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1.
In his defense, Lily delivers a really good pat.
That's it. That's his defense.
He had been sitting curled up on the couch with Lily (and resisting the urge to rub his cheek against hers, curl his tail around the both of them and croon his delight), delightfully alone when Poki had suddenly walked in and screamed, "my eyes!"
Startled, he'd jumped up, barely tamping down on the instinctual reaction to bristle and snarl at the intruder. Poki had slumped on the far end of the couch, dramatically complaining that their mushy display of affection had burnt her eyes and she would never recover from it.
The other inhabitants of the house, attracted by the initial scream, laughed at the unfolding scene and at his and Lily's expense. He tried to laugh it off too, throwing a cushion at Poki and mockingly shooing the lot of them away from the room to spare their poor eyes.
He didn't really feel amused. The animalistic part of him wanted to raise his tail and let it bristle, bare his sharper teeth and pounce on those who dared intrude on his territory and his mate and-
Oh. Oh, woah, ok. Not going there. He's human and he can act like it.
He slinks back to the couch and curls back up against Lily and pretends he is fine.
Lily, predictably, is not fooled.
"Hey, it's ok, they're gone now," she smiles at him, and he smiles back, but the smile falls away as his frayed nerves remind him exactly how frazzled he's supposed to be feeling. He presses his ears against his skull more firmly and bitterly berates himself for not tying them down tighter and more properly to muffle noises better. It's a delicate balance, ensuring he can still hear but not well enough that his sensitive ears will hurt from too loud noises. Clearly, he didn't do a good job today.
"Aww, come here," Lily laughs, correctly reading his silence as an unhappy one, and runs a hand through his hair.
He melts.
Lily's fingers are gentle but firm, carding through his hair with the grace of an artist drawing on a canvas. His tail twitches aggressively where he has tied it around his waist but doesn't manage to escape and start wagging. He dimly registers Lily is laughing softly at his antics (he finds he doesn't mind because it's from Lily) and presses himself closer, chest rumbling with a purr and tilting his head. Her fingers lightly brush along his left ear, and he purrs louder,
-and jerks away sharply, horrified. He nearly let Lily touch his ears.
..which, objectively, isn't a bad thing, but Lily is human and he very much is not, and humans are really not supposed to be friends with not humans, much less date them, and so he should be a human and not anything lesser.
Lily laughs. "You purr!"
"Like every other sane person should," he jokes, smiling weakly at her delight but knowing that any minute now she was going to demand to know why he tricked her and tell the other members of the house and kick him out of here- would he even get to pack his things? Would they decide a pest like him didn't deserve clothes?
"Hey," Lily calls, gently tilting his face to face hers with her hands, "it's ok. I won't judge."
He stares at her. What an angel.
"I mean, everyone has their weird little quirks right? So what you purr, it's cute! You don't have to be embarrassed to purr in front of me, ok? But if you don't want to, that's fine too," Lily continues, smiling sweetly.
What a dense, oblivious brick of an angel.
He laughs (a little hysterically) at her cluelessness being the only thing that had saved him from something more serious (what if he had been so stupid in front of someone else? What if someone else had heard? Someone who'd recognise his purr as what it was and pull out his ears and tail and call him inhuman and- ok. Nope. Stop thinking. Stop thinking right now). He's starting to shake with the adrenaline wearing off, and he's not sure if he can trust himself to let Lily pat his hair again, but he's ok. He's still human.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going to get a shower to wash out the dirt in my hair from your grimy little fingers," he says, backing away as she lets out a squawk of outrage, before turning and fleeing once he's out of the room. He releases his tail and ears once he's locked the door to the toilet, crumpling to the ground in a ball, and sits rocking himself for a good five minutes.
He's human. And he can act like it.
2.
In his defense, when you close the door to your room, you expect people to knock or call through the door, not slam the door open and barge into your room like it's their room. Because, clearly, a closed door means "do not disturb, I require space, do not enter my room my space my den mine mine mine-"
So maybe that last bit is just him.
But the first part should be a universal rule.
