle what we both want to do to each other.” You say warmly, meaning it sincerely. This bird is an aphrodisiac on legs.

“Mmmmmmmmm, I suppose not. Just have to save it for later then.” she says with a warm-natured huff. “Getting a little cold here, Mike.” She adds, reminding you that you've been hogging the water. You step aside, allowing the full spray to resume working on Cheeky's nerves and cast about looking for whatever she uses for bath products.

“Which is yours, Lemondrop?” You ask, lost once again in the array of various bottles sitting on the shelf to your right.

“Body wash in the square blue bottle, feather conditioner in the red oval.” She says absently, leaning forward to dunk her head into the flow once again. You squirt a generous portion of the sky blue gel into your hand, rubbing it into both of them before you slide your hands down from her shoulders to her elbows. Kneading gently, you work the bird into a rich lather, enjoying the warmth of her body under your fingertips. This soon spreads to her neck and down her back, her soft, supple body leaning back into you gently. You gently lift her arms, scrubbing up under them and drawing a gentle flinch as your fingers dance along the side of her ribcage. Smiling a bit at the ticklish hen, you finish up with her forearms and hands, more to massage the tender bird than out of necessity. You glance over and see her smiling warmly, eyes closed as she soaks in the heat, and the loving care you're giving her.

You pull the showerhead off it's bracket, using the extension hose to spray her arms and back directly. You slowly work downwards, making sure not to leave any suds to dry into her plumage, the lather clinging to her delicious curves better than any clothing could. Getting another dollop of soap in your hands, you begin to work the area immediately below her throat, standing behind her as you lean forward. Your hands slowly, gently work downwards, sliding over and slightly displacing the curve of her ample breasts with each pass. You grin a bit as your thumbs flick over her mahogany brown nipples, drawing a gentle gasp from the drenched hen.

“Cheeky monkey.” She says with a smile in her voice.

“I can stop.” You offer, doing just that.

“Oh no you don't. You can't rile up a lady like this and then not finish the job. Hen's rules.” She says sagely.

“Riiiiiiight. Hen's rules.” You reply, playing along if only for the sake of getting to handle her supple bosom some more. Adding a gentle, soapy pinch of both now-erect nubs, and getting a soft, ecstatic gasp in exchange, you continue your labor of love, washing the bird gently. Even the swell of her belly feels sexy, like a soft, warm pillow under your soapy fingers. The neat, ordered pattern of her scars acts as a roadmap under your touch, ensuring you don't miss a thing, including the lack of a detectable navel on the otherwise humanoid bird. “This okay to use on your headfeathers?” you ask.

“Yeah, just make sure to use plenty of conditioner on them after.” She replies, voice as calm and relaxed as you've ever heard her. She practically purrs as you begin to wash her head, massaging her scalp with dextrous, gentle fingers. You find yourself marveling at just how durable and resilient her feathers are, bouncing back with every bend and tug you give them. Your work complete for now, you rinse your hen off again before helping her to her feet.

“Foot on the bench, please.” You ask, getting her to lift one of her large, yet toned, gams for you. Sitting on the bench, you start at the foot, lathering her up yet again, your hands beginning to feel a little sore from the work. You don't stop however, knowing full well the necessity of it, as well as the massive positive effect you're having on your dripping wet hen.

There's that word again.

Your.

As your hands set to work on her other leg, your mind starts working through that particular question. You love Cheeky, for sure, but are you *in* love with her? Does it matter? Could you be happy with just being friends with exceptionally wonderful benefits? Could she? Cheeky certainly seems like she's enjoying herself at the very least, but is that all she wants? Does she want a family? Do you? Would that even be possible?

“Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“Pretty sure that foot's clean.” She says, breaking your reverie.

“Sorry.” You reply, chagrined and getting back on track.

Working back up again, you find your eyes drawn up her thigh and into the delta of her sex, her feathers fading into bare skin around her cleft with a small poof of feathers directly above it, which draws a soft chuckle from you. Her anatomy is nothing surprising otherwise, even if you can't exactly remember if you've ever seen a human example in person, let alone such exquisite proximity.

