Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. Mesa owns nada.

Abercrombie Fizzwidget slid his Megacorp identification card through the narrow company door slot. The computer inside beeped momentarily with a cheerfully feminine, "Good morning, Mr. Fizzwidget!" and opened the door for him. It closed a moment later, narrowly missing his posterior.

"Whoops!" he laughed. "I ought to be more careful. Or perhaps I should have one of the technicians install a new motion detector on it so it wouldn't close on me while I was still there..." The thought didn't occur to him to go on a diet. He began to make his morning rounds of the building, taking in the various sights left behind by his many employees. After all, in a company that numbered in the thousands - though there were only a hundred or so who regularly came to this particular building - someone was bound to have left a comical mess of things!

An open door in the genetics division caught his attention. Those doors, of all the doors in the company headquarters, were the most important to keep closed. They were twice as thick as even the doors in the chemical division, so that should a mutant creature break free of its cage, it still had a foot of pure carbonox to break through. Each room also had its own ventilation system to facillitate the spraying of sleeping gas without knocking out the whole sector. Abercrombie murmered to himself about giving the both the geneticists and the night guardsmen good, long lectures on safety - perhaps even sending them to a company workshop on the subject - but after a look inside, he changed his mind.

A Hound of Cuddly Doom snored peacefully in its cage, each breath beginning with a traditional inward snort and ending with a whistled exhale. Its big ears, torn from fights with other hounds, ticked absently at its own breathing. Progress had been made, it seemed: its muzzle was not broken from viscious lunges at the bars; its temperment seemed more normal. In front of the small metal cage, several vials of catalists and restricting agents lay neatly arranged. A microscope was set a few inches in front of that, the petri dish on it clear, but the DNA strands inside were cut to shreds by resticting agents left for too long. And, splattered in a most unruly way before it all, her face half-burried in her gloves, was Angela Cross.

But before he had time to cross the room and wake her, a slightly purring chirp caught his attention. The miniature blue ball of fur hopped over to him and raised itself up on its toes. It opened its mouth in a toothy-but-friendly smile and danced from one foot to the other, begging to be held and petted. Mr. Fizzwidget gladly obliged; it was no secret he liked the Protopet, nor that he had a soft spot for all things small, cute, and fuzzy. Having no children of his own, he treated nearly everyone - from company employees to experimental GMOs - like grandchildren. For this reason Megacorp was never understaffed; prospectives clammored both to work under a kindly boss and for a successful company.

Holding the blue fuzzball in one hand, he gently shook his employee's shoulder with the other. "Ms. Cross? Ms. Cross? Angela, wake up!" She did indeed wake up, and quite suddenly. Her head shot up and she twisted to throw Mr. Fizzwidget's hand from her shoulder in a fit of half-sleep, but ended up falling out of her chair. She blinked up at her boss, at first confused, then embarrassed.

"Sorry, sir. I was working on the Hound project and I must've dozed off." She rubbed her eyes sleepily and stood up on shaky legs, still half-startled and wobbly with adrenaline.

"Quite alright, quite alright," he replied, waving his free hand dismissively. "Do you know what time it was you fell asleep? I'd like to pay you overtime for what you worked."

"I don't know. I..." Angela trailed off. She didn't want to tell him that even though she had been half-dozing since midnight, and fully asleep since three AM, she had been daydreaming for quite some time before that. She had worked tirelessly her entire shift, but after her lab partners went home and were no longer clink-clinking around behind her, her mind had begun to wander. And wander it did. From Greblin to Veldin to Pokitaru, the vacation world she'd only heard of... It seemed to come back to Veldin quite often, however. Back to Veldin, to the Kyzil Plateau, to a small garage on the edge of civilization.

"Well, no matter then." Mr. Fizzwidget's voice snapped her out of her reviere. "How about I give you today off instead? You seem in need of it." He studied her face, and though it was at least a foot above his and of a diffrent species, he could easily pick out that she was not just still sleepy. She was outright fatigued, mentally as well as physically.

"No, no, it's alright. I shouldn't be using company tables for my naps."

"I insist, Angela. You've done more than enough for the company as it is; I don't see why you shouldn't take a holiday here or there. You've got so many sick days and paid holidays saved up, you could take a year off! In fact, why not take a holiday to Veldin? I'll give you the rest of this month off; that should be sufficient time to fly there and back, as well as enjoy yourself for a bit. The heat and dry air might do you some good." 'And perhaps there are other things on your mind as well, my dear. A certain young lombax, perhaps.'

"Veldin? But why - "

"Just a suggestion," he cut her off. No need to tell her he had long ago become suspicious of her affections; this was not the first time she had stayed all night to work, and more often than not, he heard her mumble at least one thing about what sounded an awful lot like Ratchet. "I thought it might do you good...good to be with your own species, yes? Now, go on, go on, be off with you!" He shooed her out the door and went to call a janitor. The table top was covered in a thin layer of drool.

However, Angela did not heed her boss's advice immediately. She flew straight to Greblin and her home on the icy Tundor Wastes. One of the Y.E.T.I.s screamed in rage at her ship, but did not attack. The whole species seemed reluctant to leave the ice fields, no matter what. The strange hippy, her only neighbor for hundreds of miles, lived at the very edge of them and was never attacked, even if he had food cooking and the wind was blowing the scent to the beasts. "Stupid creatures," she muttered, shaking her head. The wind was a little chilly, even to her, and she hurried on into her house.