So Michael doesn't think very much about the fact that he's let his ears (but not his tail, that takes too long to hide) out and he's currently prowling on all fours around his room, quietly chittering to himself as a side commentary as he inspects everything in his room and ensures nothing is out of place. His room. His things. His. No one else can have it, except Lily (and even then, the thought is begrudging.)
Someone knocks on the door and he goes quiet, throat working, before he produces, "I'm naked."
"Breakfast pancakes?" Yvonne asks, and he all but hears her rolling her eyes in a "I didn't need to know that" kind of way. His mouth involuntarily waters at the prospect of the sweet syrup that goes with pancakes, and nearly lets out an approving chatter before he catches himself.
"Yeah, sure," he settles on saying, running a quick circle around his room happily once he's sure the other is gone. Syrup! He wants to shake out his tail and climb up into the attic with a bowl of the sweet treat and hoard it away as his, even though logically he knows it'll only attract insects (which he should not eat) and hoarding is not a human thing to do. But he wants to.
He rolls across his bed instead, ensuring his nest smells solidly of him, and reluctantly heads over to his closet to get dressed.
The clean clothes reek of detergent.
Part of him does not mind- it's a nice lavender scent. The other part minds very, very much. But it's not like he can run around without clothes or wear a gas mask, either. He is, unfortunately, going to have to suck it up and wear his clothes whether it stinks or not, until they buy some less strongly smelling detergent. He makes a note to make sure they do get less strongly smelling detergent, and soon. But until then, it's not like he has any other option.
...
He finds a nice, soft shirt buried halfway in his dirty laundry basket and rubs his face on it happily, a low purr rumbling in his chest. This was such a good idea. It's not like anyone would notice he was wearing a supposedly dirty shirt, and it's so soft. His ears flick lazily as they pick up the sound of someone (noisily and heavily, one of the guys, then) creeping closer, and he only has a half moment to register the footsteps have stopped outside his door before the door bursts open and Toast comes barging in with a "surprise-!"
He slams his ears down against his skull (they instinctively go down at the scare and loud noise anyway) and hopes Toast didn't catch the movement, but there's nothing to be done about the fact that half the contents of his laundry basket is strewn on the floor and he still has the soft shirt half lifted to his face.
Toast stares at the scene like he's daring it to explain to him what's going on.
"I thought you were arriving tomorrow," is what Michael opts to say, dropping the shirt and continuing to dig through his laundry basket like it's a very normal thing to do. It probably isn't. But maybe he could say he dropped something in there and was trying to find it.
"Oh, yeah, there was a change in schedule," Toast says, staring intently at whatever's happening in front of him (jeez, is the guy even blinking?), and Lily may have been naive and a little dense but Toast is anything but. Michael knows first hand the other is sharp and perspective, and most of all smart. It's too much to hope that he will brush this off as a silly event with no rhyme or reason.
There is a long silence. He presses his ears tighter against his skull, ignoring the way the muscles protest against his decision, and tries for a light hearted, "you going to just stand there?"
Toast hums. "What're you doing?"
"The usual," he says, and hopes his voice doesn't give away how hard and how fast his heart is thumping in his chest, "you know, dropped something in, gotta get it back."
"You need help?" Toast offers almost lazily, but there is something calculating in his eyes, like he's just trying to get closer or buy time in Michael's den. The realisation makes his head rush with fear.
"Nah, I'm good. Just save me some food," he dismisses as casually as he can manage. Toast doesn't move, and for one heart stopping moment Michael thinks that this is the end, that the other is going to force his way in and confirm that Michael isn't human, but then Toast shrugs and leaves with a simple, "ok."
He gets up to close the door to his own room, locks it, and curls up in bed, letting his own scent wash over him comfortingly.
Too close. Way too close. He can act more human than this.
3.
In his defense.
So maybe he doesn't have a defense. But he can't really be blamed either when faced with food that just smells so good.
When their off day (the name is a lie, it's not an off day. It's just a day that they aren't putting themselves through whatever new torture Brodin has cooked up) rolls around, Scarra offers to buy lunch and he agrees to accompany the older man. The other three members of the otv are streaming- which, good for them, really. He should really start on the monster of a code for his latest project soon too.
