.:bug eyes and flying entrances:.

[Peter Longfield]

One of Peter’s favorite things about being a shifter was that he had a form for every season. He loved the outdoors and as a child, he’d always gotten horrible cabin fever every winter. One of his favorite forms, the Pygmy Mouse Lemur from the humid jungles of Madagascar didn’t do so great in the cold, but the fluffy little Southern Flying Squirrel was native to the chilly forests of the North. And aside from being adorable, it was so much fun to skitter up the trees and then jump and glide to the next one.

It could be so easy to lose himself in theother, to spend the day among the whispering pines. To inhale a hundred scents that would have escaped his human eyes and hear the rustle of pine needles his larger ears would have missed. He became such a part of the landscape. He didn’t scare off the birds, could watch the deer graze peacefully, could just…be. But sometimes even the forest creatures got cold and Peter had spent several hours watching the birds from his perch in a tall pine not far from the main building. A nice cup of hot cocoa would go down a treat about right now.

Big black eyes studied his surroundings. He saw the world differently in this form. The colors were muted. Things appeared bigger, but the scents and sounds made up for the slightly impaired vision. The window to the staff lounge was nearly always left open a crack for the express purpose of letting him in and out. From his current perch some 50 feet in a pine, it would take about 3 more glides to get to the warm chocolate. Peter spread his little legs and leaped.

This sensation would never get old. Those who knew Peter would probably be surprised that he enjoyed such an adrenaline-inducing ability, but the feeling of air beneath his skin tents never got old. It felt as though it was lifting him up rather than hurtling him towards the ground. Sharp claws grabbed the bark of another pine and held tight. His aim was right on today. That had taken some practice. His first few glides had been…a little rough.

Two more easy glides and he was sitting in the lower branches of the maple tree just outside of the staff lounge. The window was indeed open a few inches at the top. Just enough for him to slip through. He’d just have to time the jump really well. He might have maybe hit the glass more than once in the past. Didn’t look like anyone was in there, but the kettle was definitely on the stove. Breathe. Breathe. And…jump! Hah! Tiny claws found purchase on aged wood and one more leap found Peter on the edge of the table.

Oh. Not alone. Not alone at all. Oh. Big eyes blinked and Peter cocked his head. He recognized the other man, but couldn’t put a name with the face. The really attractive face. Not alone. Hot chocolate. But he couldn’t drink hot chocolate like this. Chocolate was bad for the others. But he wasn’t alone and he couldn’t shift. Not in front of the…recruiter. Yes he was a pretty recruiter. But Peter still couldn’t remember the man’s name. So he sat up on his haunches and chittered. As a human, Peter was hopeless, but like this, he knew he was irresistibly adorable. It was just easier to stay.

[Stephen Gage]

Cold and Stephen Gage were two things that never went particularly well together. Devoted as the man was to the Institute, Hammel's placement in Vermont was an issue of fair contention to him. Why anyone would ever choose to live here of their own accord was beyond him during 6 months of the year. Spring and summer were wonderful times, to be sure. He'd make heavy use of the pond and the lake, enjoy the sun and warmth. But autumn and winter were loathsome seasons. Traveling between buildings on campus was an ordeal, and he'd run as fast as his long legs would allow from one doorway to another. And always, without fail, was there a thermos of something warm in his hand. Usually tea of some fashion, brewed at home and poured liberally into the container to keep his insides warm as his skin battled away the chill. It was only October, not even midway through the month, and Stephen had already faced his share of cold for the year.

The staff lounge served as Stephen's sanctuary on those days when getting out of the warmth of his bed was nothing short of torturous. It had a kettle and a stove for those horrid moments when his thermos ran empty, and were it not for the windows that always seemed to be cracked open, it could certainly be in the running for the most toasty place on campus. He found refuge in it again this morning, shortly after literally jogging halfway across campus bundled up in the warm black coat he'd since tossed onto the chair. The lounge was warm, as it usually was, and Stephen ha situated himself comfortably on a couch as far from the cracked window as he could manage. His feet, clad in black boots that seemed nice enough to pass for good shoes, rested on the very corner of the table before him, legs bedecked in jeans spanned the gap between the table and the couch on which he rested. His ever-present necklace was buried beneath the red, plaid button-up he'd worn because it remained one of the few clean shirts in his possession. Tomorrow would be laundry day.