“See anything you like?” She asks, drawing your gaze upwards into her own, the same fiery, almost predatory glint evident once again.

“Definitely.” You reply with your best saucy smile. “Need to clean you up, Lemondrop.” You add, standing and moving behind her, easing her foot back to the shower floor. You get one last squirt of soap onto your hands and begin working them around her beltline, washing and massaging with intimate familiarity. Your fingers work slowly downwards with each stroke, eventually sliding along both sides of her scaldingly hot sex and eliciting a soft, purring moan from your lover. You pull her close, your half-erection nestling into her rear cleavage yet again and getting a lewd grind in response. “Plenty of time for that later, sexy.” You remind the both of you.

You circle around to face her, and relish the sight as you look into her eyes and spread your fingers wide to grab two delicious handfuls of fluffy, feathered ass. Slowly you worship Cheeky's ample backside, working the suds in and massaging her gently, getting a soft humming in your ear as she wraps you in a wet, feathery hug. Her embrace squishes her breasts into your bare, wet chest, and you can feel the tip of your reinvigorated manhood poking into and sliding along her soapy cleft. She gasps at this, and then at your relentless advance, which now reaches into the divide between her cheeks. Your fingertips continue to wash and massage, even as they enjoy the embrace of her pillowy butt, which is unsurprisingly unfeathered. At last reaching their full depth, you feel a couple fingertips graze over her crinkled pucker, drawing a twitch from it, and a gasp from her as she jerks her hips forward and away from the stimulus.

“Easy, sailor. Not on the first date.” She purrs into your ear, rolling her hips a bit to grind her slippery sex against yours again.

You gasp in response, trying to maintain control of yourself even as her most intimate embrace yet beckons you forward just a scant few inches. “I'll keep that in mind.” You purr breathily against her ear. “But first things first.” You add, really beginning to not care about being on time, or anything else for that matter.

Thankfully, even if your primal brain vehemently disagrees with that dewcriptor, you're blasted in the back with a jet of nearly ice cold water. You shriek several octaves higher than even you knew you were capable of before flailing about to redirect the water away from you.

Cheeky giggles softly, reaching down to fondle and warm your backside. “Give it a second, it'll come back at least warm enough to rinse off.”

“Thank God.” You reply flatly, keenly aware of the contrast between cold water and hot henflesh that is pressed into and around you. Shivering slightly, you take a moment to get one last groping squeeze in, her soapy rump yielding easily under your fingers. Feeling the splash of water warm against your foot, you reach back and retrieve the shower wand, reluctantly breaking your embrace and setting about quickly and efficiently getting the both of you rinsed off.

“So your feather conditioner is a leave-in, or what?” You ask, making sure to take complete and thorough care of your friend and lover.

“We'll have to skip it. Takes forever to get in and then out, and the water needs to be hot.” She says with the barest hint of regret. “Besides, not like I need to impress anyone today.” She adds, and you can hear dread creeping into her voice.

“You've already impressed the hell out of me, Lemondrop.” You reply with a wicked grin and a wink, trying desperately to divert her attention from the dark road ahead.

“Likewise, Bubblegum.” She says, returning your smile. You can't tell if you were successful, or if she's just putting on a brave face for your benefit, but for now you'll leave it be. You pull a towel off the rack and hand it to her, getting an unspoken question answered as she merely presses it firmly into her plumage instead of rubbing, as you're doing with the smaller towel, again likely Foxy’s. You're done well before Cheeky, and you bend to retrieve your thermals only to find them soaking wet in a puddle on the floor. You grunt in frustration, wringing them out as best you can in the sink.

“Think I can get these dry before we have to leave?” You ask.

“Probably, if you get them in now.” She replies, shaking the water out of her earhole.