He ties his ears down tightly in preparation of facing the chaotically loud nature of the outside world, pinches his mask shut tightly (the one good thing to come out of the pandemic for him), and piles into the car with Scarra. The poor man could really use some company.
Too bad his attempts at a conversation in the car are largely unsuccessful. He can't really hear anything with how muffled his hearing is right now, and with the roar of the engine droning in the background too (besides, it's winter and it's cold. He just wants to curl up in his warm nest and sleep and sleep and sleep). He apologises and passes his lack of response off as a headache, which really just serves to worry Scarra, so maybe accompanying him on this trip was counterproductive after all.
They stop at a taco stall (where he argues a headache is not a big deal and he can handle himself walking around, thank you), and firmly stamps down on his urge (that comes every time he goes out to eat) to drop down low, sneak over to the back of the stall, and raid the trash. He can afford to buy food from the store front like any other normal human being- like how Scarra is doing, in fact. He can't stop his nose from twitching lightly as he takes in the store's aroma, though, but at least the mask more or less covers it up.
The drive home isn't any more interesting than the drive out, but he occupies himself with the delicious scent of food filling the car.
They drop off the food to the other members separately (he seizes the opportunity to loosen the band keeping his ears pinned slightly), and he's delighted to find the food is still warm when he finally gets his hands on it. It's such an interesting texture- bumpy, soft shell, the grainy insides overspilling from the sides, the crinkly plasticity bag it came in-
"Michael? Where're you going?" Scarra calls after him, and he finds himself halfway to the sink, taco in hand. Oh. Oh, ew, no, wet tacos would taste so disgusting. No, he's not speaking from experience. He may be a feral raccoon but he has standards and self control, alright, he's not going to dunk everything he touches into the water.
"Washing my hands, duh," he says as casually as he can, putting the taco down and proceeding to do exactly as he said he would. Washing hands is human. Washing hands is normal and a good practice, in fact. There's that whole seven or eight steps to proper handwashing thing, isn't there?
"Looked like you were gonna wash the taco, man," Scarra laughs, and Michael laughs too because humans don't wash their food. He's human. He's not going to wash his food. It'd be silly to do that.
Silly and non-human-like and is he trying to give away the fact that he isn't human? Non-humans didn't get anything good. He knows that.
"I'll wash you," he says playfully instead, presses his ears down hard enough that they burn instead of ache, and very firmly does not think raccoon thoughts. It's a comfortably quiet meal that they have, and Scarra doesn't seem to suspect anything more sinister than Michael forgetting to put his taco down before starting for the sink to wash his hands.
That's good.
He's human. Nothing more, nothing less.
4.
He has no defense. He is, officially, an idiot, and he'd probably have fared better if he hung a board declaring "hey, I'm not human!" around his neck and walked around the house.
Because, really, why would he think it would be a good idea to go through the trash?
It'd seemed like a good idea, half an hour ago. He'd snuck out of the house, antsy and itching to do something to burn off that energy, and his eyes caught on the trash bin sitting in their backyard. It wasn't like anyone was going to check on the trash bin since it was in such an out of the way area, and he was perfectly capable of clearing up his own mess and making sure no one was any wiser he'd been round, and he hadn't actually dug around in the trash for a really long time..
It wasn't a human thing to do, but if he were human, he wouldn't be having this dilemma in the first place. He wouldn't have those ears and tails sticking out of him or sharpened fangs or claws. If he were human, he wouldn't have had to sit in a cage to be bid off like some animal-
Why were humans the superior race anyway? Ferals like him were faster, stronger, keener. Ferals like him didn't treat their own kind or real animals like dirt or something lesser.
Maybe he should go rampaging around, invading people's homes and upsetting things, digging through trash and being a general nuisance. It's what he was good at, all he was good for.
He thinks of Lily and Poki and Toast and Scarra, of how they would look at him with disgust, and thinks they'd be right to do so.
He flips the cover of the trash bin up, awkwardly digging the blunt claws under the fake human fingernails into the plastic trash bag, and tearing it open with some difficulty. Here he was, giving himself ear and tail cramps from hiding them away all day long, trimming his claws and carefully hiding them under fake fingernails, pretending to be human when he so obviously wasn't- and for what? A chance at living?