His thermos in one hand, the day's paper in the other, and a sleeve of crackers on the table before him, Stephen was all set to wait out the day in the comfort of the lounge. He had a meeting to get to eventually, and one of his past recruits had asked to see him, but short of those obligations, his intentions to move were weak at best. He hummed a song to himself as he read, the jaunty tune perhaps not quite befitting the little snippet his eyes were scanning: 101-year old woman finally died. Poor thing. Was overdue for it, to be sure, but still.

Stephen heard a tiny, scratching sort of noise, and dismissed it. Probably just some bird of rodent outside, scraping through the ground for some food. He brought the thermos to his lips, took a sip, and snapped the paper stiff. Another noise, louder than the first. He looked up, and the sight of a squirrel lounging around his feet was enough to make him jump. A short motion, quick, but there. “Christ.” came the shock, and it passed as soon as Stephen really saw the squirrel, and understood that it, by very nature of being a squirrel, was adorable.

“Hey little guy,” he said, craning his neck a little to better see the creature over the toe of his shoe. “Look at you. Must be freezing out there.” The squirrel cocked its head, and Stephen could well have died of happiness. A smile took over his face, his intelligence inversely proportional to his proximity to cute things, and he nudged the sleeve of crackers gently towards the little rodent. “Want a cracker? Go on, have at it then.”

[Peter Longfield]

Okay, not freaking out. Can’t blush as a squirrel. Another bonus to being a small furry creature. Well, he could blush. Blushing was just the act of surface capillaries receiving more blood than normal. But a blush wouldn’t show in a squirrel because a squirrel had lots of very thick, very soft grey fur. Right. He could shift. There was hot water on the stove and he had cocoa stashed away in the cupboard. But he could blush as a human (and was quite good at it) and he could also speak as a human. Past experience indicated that stuttering would accompany the blushing when faced with an attractive male. Like the one in front of him.

Shoes on the table. Very unhygienic. Didn’t the man know how many germs you could pick up by walking around? Lots. And some of those could find their way onto the table, onto someone’s food, and make them sick. And that would be a shame. Peter would just have to remember to wipe the table down later. Or at least not eat in that corner. Ah, the paper. He hadn’t actually gotten a chance to read that yet. He was more interested in history than current affairs, but he would be remiss if he didn’t have at least some vague notion of what was going on in the world. And crackers.

When Peter shifted, he retained his capability of higher order thinking, however, buzzing in the background was always the instincts of whatever creature he happened to be posing as. Discussions with other professors had led to the hypothesis that Peter’s abilities worked through a form of genetic imprinting. And instincts were very much genetic in many cases. So when the crackers were noticed, the little voice in the back of his head pinged on an easy source of food. And it was that time when all furry creatures were hoarding and preparing for the slim pickings of winter. The higher order function part of his brain was saying that he hadn’t eaten in hours and he particularly liked that brand of cracker.

At least the man hadn’t kicked him. That would have undoubtedly been a painful landing. Flying squirrels did not in fact fly. They glided. And didn’t take well to being propelled. At least the man hadn’t screamed. Peter had gotten that reaction more than once. Granted, it was more likely to happen with his reptile forms. He really didn’t understand what people had against snakes. And now the baby talk. Because Peter was inarguably adorable. From this man, he could deal with it. He had been known to bite people over it before. Just because he was tiny and cute did not mean his ears were malfunctioning. In fact, they were quite a bit better than normal.