“Right, be right back.” You state, cinching your towel down around your waist and giving Cheeky’s naked body one last once-over before you slip out the door. Sliding open the door for the laundry closet, you check the dryer for any laundry before tossing your still damp garment in and setting it to the highest setting you can figure out. Pressing the button a good two seconds to ensure the machine hums to life properly, you straighten, turn, and run smack into a pajama-clad bear-shaped wall.

“Michael.” Faz intones softly, thankfully without his potentially heart attack-inducing voicebox.

You're left trying to keep your heart in your chest regardless, as well as fumbling to keep your towel secured around your waist. “Faz. Hi.” You begin, trying to formulate an explanation that doesn't involve, or even mention, the fact that you've been having sex with his roommate most of the day so far. “Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. Ended up falling asleep, needed a shower before taking Chica to the doctor’s” you say quietly, before immediately wondering whether you're using that name for his benefit or your own.

“Quite all right. Woke up on my own, needed a snack. Put Foxy’s towel in the dryer when you're done with it?” he rumbles sofly, succinct as ever.

“Sure thing.” you reply, breathing a sigh of relief before the bathroom door opens again, disgorging a bathrobe-clad, drenched hen clasping a towel over her face.

“Where'd you wander off to, love monkey?” She queries through the terrycloth.

Your cheeks are on fire as yours eyes dart between Chica, then Faz, then Chica again, then Faz once more, your mouth flopping like a landed fish. Faz simply offers you a slight, knowing smile, and a single chuckling huff of breath through his nose before wandering silently back towards the kitchen. You pad quietly over and retrieve the dirty yellow bird, leading her back to her own bedroom, more for support than guidance. Cheeky drapes her towel over the back of her neck, hooking your arm in hers and smiling at the gesture, if nothing else. “Lead on, loverboy.”

You can't help but smile in return, walking her the short trip down the hall and opening the door to her bedroom, ushering her in before following and closing the door behind you. Your first breath inside bombards you with a veritable wall of scent, and you recoil slightly as the room absolutely *reeks* of sex.

“I know, right?” Chica says almost reverently next to you.

You chuckle softly at her humor, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Feeling better I take it?” You ask with a smile in your voice.

“I'm...okay. Functional, I guess is the better way to put it. Thank you, Michael.” She adds, dropping all the coquettishness and pretense.

“For?”

“Being a friend. Looking after me. Treating me right, without making me feel bad for asking.” She confesses, taking a seat next to you.

“You *are* my friend, Chica. And I'm glad of it.” You reply, throwing an arm over her shoulders and pulling the dirty yellow bird into a soft hug.

“Listen... about earlier…” she begins tentatively.

“What about it? I had fun. You certainly seemed to.” you say with no small amount of pride, even if it wasn't much effort on your part.

“I did, truly. I just don't want you to feel like I forced you into anything, or guilted you into it.” She clarifies, voice soft and sincere as you've ever heard from the bawdy hen.

“We both wanted it. Pretty sure it wasn't on the day's agenda for either of us, but here we are. This wasn't a pity fuck, Chica. Not on my part at least.” You add, at least eighty percent sure her actions weren't born of sympathy either.

“If you say so. I just don't want to lose you as a friend, you know? It's not gonna get weird, is it?”

“Only if we let it, sexy.”

“And if I wanna put a liner in the bed frame and invite you over for naked jelly wrestling?”

“I might be game. What flavor?”

“Cherry?”

“Yeah, that'd be cool. But not lime, that'd *definitely* be weird.”

“Definitely.” she agrees sagely. “I love you, Mike. As a friend, and maybe more, but always as a friend.” She adds, leaning in and hugging you tightly. You return the hug with both arms, planting a gentle kiss on top of her head.

“What time is it?” You ask, and she leans over and lifts her phone off the nightstand briefly before setting it down again.

“Time to start getting ready, I think.” She says, sounding most displeased.

“Bummer.”

“Yeah, I like us being naked instead.” She says with her typical saucy grin before she stands up, lumbering over to her closet. You instinctively turn your head as she disrobes, and immediately wonder why.

