Tail #3: Another Little Piece Of My Heart

The first time anyone brought up Mike's tail (specifically the lack thereof) had also, for the most part, been the last.

It had been Davy who'd asked, which had surprised Mike. He would have guessed it would have been Peter or Micky. Neither of them were known for their tact, for fairly different reasons, but they'd looked so genuinely surprised when Davy'd mentioned it, Mike would have bet money neither of them had ever even noticed.

But Davy had asked, and now they did notice, and they'd all three looked at him with those damned earnest, caring faces. So he'd told them about how his mother had been single, and human. He'd told them about how the doctors, upon seeing him, had swept him from the room. He'd recounted Aunt Kate's tale of how, as soon as she'd noticed him missing, she had disguised herself as a nurse and burst in on the doctors just as they'd finished suturing up the gaping wound where his tail had been. He'd explained about how she'd "kidnapped" him before they could get at his ears.

Davy had spent most of the explanation growling low in his throat, nails scraping at the upholstery of the armchair as he tried to contain himself. A glance at Micky had showed a rare stillness, save for the agitated flicking of the feline's own tail, and hot fury in his odd, golden eyes.

"Aw, Mike," Peter had said softly, his voice oddly thick. Three heads had whipped around, horrified, to stare at their sensitive friend.

Peter had been huddled on the couch, tears staining his cheeks, snuffling quietly as he hugged his knees.

"N-no, aw, no, Shotgun, don't…it's not-"

"Miiii-hiiii-hiiiiike," Peter had wailed, launching himself from the couch to wrap his arms around the Texan's middle, grasping the back of his shirt as he whined pathetically. The sound had squeezed Mike's heart uncomfortably, and he'd looked to his companions for help.

Micky, the little snot, had just shrugged at him helplessly, eyes wide and ears dipping a bit anxiously to the sides. Sliding off the back of the couch, the Kit had inched forward, crouched down, and bumped his nose hesitantly against Peter's side. It had only made Peter wail louder and grasp tighter, and Micky's shoulders had slumped.

"Wh-why…why would they d-do thaaaa-haaaa-haaaat," Peter had whimpered, pressing his cheek against Mike's stomach. "S-so mean…s-stealing your t- your taaaaiiil!"

"Now, come on, kiddo, it's not all that bad," Mike had reasoned. "They didn't know they were doin' something' wrong, y'know? And I never would've even known I'd had a tail if Aunt Kate hadn't brought it up - not like I miss it or anything."

Davy had snorted, an ugly, angry sound, but Peter's sobs had sniveled down to quiet hiccups, and Mike had been able to pry him off and nod to Micky. The feline had, for once, done as Mike had wordlessly requested, clambering to Peter's side and cuddling him determinedly, throwing in a bit of a purr as the greyhound's lower lip continued to quiver.

It was about two weeks thereafter that, despite thinking the whole subject was permanently closed, Mike was confronted by Peter. No one had said one word about Mike's tail, probably for fear of setting their soft-hearted friend off, so it took him a while to understand just why Peter was thrusting a long, squishy package wrapped in newspaper at him as he reclined on the somewhat-not-as-comfy-as-usual couch.

"It's a present for you," Peter mumbled, cheeks going a bit pink.

Micky and Davy, bickering on the bandstand, quieted down to watch the display curiously. Going a bit pink under their scrutiny, Mike reached out and took the package. As he did, though, he noticed several Band-Aids wrapped clumsily around the blonde's fingertips. He set the package aside and grasped at Peter's wrists, concern overwhelming whatever bewilderment he'd been feeling.

"Peter, what the hell happened to your hands?"

"W-well, I was making something, and I kinda poked myself a few times. It's okay, though," he reassured the bristling rottweiler. "I made sure to put some mercurochrome on them and I put bandages right on. Doesn't even hurt a little bit," he finished, wiggling his fingers and smiling brightly.

Sighing, Mike released him and sat back, reaching again for the present. "Okay, then, Shotgun. What's this?"

"Open it!"

Mike did so carefully, folding aside the newspaper to reveal a long, plush, black…sword?

Peter clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the floor. "See…see, Mike, when you were telling us about your tail, you wouldn't look at us. And, y'know, you never look at us when you're talking about stuff that upsets you, 'cuz you don't want us to see that it upsets you, 'cuz you don't want to upset us. So…I kinda figured you were probably really sad about your tail getting stolen. So…so I made you a new one."

Mike blinked up at Peter, then back at the manufactured tail. It was about as long as his forearm, and curved like a saber to a point. It was made of felt, awfully lumpy, and badly stitched together - Mike could see bits of what looked like cushion padding poking out between stitches in places. Well, that certainly explained why the couch cushion had seemed much less cushion-y of late. At the thicker end, there was a safety pin, presumably for attachment to the back of his trousers.

He looked back up at Peter, who hadn't looked up once, and was now scritching at the floorboards with his toenails. "I know it's probably not as nice as your old tail," Peter mumbled, "but…I tried my best. So…so you can be not sad about it now."

"No, Peter," Mike rasped, setting the stuffed tail down reverently and standing up. He drew his friend to him and hugged him tightly. "No, Peter, it's the very best tail ever. Even better than my old one."

Peter relaxed against him, and Mike could see Micky, grasping at his ride cymbal and pressing his forehead against it to hide his face, and Davy, who had turned his back to the two of them and was hugging his tambourine. He couldn't tell if they were laughing or crying, but he could see their shoulders shaking, and he assumed it was probably both - he couldn't really figure out which he felt like doing, either.

"So," Peter said as he pulled away, smiling beatifically, "I did okay?"

"Yeah, Peter. You did great."

"I made it so you could wear it," Peter explained as Mike picked the tail back up. "I guess you should only wear it in the house, though, and put it somewhere safe the rest of the time. It would be awful if someone stole it again," he finished with a quavery whisper, eyes wide and wet at the idea of someone taking another tail from Mike.

And Mike did put it away, in the bottom drawer of his dresser where he kept his letters from home and the little bits and pieces he'd collected since he'd moved into the Pad. The broken tooth Davy had given him when they'd met, taken off the floor of the bar they'd been scrapping together in; the drawings Peter had done of them, family portraits for those who couldn't afford a camera; the tiny mechanical guitar player Micky had built him that played 'I've Got A Tiger By The Tail' when he wound it up. He nestled his new tail - lovingly re-wrapped - amongst all of it and stared down at it with a smile. Then, closing the drawer, he sighed.

It wouldn't really replace the piece of him those doctors had taken, but it fit perfectly in the tail-shaped hole in his heart. He wondered if, one of these days, his newfound family would be able to fit all those missing pieces back in.

End Tail #3