And then the man smiled. Not fair, not fair at all. Peter couldn’t even try to flirt with him. In this form. But he still wasn’t brave enough to shift. How awkward would that be? And it was chilly outside, but see the adorable soft grey fur? It was like wearing a down coat. His toes and nose tended to get a little cold, but everything else was fine. Crackers. His nose twitched. Well, if you insist. Traction was a bit more difficult to get on the smooth table than on the bark of a tree, but Peter managed a few hops to reach the treats. He sat back on his haunches and tiny claws reached out for the outermost cracker. It was easily as big as his head, but light enough that he could pull it to him and start nibbling. Right, next time he was eating breakfast before disappearing into the wilds. Must remember that.

[Stephen Gage]

Stephen moved slowly, trying his hardest not to send the little critter running. He was making a new friend, its status as a few rungs beneath him on the evolutionary ladder notwithstanding. And he'd be damned if it wasn't adorable, and that was certainly a good enough reason to try and make nice with the little guy. It was just so fuzzy. So he took his legs slowly off the table, afraid that a sudden movement would send his new friend scampering away into oblivion and he'd have nothing to pet. For that had become Stephen's new goal of the day: pet a squirrel. Small victories keep one moving, and this one was poised to propel the man through the next week with a smile on his face if he succeeded.

He put the paper down, cringing slightly when it crinkled and folded. Stephen changed which hand held his tea, freeing his right to rest upon his knee as he leaned forward. He rested on his elbows, just staring at the small creature nibbling away at the cracker. Such joys are simple, and simple ones are often the best. His lower lip curled in slightly and his nose crinkled as he watched the squirrel chew. His free hand cupped the side of his face and for a moment, he simply watched and loved the squirrel as much as anyone can ever love an animal they'd only met three minutes prior. Which, in Stephen's case, was quite powerfully.

Would it try to bite him if he went to pet it? Possibly. How long were squirrel's teeth? Or how sharp? They did have to bite through nuts and such, so they were probably dangerous little things. But the squirrel on the table hardly seemed the sort to bite and claw and fight. Squirrel's were cute little things, what with their bushy tails and twitchy wee ears. "Jesus, I wish I had a camera..."

The little rodent seemed to be rather enjoying his snack, and Stephen decided that he had endeared himself enough to it. He moved slowly still, reaching gingerly out with one finger. If he could just touch it once, just poke the side even, he'd go home a happy and satisfied man later. Just a little touch. It seemed distracted enough by the cracker to allow Stephen such a luxury. "Come on then. C'mere little guy... Just a wee pet."

[Peter Longfield]

Things tasted differently in forms. Peter had learned that the hard way with Swedish Fish. As a person, they were his favorite treat and he could easily finish a bag of them while he was distracted with a book. As a dog, they tasted…off, and made him throw up. So Swedish Fish stayed in the only-as-a-human category. Along with espresso beans, hot chocolate, and Red Bull. Crackers were fairly universal. Enjoyed by everything from the Beagle to the Kite.

Squirrels were surprisingly neat creatures. Peter left no crumbs despite the speed with which he nibbled at the cracker. Despite thoroughly enjoying his afternoon meal, Peter never took his attention of the man in front of him. He was really…attractive. And seemed nice. What with the crackers and all. But Peter had learned long ago that being small and cute also sometimes made him an easy target. He continued munching away as the feet were removed from the table. Good. Hadn’t his mother taught him any manners? Peter would have gotten a good smack around the head if he’d tried such a thing at the dinner table.

Peter’s ears twitched with the noise of rustling paper, but it didn’t stop the nibbling. He tried to catch the headlines, but his eyes were all wrong for that. The words didn’t focus right. He’d just have to look at it later. If he could find his reading glasses. The guy was pretty good. Not very bright if he thought this would work with a normal flying squirrel, but he was being quiet and moving nice and slow. Which Peter appreciated. Quick movements could be scary when he was this size. He had thousands of years of evolution buzzing in his head, saying that a quick movement meant something was trying to eat him.