You've seen her naked. You *like* seeing her naked. You *want* to see her naked again.

Even with all that, you have to fight your base instincts to turn back just in time to catch her flung bathrobe full in the face. Your muffled protest is immediately drowned out by Chica’s industrial strength hair (well, feather) dryer, very much resembling an old-time vacuum, complete with an insulated hose and multiple nozzle attachments. You lie down onto your side, watching your feathery lover fluff her plumage this way and that. The way the jet of hot air exposes fleeting glimpses of her skin is endlessly fascinating to you, and you wear a satisfied smile the whole time. After several minutes of preening, Chica clicks off the foot switch and steps over to the closet.

“What do you think, Michael, the black lace or the white floral print?” She asks, holding up two matching sets of undergarments.

“Whichever is more comfortable, they'll both look sexy on you. Or off you.” You add playfully.

“Damn straight.” She replies, opting for the black lace bra and thong set.

“I was thinking, maybe we could grab an early dinner after your appointment. You and me?” You ask her; out on a date, technically speaking.

“Oh really? How am I supposed to know you're not just trying to get into my pants?” She demands in mock outrage, despite the fact that she's bent over, her naked rump pointed directly at you, as she slips her panties on. “I'm a modern hen, I have standards. I'm empowered. I'm liberated. I…”

“Can still taste me on your tongue, I'd wager.” You interrupt, a shit-eating grin on your face as she whirls to face you. After a brief moment, she recovers from the shock of your own brazen flirting, and joins you in a sexy, satisfied smile.

“Mmmmmmmmm, yeah, I can.” She confirms breathily, giving you a wink as she hefts her substantial cleavage into a bra barely capable of containing it. The lift induced, however, draws your eyes in, and you lose yourself in that delicious divide for a moment, which is kind of the point, really.

Chica slips on a thin black camisole over this, which complements, rather than hides, her ample curves. Next comes a loose fitting pair of khaki slacks, the whole ensemble serving to play down the ribald hen’s natural colorfulness, but in a good way. She then pulls on a loose, flowing turtleneck sweater in a pale gray flecked with black.

“Pretty.” You say simply, feeling exceedingly underdressed in your towel and, well, your towel.

“I like to think I've got some fashion sense when it's called for.” She says with just a hint of annoyance.

“Wasn't talking about the outfit.” You clarify, smiling as you can see her blush through her feathers.

“Walked right into that one.” She replies sotto voce.

“Yup.”

“You gonna get dressed? I don't want my love slave getting frostbite in his…extremities.”

“Just waiting for my stuff to dry, Lemondrop.”

“Fair enough. Can you do me a favor? Strip the bed and throw the linens in the wash? I'd do it myself, but I just barely got this flare under control. Don't want to push harder than I have to right now.” She adds, preempting any need for you to look out for her.

“Sure, it'll give me a chance to check on my underwear.” You say, rising to pull the sweat- and God-knows-what-else-soaked sheets off the bed. “Quilt too?”

“Yeah, I was pretty messy. But then again, you already knew that.” She adds saucily, taking a seat in front of her vanity and looking through her assortment of makeup, unsure of what to wear.

“Hey Chica?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you're beautiful without it.” you say softly, admitting it aloud to yourself at the same time. Letting her marinate on that for a moment, you throw on her robe, adding the small towel to the pile of linens and carrying the lot out the door.

The towel gets tossed into the dryer quickly enough that you don't have to restart it, and you get to dumping the sheets into the washing machine. Puzzling out the proper settings and soap, you add a hefty helping of her lavender-scented fabric softener into the appropriate receptacle, starting the machine and placing the quilt on top of it. You pull the dryer door open, and retrieve your thermals, relieved to find them not only dry but damn near scalding hot, as synthetics tend to get. Draping them over your arm, you restart the single towel and return to Chica's bedroom. Letting yourself in quietly, you walk over to Chica, who is still sitting at her vanity, staring into the mirror.