He viciously tears into the contents of the trash bag. It's therapeutic. It's good to feel so many different textures under his hands, to sniff the air and try to find what he can smell, and most of all to wreak chaos, plain and simple. He tears the contents of the trash bag out, item by item, smashing anything that produces a sound on impact (except glass, he's not brain dead) on the ground. He's three quarters through the trash bag when he cuts his hand on the sharp, twisted edge of metal, and it makes him finally stop, take a step back, and sigh.
He's.. not angry, not anymore. Upset, maybe, and regretful, but mostly just tired. He stares at the mess he's created for a while before he finally sighs again and gets to clearing it up. The cut on his hand is still bleeding and he's getting blood everywhere. Ugh. He kicks at a can before picking it up and throwing it back into the trash bin.
There's a thump as Poki drops her trash bag on the ground from behind him and very eloquently says, "um."
He whips around to face her, mouth working silently, before he returns, "uhh."
They stare at each other. His heart rate is picking up already, and whatever tension he'd managed to work out is coming back with a vengeance.
"What are you even doing?!" Poki questions shrilly, and makes a wild gesture, "why- what??"
She's taking out the trash. Of course. How did he forget that?
"Listen, it's.. stress relief," he explains, which isn't totally a lie, but Poki just wails, "why are you going through the trash? It's so- ergh!"
"Well, it's trash, no one's going to miss it," he points out, and doesn't talk about the part where he really just wants to get elbow deep in rubbish because of all the different textures he can find and how he likes digging up things with the help of his nose. He's not sure if this is a raccoon thing anymore. It might just be him.
"But it's- you're bleeding!" Poki cries, and runs over despite her obvious distaste for coming into contact with literal trash. She wrinkles her nose but takes his hand anyway, inspecting the cut across his palm. He pulls away before she sees his claws, clearly in view since the fake nails only cover the top side. She's already caught him in the aftermath of a little trash digging, if she sees his claws it's not going to be hard to piece two and two together.
"It's not that bad. I'll clean this up and-"
"No," Poki interrupts, "go clean it now before it gets infected. I'll settle this. And don't dig through the trash again! It's so disgusting."
They stare at each other. Poki is frowning but she worries at her bottom lip and she sounds concerned (for him, even though he was the one who made this mess and cut his own hand and he isn't human anyway- but she doesn't know that yet). "Ok," he caves, and turns to go back into the house. Poki watches him with narrowed eyes to make sure he's making a beeline for the toilet before she nods, satisfied. He scrubs the dirt from his skin and wraps up the cut tightly, and when he's asked later he lies and says he's disinfected it already. He's not going to let someone dress his wound and risk them seeing his claws (he’s been making a lot of stupid decisions lately that nearly led to his secrest being exposed, he’s not going to make another one). They don't know that he's not human.
He wants to keep it that way.
5.
In his.. is he supposed to have a defense for this??
The day was Michael Reeve's time: walking around on two legs, forming human words with his mouth, the fifth piece of the little group they called the otv.
The night is just Michael's time: creeping around on all fours, chittering and grumbling with vocal chords unused in the day, the occasional third member of the raccoon pack who had included the otv’s house in their territory.
It isn't his territory. It is theirs, and he’s alright with that. Pack is good. Pack is safe.
But the house itself is his and his only (no intruding, no picking through the trash, and no scenting, not unless he invites them to), and the other two raccoons respected him enough not to intrude on that, even though the only visible similarities they shared were their ears and tail. They’re technically supposed to share some furred markings too, but he’s been shaving off the fur growing around his eyes and on the ends of his arms and legs for a long time (there’s a frighteningly large market for raccoon furred skin. It still makes him sick that he’d participated in it, both voluntarily and involuntarily) and it isn't like he’s going to magically regrow his fur at night. He’s not a werewolf. No, his fangs and claws don't magically grow sharper either. They remain as blunt as he keeps them filed and clipped respectively.
Seriously, if he were a magical creature that could appear completely human in the day and only sprouted whatever animal features at night he wouldn't have quite as much of a problem as he currently did, you know? In fact, it'd be awfully convenient.