A camera? Oh jeez. There’s no way he could show himself now. The guy was being a bit of an idiot. Understandable when flying squirrels were arguably adorable, but still. The cracker was down by half now and Peter was beginning to fill rather full. It didn’t take much in this form. Too bad it didn’t transfer over. He’d be starving when he shifted back. And the guy wanted to pet him. Didn’t he know that small mammals could carry all sorts of disease? And had very sharp teeth as well. Peter was tempted to nip him just to prove a point. Except the man was smiling. And it was distracting. And he liked making him smile. So instead of biting the outstretched finger, or dashing out the window like any normal squirrel would do, he set down his cracker and leaned into the touch. That ear had been itching him all day and the man might as well make himself useful.

[Stephen Gage]

Some small part of Stephen knew the dangers that small animals could possess. Vermont was certainly no urban hub, and he'd seen his fair share of rabid little things in his time. They could be feisty critters, excitable and jittery and all too ready to chomp down on anything that seemed remotely dangerous. Yes, Stephen knew this on some level. But on a much larger and more important level, he didn't give a flying fuck. There was a small creature, a squirrel slightly unlike any he'd seen around before, right in front of him. Literally, right there. It was so close, cute, and it was eating his cracker, and Stephen would be damned if he didn't make some physical contact with the tiny thing. This was a story he could tell to anybody who'd listen, whether they cared notwithstanding, and he'd relive the joy. Yes, the joy.

Because the squirrel leaned in to his finger. And whatever part of Stephen Gage still suffered the chill of autumn thawed out just then. His shoulders slumped slightly, and if it were possible, his smile widened. A short, quiet "aww" escaped him as he scratched away at the tiny ear. It was softer than he had imagined, something he'd hardly thought possible. Stephen kept his touch gentle, but firm, quite content to scratch away for as long as the squirrel allowed.

And he would have, had the phone in his pocket not erupted in a cacophony of sound and vibration. He stiffened, simultaneously both surprised and attempting not to give the squirrel a heart attack, or whatever it is squirrelss suffer when confronted with sudden movement. His smile turned instantly into a worried grimace. He'd forgotten about that. It was a standard tone, beeps and buzzes, since he was too apathetic about the phone to change the ringtone into anything catchy. He leaned back, away from the critter, and dug the phone out of his pocket.

Just in time for the song to end. One Missed Call. A look at the service bars informed him that he had two bars of ser- no, one bar of servi- nope, none. A white phone with a red line through it mocked him from the screen. He'd have to find somewhere in which he'd get service to return the call. "Sorry little guy. Gotta make a call. Keep the crackers. On me."

Stephen rose, stretching somewhat as he did. His right hand tossed the phone into his left and reached for the thermos. His jacket lay forgotten, in the rush of trying to return the call, and Stephen hurried out of the room, dialing as he went. If he had to actually go outside to find service, be the caller Mother Theresa or the Pope, they'd have to wait. As the door shut behind him, Stephen was lifting the phone up towards the ceiling. Damn temperamental thing...

[Peter Longfield]

That was the spot. Right. There. Peter was far too fastidious in his grooming to have fleas, but even still, he picked up an itch every now and then. Mostly he could ignore it, but this one had been building all day. The man’s finger was almost too big, but it got the job done and Peter couldn’t help his ears twitching in appreciation. His eyes began to droop a little at the attentions and he felt about ready to melt into the table. Yeah, that was the spot.

The sudden dissonance of harsh sound broke the spell and triggered that quiet instinct in the more primal corner of the little creature’s brain. Peter darted across the table, took a gliding leap to the stuffed chair in the corner and scrambled up to sit on the back of it. He was glaring at the man with beady black eyes before Peter even half registered exactly what it was he’d run from. A phone. Quite an annoying ringtone, granted, but still just a phone. There were a few details of his ability that still annoyed him. The inability to override some instincts of his chosen form was one of them. Although it could have been worse. He’d resisted outright biting the man.