“You really believe that, don't you?” She asks you softly.

“Wouldn't have said it if I didn't.” You reply, placing your free hand against her cheek, rubbing the downy surface gently. She leans into the contact slightly, closing her eyes with a soft smile.

“But my eyes are so...plain. Poop brown.” She huffs.

“Chocolate. Who doesn't love chocolate?” You ask her, getting a giggle from the golden hen.

“Philistines.” She says, smiling more broadly now.

“I'd like to think I've got good taste.” You say sagely.

“I certainly think you *taste* good.” She fires back, getting a smile from you both for the memory and her returning humor.

“I'll take your word for it, Lemondrop.” You say warmly, smooching the top of her head before shucking her robe and slipping into your still-toasty underwear.

“Awwww.” Chica grumps.

“Don't want my ‘extremities’ freezing off, right?”

“Noooooo.” She replies, begrudgingly conceding the point.

The rest of your clothes go on without a hitch, as long as you're not counting getting your ass groped repeatedly while bent over as a hitch. Sorting yourself out, you offer a hand up to Chica, who takes it thankfully, rising with a little effort, but a far cry from the disaster she was five hours ago. You pull her into a hug, gently enveloping the squishy bird and getting a contented hum from her as she returns the embrace.

“Chica?”

“Yeah?”

“No matter what happens today, always remember I'm going to be here for you. Don't be afraid to lean on me if you need to.” You advise her, feeling her tense for a moment before she nods, her feathered cheek tickling your own. “Good. Now let's get moving, don't want to be late.” you say responsibly, releasing the warm hen and offering her your arm. She takes it, locking her own through it, allowing you to lead her out of the bedroom.

You both amble down the hallway towards the front door, passing the kitchen with the resident bear munching on a large bowl of cereal.

“Hey, Faz, up early?” Chica asks warmly, glad to have something else happy to focus on.

“Got hungry.” he says curtly, shoveling more bear fuel into his gaping maw and chewing thoughtfully. “Doctor's appointment, huh?” He asks her.

“Yeah, Mike's babysitting me, don't worry.” She says, noticing the look of concern in his eyes. Disengaging from you for a moment, she trundles over and wraps the big bear in a hug from behind. After a moment of surprise, Faz reaches up to cover her feathery hands with one massive paw, prompting her to squeeze him a little tighter. “I'm gonna be okay, Faz.” She adds, knowing full well how much concern her condition tends to garner.

“Just remember we're here for you, Chica.” He rumbles softly.

“I know.” She says, and you can hear her smile in those two simple words.

She straightens, checking her phone for the time, before she moves towards the door. “Need to get a move on, Mike.” She says over her shoulder, rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight. You begin to move after her, only to be stopped when a massive brown paw hooks your elbow as you pass.

“Michael.” Faz says softly, pausing as he clearly searches for the words. “Be *very* careful with her. She's far more fragile than she appears.” He states evenly, the matter not open for debate apparently.

You open your mouth to reply, only to come to the realization that there's a deeper meaning to his statement beneath the surface. You immediately find yourself facing the possibility that you might actually really hurt Chica if you don't watch your step. You take a deep breath and let it go, placing your hand on Faz’s shoulder.

“I will.” You reply simply, meaning it deeper than any promise you've ever made. You receive only a nod in reply, and that is all either of you need to conclude the conversation.

You walk over to the foyer, plucking your jacket from the hook as Chica pulls a floppy, yet undoubtedly warm, knit cap onto her head. Slipping your outer garment on, you pull a fleece watch cap out of the pocket, pulling it down over your exposed ears before you follow your feathered friend out the door, shutting it behind you both. The breeze is cold against you, nipping at your nose, and you huddle against the cozy bird beside you for a moment. Chica wraps you in a hug, squeezing tightly to steel herself more than anything.

“Just remember, Chica. I'm right here beside you.” You remind her gently. “Ready?” You ask her, getting only a curt nod in reply.