Pity it wasn't how things worked.
He churrs greeting as the other two raccoons from his pack jump into the backyard and they churr back, sniffing him to make sure they were right in identifying him as pack. He thrills excitement and invitation at them, and his pack are quick to warble back gratefulness and glee. It’s a rare occasion that he will invite them to intrude on what is his. He's already peeled off the fake fingernails, and he digs his nails into the wall of the house, heaving himself up to the attic alongside his more nimble companions.
Look look look, he chitters happily, and offers a packet of syrup to his pack. He doesn't remember where he snagged it from, but what matters is that it's honey goodness in a package, made to never spoil until it is opened.
Truly, the peak of mankind's intelligence.
One of his pack rumbles question, and he peels back the cover in demonstration. They seem as pleased as he is to discover the greatness that is syrup, and are quick to pick up how to open the packet themselves, albeit more clumsily. He chortles at their efforts, not unkindly, and has never felt so pleased to be part of pack.
Pack is good. Pack is safe. Pack protects each other and pack shares food.
The trapdoor to the attic creaks open, and he freezes. The ladder leading up to the attic unfolds with a softer creak. There is a human sounding grumble. He knows that voice.
Run, he shrieks, run run run danger away run run-
His pack, having fallen quiet and still upon hearing the initial noise, explodes into action, scrambling out of the window they'd gotten in by. He boosts them out and is set to scramble out himself, but the human footsteps are too loud to escape from and so he chooses to curl his tail behind him instead and press his ears into his hair, hidden. Oh, no, no, he doesn't have his human ears-
"..Michael? What're you doing here?" Yvonne calls, poking her head into the attic just as he manages to shove a beanie onto his head. Thank you, raccoon instincts, for insisting he hoard clothes up here in a nest.
"Could ask you the same," he grunts, making sure his tail is coiled behind him, out of sight, and his body is blocking his tail solidly.
Yvonne slaps a broom onto the floor of the attic and climbs up the rest of the way more easily with her hands free. "You know those raccoons hanging around here? Yeah, I heard them in our house and figured I'd come chase them out."
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and hopes she cannot hear his heart beating too fast. She doesn't seem to, looking around the attic and poking around with her broom.
"We really need to fix the lights in here," Yvonne grumbles irritably, and he's glad he cut the wire to the lights (a rash, bold decision he'd made a while back that couldn't seem any more significant now). He hums agreeably anyway. Act human. Act human.
"Hey, help me look for those raccoons. Why are you up here anyway?" Yvonne asks, stumbling over the floor a little awkwardly. Human night vision is terrible, he knows, but he's not sure how terrible it is and how much it should affect how he moves. He decides to vaguely copy Yvonne's movements.
"I came after the raccoons too. They ran out, I think," he offers, and does not talk about how he's a raccoon too and he's still here, making sure to stumble over his own feet as if he can't see when, in fact, he's seeing everything as clear (maybe clearer) as he does in the day.
"Darn," Yvonee frowns, "sucks. Back to bed, I guess."
He eyes the light shining up into the attic nervously, but can't think of a way to say he'd rather walk around in the dark without sounding weird, and resigns himself to getting down and racing into his room as fast as possible. Wait, no, he can't race off, that just exposes his tail. But staying close is just asking for his lack of human ears to be noticed..
"Ugh, are those syrup packets? Those rascals," Yvonne grumbles, coming closer and crouching to inspect the abandoned syrup packets on the floor. She looks up at him, considering, and he hopes she can't see well enough to pick up on the lack of ears on either side of his head and the way his eyes gleam, too bright- and luck seems to be on his side today, because she shrugs, "you go on to bed, you're making a video tomorrow, right? I'll clear this up."
"Ok," he chokes out faintly, and edges towards the ladder, mindful of his tail the whole time, "thanks."
Yvonne waves him off, already squinting at the floor and picking up the syrup packets, back turned. He scurries down the ladder and scrambles back into his room as quickly as he can (and as a feral, it's a lot faster than the average human can. It's also being a feral that got him into this mess).