Keep the crackers? Those were staff crackers. Peter chittered his irritation, but all complaints died when the man stood up. He was tall. And pretty. And sadly gone. Ah, but the kettle on the stove was boiling and Peter could now make hot cocoa. He glided from the chair and shifted mid-flight, feet landing softly on the floor. It had taken him ages to master that particular skill. Practice had resulted in some pretty spectacular face plants and sore knees.

He straightened the soft button down shift and then headed over to the cupboard where he pulled out a box of cocoa, a bag of marshmallows, and a coffee cup sporting and adorable beagle puppy - Ingrid’s idea of a joke. But adorable nonetheless. Three heaping scoops of cocoa, because one could never overdo the chocolate, three small marshmallows. Add hot water and you had deliciousness in a cup. Add a tablespoon of milk, and you had deliciousness that was cool enough to drink now.

[Stephen Gage]

Soft, muttered curses slipped out of Stephen's mouth as he traipsed up and down the hallway, searching for a few bars of signal. Something had to be wrong either with his phone itself or the service provider. Hadn't he just gotten excellent reception here not a week ago? Stephen found himself in an odd contortion near a window, simultaneously trying to hold the phone beyond the glass barrier and retain a safe (read: warm) distance away. He'd resorted to propping the phone up against the glass and standing a full arm's length away, poking the blasted device with his pointer finger. The screen, once it lit up again, cheerfully informed Stephen that he indeed had no service. The little white image of a phone with a red line through it mocked him, and mocked him well. It won this battle. Frowning, Stephen picked up the phone and jammed it in his pocket, trudging off in defeat towards the staff lounge.

He would have braved the mild chill outside had he remembered his coat. However, in his rush to find service, Stephen had left it strewn across the couch in the lounge. With that coat, and the few others he had like it, serving as his lifeline during half of the year in Vermont, to lose it would be rather like losing a limb. A warm, comfortable limb that he'd gotten at a consignment store for awfully cheap. Really, who'd give away a thing like that? Out of sheer curiosity, having pressed buttons much too quickly to read anything that actually came up on the screen earlier, Stephen fished the phone from his pocket once more. Who had called him, anyway?

Telemarketer. Or rather, from the caller ID, a polling institute. All that fucking trouble...

Stephen's hand gripped the door handle and pushed, nary a second between the two actions. It's not like he was going to hit anybody with the door. The recruiter had stayed in the hallway searching for a signal, and nothing short of wind came in or out. So when he looked up from his phone into the suddenly-very-close shoulder of a man, Stephen's eyebrows shot up and a quick "Jesus!" burst out of him. Where the hell had this guy come from? Seemed familiar, vaguely so, as most people at Hammel did to him.

The fright faded quickly, replaced by minor embarrassment and a much more powerful drive to make light of the situation. He grinned, shaking his head. Stephen patted his heart slightly, chuckling. "Sorry about that. You just... just scared the shit out of me." He sighed good-naturedly, jabbing a finger at the coat he'd forgotten. "Forgot my jacket. D'you mind if I just squeeze by you? Don't want to spill whatever you've got there."

[Peter Longfield]

Peter tended to do things in a very specific order. He was admittedly a rather unorganized person and doing things without a plan sometimes ended with him scalding his tongue on a hot drink, or in the case of the laundry, turns all of his whites a particularly unfortunate shade of pink. So he did things in order. And perhaps it made him seem a little obsessive, but it also avoided incidents like getting distracted and leaving a kettle of tea to boil down to nothing. The tea leaves had began smoldering and set off the fire alarms. He had been sixteen at the time, but Ingrid would never let him live it down.

So things had an order. Gather everything together first. Make sure the spoon he pulled from the drawer was clean (the dishwasher could be a bit finicky). Check that there were no spiders in the cup (yes, that had happened once, and no, he hadn’t screamed like a girl…much). The cocoa went in before the water. More of a habit than anything else, but pouring in the water did help mix up the cocoa a bit. Stir until well mixed. Add the marshmallows. Then the milk. Dunk the marshmallows several times. They have to get nice and warm and fluffy. (Warming up the cocoa in the microwave is fun because the marshmallows blow up all big, but it doesn’t give the same taste as water boiled on the stove, for whatever reason.)

Hard lessons had taught Peter to check the temperature of his libation before taking an enthusiastic gulp of the warm treat. Burnt taste buds always made his tongue feel funny for a week. Peter was in the process of gingerly testing the waters when the door was swiftly opened and the man with the strong fondness for squirrels rushed back in, nearly pushing Peter over in the process. Only reflexes honed from hours with a saber in his hand kept the hot drink from sloshing down Peter’s front. And a good thing it was too. He hadn’t added nearly enough cold milk.

Silly man acted like he’d never seen another person in the staff lounge before. This place was one of the most popular haunts for the adults of the institute. It was in fact quite rare to find it unoccupied. Oh. Unless of course the man had been just outside of the door on his phone and hadn’t seen anyone come in. That might explain his surprise at another presence in the room. It still did not excuse barging in like a moose and creating havoc. And he was not impressed with the swearing. There were much more articulate ways to express yourself.

Normally a very laid back being, Peter was not incapable of expressing his ire under the right circumstances. He was the type of person whose tone stayed as even as if he were in the classroom while he cut you down with quiet sarcasm. It was rare, but it happened. Which was why Peter’s students rarely tried to hand in late work. “By all means, I’m sorry if my presence inconvenienced you.” He stepped to the side so that the large man could get by to his coat.

[Stephen Gage]

Well. that was certainly far from pleasant. Stephen made no attempt to hide the surprise in his eyes, his eyebrows arching high in response to the snippy comment. Delivered in a measured, steady tone, the quip was certainly not wanting for barbs. He stopped stock still for a moment, more confused than anything else. It was a brief, passing second, and Stephen shook himself back to reality, a flicker of annoyance flaring up inside of him. Who'd pissed in this character's cornflakes? A twitch of Stephen's left pinky finger, and he could have this guy spill his own cocoa or whatever-the-fuck he was drinking down his own damn shirt. Then he could be as bitchy as he wanted.

No. Self-control was key. Stephen knew well the ease his power afforded him, as well as the terror it instilled in others. Petty revenge was far from worth risking the temptation to take a ride down that slippery slope. He composed himself further, and nodded his head apologetically, allowing a small "Right then." to slip past his lips. He raised his hand, keeping it aloft to make sure that he wouldn't bump into the snippy man again as he passed. The space between the arm of the couch and the stove was narrow indeed. Enough space for one man, just barely capable of fitting two. So Stephen pressed his rear-end against the armrest and moved past Peter with as little contact made as possible.

Well, at least he smelled good. The close proximity to the angry man ended with blessed quickness, and Stephen was free to grab the coat he'd left behind. He still had yet to figure out precisely where this new man had come from. And, now that he thought of it, where the hell that squirrel had gone. Well, the window was open. It'd probably gone out whenever Grouch McNasty had traipsed in here and laid claim to the land. He could only hope that the wee creature had found a safer place to eat.

Stephen donned the coat hastily, picking up the thermos and taking a swig of it. Liquid courage. Or more fittingly, liquid calm. The display of acute rudeness had happened only recently, and it had not yet faded. Stephen decided not to risk passing by the man again, lest his head be bitten off. So, he rested one arm on the back of the couch and hopped over. He landed with a soft thud, making a bee line for the door. He raised his thermos to Peter, not bothering to look at him, and opened the door. "Thanks. Enjoy the day." And with that, Stephen Gage shut the door behind him and made haste for the building's exit. He had better things to do than share a space with someone far from willing to play nice.

And what a shame, too. He hadn't seen much, but from what Stephen had glimpsed, Snippy Bastard looked a little cute.