He doesn't know how he'd live as a human, sometimes, but he doesn't dare live as anything other. Humans are good. Anything lesser is not. And he is human enough to be a human.
Right?
+1.
He has never lacked a defense as thoroughly as he does right now.
When Brodin had asked them if they were ok to participate in an escape room, well. Yeah. He was. He liked escape rooms. It all but asked him to sniff around every corner and run his hands over everything searching for clues, and if he liked doing anything it was that. It was an excuse to unapologetically be not quite human and have no one judge you for it.
The restraints were a bit of a surprise (but, fair enough, the escape room didn't look that complicated and so they needed some hindrance), and he'd only crabbed lightly at how he was the only one that had his arms tied behind his back. He'd crabbed a little more when he was told he was going to be blindfolded too, but just a little.
But this.
"What the hell, Brodin?" He demands incredulously (and very, very nervously, but no one needs to know that). The man in question raises his hands placatingly.
"It'll be just until the others find the code and let you out-"
"And you want me to sit like some animal in a cage until they do," he snaps, pushing down his rising urge to bristle and snarl and snap his teeth.
"Michael in a cage, what's he gonna doooo," Poki whisper-sings, and it gets Lily laughing.
"Not break my escape room, for one," Brodin says dryly, and that gets Scarra to join in on the laughter.
He narrows his eyes at them. "Yeah yeah, keep laughing, you aren't the ones who gotta get in that thing."
"It'll just be for a while, dear," Lily soothes, and the smiling faces of his friends beam at him. None of them seem bothered by the fact that he'll be getting in a cage- because they're human, he realises. The concept of folding themselves into a cage and being trapped in it is simply a novel, funny concept to them.
They've never been trapped in a cage against their consent, had people glower and inspect them from outside the cage like a product, have never learnt to associate cages with a throat screamed raw and not enough food and absolute obedience when an order is given.
"Michael?" Lily cups his face with her bound hands awkwardly, "hey, it's ok-"
"I'm not getting in that thing," he snaps, pulling away sharply, and glares at Brodin challengingly like the other will force him in there screaming and thrashing. He hasn't clipped his claws in a while, but what good does that do for him when his hands are bound behind his back? He still has his teeth, but he's not sure how solid of a bite he can land without his hands to steady him. The neck would be an ideal target, but if he can sink his teeth into the wrist artery that'd incapitate whoever dared tried move him, too.
"Michael-" someone touches his shoulder, and he whirls to face them, flashing his teeth threateningly and hissing, heart thudding in his chest.
Scarra flinches back, hand still raised, and regards him with wide eyes.
Oh.
"Shit, sorry," he mutters, closing his mouth, but it's too late to undo his actions. Scarra's mouth is already in an "o" of understanding. The door they came through is closed (and he heard it's lock click shut), and the other door is obviously meant for them to escape through and will be locked. The room is just a glorified cage, unless he can incapitate everyone else long enough and escape himself.
Problem: He can't win against five humans, and there's a cage right there. How easy would it be for them to overpower him, stuff him in and ship him off to be sold?
"You're not.. human?" Lily asks quietly. She sounds distant, like she's a thousand miles away, trying to process everything and come to a conclusion. He doesn't like hearing her sound like that. He doesn't like that it's his fault that she sounds like that either.
"I'm as human as you are," he finally says, and knows it's not true.
"-ello?" Toast's voice crackles to life, and he pinpoints it coming from the phone in Scarra's hand, "hellooo."
"Michael's not human," Poki blurts to the phone, voice wobbly, "he's not human, and-"
"And what?" He tries to sass, but he's scared scared scared scared scared and it comes out more like an accusation, "and stupid little ferals shouldn't be friends with humans? Shouldn't talk back and shouldn't be out of their cage?"
He steps forward aggressively, baring his teeth, and nearly whines when they step back. He doesn't want to hurt them, or for them to be scared of him. He wants them to like him. He wants them to keep being friends with him.
Humans can't be friends with non-humans.
"I dare you do it," he barks, "go on, neutralise the threat to your safety."
There's a stricken silence. He waits, body tense, teeth bared.
"I was going to say you didn't tell us you were a furry," Poki says weakly.
"We'd never hurt you!" Lily adds on, horrified, "who'd ever do that?"
("Put it like this: you follow my orders or I'll make you. Got it?")
"Seriously, Michael, we don't care," Scarra smiles, and shakes his phone a little aggressively. Toast, despite not being present, clearly takes the blurring camera as what it's meant to be.
"I don't think your genetics matter, and we've grown to like you as who you are and not what you are," Toast says slowly, and Lily claps her hands and interjects, "well said!"
"But just as we honestly told you our feelings I want you to honestly talk to us too," Toast continues, "no more hiding."
Lily keeps clapping. Poki joins in with a "big brain!"
He stares at the five of them- Poki and Lily clapping away at Toast's impromptu speech merrily, Scarra holding the phone connected to a call with Toast, and Brodin standing off to the side, camera down, and watching quietly.
"I-" he starts, and doesn't know how he's supposed to breach the subject. Ever since he got out of the smuggling ring he'd taken a lot of measures to look and act human, and he'd never admitted anything else. "I trust you guys. Really. Thanks."
Lily- his girlfriend, his mate, his dear, oblivious brick of an angel- smiles at him sweetly and gives him two thumbs up. He smiles back. What are you, she mouths, and raises her eyebrows expectantly, but her mannerism is teasing and not demanding.
"I guess I'll have to tell you what I am," he sighs anyway, and pauses, dragging it out, "well.. the truth is.. I'm.. not human."
"Booo, old news," Lily makes a face, and he laughs with everyone else. The atmosphere is relaxed and fun, the way it has always been, like the revelation that they've been talking to a non-human doesn't matter at all, and he's more than his species. The thought is liberating.
Perhaps it's that liberating thought that makes him blurt, "I'm a raccoon feral."
"Did you cut off your ears and tail?" Toast asks, and he rears back in horror at the prospect.
("You think they'll buy a feral without its tail?")
"You can't have them," he bristles, "they're mine, I need them, you can't cut it off-"
"Wasn't suggesting it," Toast sounds alarmed, and Scarra pulls a horrified face, "just never saw you with them before."
"Wait, why do you have human ears?" Poki butts in.
He hesitates. But everyone is radiating positive energy- they're just curious. He double checks Brodin's camera is off before he hesitantly reaches up to loosen the ties keeping his ears down, and unties his tail from around his waist, shaking them out firmly to stretch the muscles.
"Guys," Poki says faintly, "guys, guys, Micheal Reeves is officially a furry."
The startled laugh escapes him, tail flicking in amusement, and he narrows his eyes playfully. "You wanna see something else cool?" He grins, all teeth, and doesn't wait for a reply before pulling off one of his fake ears (it makes a horrible squeaching, tearing noise), and chucks it at Poki. She screams.
"Here, here, take a closer look," he laughs, pulling off the other ear, and holding it out to her. She backs away and starts to run, screaming, "get it away!" Michael chitters with laughter and gives chase, trying to get her to hold it. The other occupants of the room laughs, and someone starts throwing the first ear around.
When they finally get back into filming the video for the escape room, and he's firmly plastered back his fake ears and hidden away his actual ears and tail, Brodin shows him where the code to his cage lock is hidden, proves that the code works, and promises to edit out the part of the video if Michael decides he needs out of the cage and tells the other escapees where his lock code is. The film will simply show someone discovering the code by luck and breaking him out. He thanks Brodin quietly and obliges to let himself be shut in the cage he has an out from.
He doesn't use it.
And when Brodin sets them doing an obstacle course with drunk goggles, he takes a deep breath, tenses his muscles, and clears the stretch of the first course with a huge leap (after putting his feet in the wrong place twice and realising he didn't have to subject himself to this torture). "Feral Michael," his friends cheer as he easily wiggles through the Tunnel of Despair, and skirts the last obstacle with ease. Being called a feral, surprisingly, doesn't make his heart thud with fear of discovery or make him want to hide away as it usually does. Perhaps it's how none of them seem to begrudge that his naturally higher agility and strength is giving him an unfair advantage, and their tones are happy and proud on his behalf.
Michael Reeves is not human.
And maybe he doesn't have to be.