Inside, she was greeted by her own personal Protopet, one of the millions of copies of the Megacorp original now scattered throughout the Bogon Galaxy. It hopped around enthusiastically, happy to see its master again. She shook her head and laughed slightly at the silly thing; why should it be so happy to see her? Picking her way past it to her bedroom, careful to avoid her sparse furnature with all its rounded-off corners and edges, she began to nose through her closet. "Now where did I put...? Oh, there it is." She pulled her old theif costume, chortling to herself at how rediculous it really looked. A piece of body armor to completely hide her figure, a cape, and a helmet with a mask. Rediculous. There was nothing to steal - she wasn't a kleptomaniac by nature - but it was the only truely concealing piece of clothing she had, and she didn't want to become the talk of the water cooler for the next month and a half. An intergalactic flight could run you into people you never knew worked with you.

Fastening the armor and cape around herself, she began to pack other supplies into two small suitcases. The amount of clothing and toiletries she brought really could have fit in a single large suitcase, but she found it easier to carry two smaller ones, with one on each side so as to have a ballanced load. She placed the two into her small spaceship, then went back for a few food supplies. Bread, butter, milk - only the basics; her onboad refidgerator was very small. Supplementary foodstuffs would have to be bought along the way. There was something to be said of taking a week to fly from one galaxy to the next for a simple vacation. Gathering up her Protopet, as she didn't trust the hippy with a key to her house and couldn't leave it alone for a month, she climbed in the ship and set off.

Ratchet glanced up from his spaceship, his face and arms coated in greasy oil. The engine was in need of a few repairs, but he'd also decided to make a few modifications to it. Unfortunately for him, the engine was not in a modification-receiving mood, and had given him a mouthful of oil courtesy of a loose valve. It had taken several minutes of spitting, cursing, wiping, and finally chewing up and spitting out a slice of bread to rid himself of the taste. However, he had to be careful not to lick his lips, as the oil still coated his fur there.

Shielding his eyes with one oily, gloved hand, he scanned the peaks surrounding Kyzil Plateau, fading from rust to marroon to purple in the twighlight of sunset. It really was a gorgeous place, once you came to appreciate it. Sure, it was a little dusty, a little arid, and the heat made things shimmy a bit around noon, but all in all it wasn't such a bad place to live. He laughed slightly, remembering how much he'd hated the place and wanted to get away not so very long ago. A little more than a year, it was, wasn't it? Oh, how he'd hated the dirt under his feet then, the same dirt he came back to protect when it was threatened. He'd matured quite a bit through that incident, though he still had his moments. So what if his own room was a mess and the only reason he remembered to stock his refridgerator was because Clank reminded him to? At least he no longer fought over every little thing - just most of them.

He sighed and climbed down from the box he was standing on. He'd done as much as could be expected in a day and then some; it was time for a long, relaxing shower. Glacing at his stained pants, he laughed at the thought of what Clank would say to him about them when he did the laundry. He scuffed his feet in the soil to prevent the oil on them from comming off on his floor, then went inside his house. It was a small place, barely larger than his garage, and furnished about as well. He walked to the laundry room and threw his outer garments - or rather, outer garment, as he was only wearing a pair of pants without a shirt - and trapsed back to his bathroom in only his boxers. The two robots, sitting together on the living room couch, shook their heads. Lombaxes were strange creatures.

After his shower, Ratchet sat on the edge of his bed, his long, thin tail curled behind him. He flicked it, quietly, and glanced at his nightstand. A small photograph, taken in celebration just after the defeat of the Protopet by one of his kind-but-very-ancient neighbors with the oldest camera ever, a veritable antique, sat in its frame, all four faces grinning stupidly at him. Well, sort of stupidly grinning. There was Clank, hooked onto his back and turned sideways to the camera, holding up the little female robot who was only using half her power to hover at shoulder height. It was hard to tell if the two robots were genuinely smiling, but they didn't seem upset or angry, at least. Ratchet himself, turned sideways like Clank so both of them could be in the photo, grinned quite stupidly at the camera. Of course, the silliness of his grin wasn't helped by the fact that Angela was leaning on him rather heavily, her head resting on his and her arms around his neck. Sure, the photographer had told her to do it, saying it was the only way she'd be in the picture, and she had fallen over moments later in her characteristically clumsy way, but at that moment in time, frozen forever by the film, he had looked quite silly.

Ratchet picked up the photo and traced his bare fingers over it softly. The fur did not leave any oily smudges as the hands of a hairless species might have. He stared at himself, who seemed unsure whether to look at the camera or the girl leaning on him. His eyes were caught in a wavering glance, his semi-nervous, giddy smile petrified onto his face. Angela, however, looked as calm as she always did. Her bright, clear blue eyes were locked to the camera, her mouth slightly upturned in a miniature smile. He hadn't felt it during the taking of the picture, but it was now clear - as he stared at the picture for the millionth time since it had been developed - that she had been slightly rubbing his cheek with one finger: the fur was unsettled and her thumb was slightly blurred with motion. He wondered why that was, why he had not felt it, and why he had not noticed that little detail before. He dismissed the thought, however, convincing himself that it was merely the age of the equipment that had caused the blur and scuffling that made his fur seem disturbed, and laid down to sleep.

Angela landed her ship softly as close to Ratchet's garage as she dared. Not on the pad where his own ship rested, or where the noise of her engines, designed for stealth as they were, would alert anyone present to her, but nearby, hidden behind a few rocks. She stood for a moment, stretching her cramped muscles. "I've got to get a bigger ship." The Protopet churred softly and cooed at her, but she shushed it and told it to stay put; it did. She was glad she had given it enough intellegence to understand commands and enough desire to please to obey. Picking her way across the plateau, she found herself looking at the door to his underground home. She wasn't sure of the time, but it must've been late. The Kyzil Plateau was located in the northern-most latitudes, the only part of Veldin cool enough to support a comfortable life besides the shores of its oceans, and therefore summer evenings lasted until eleven or twelve at night, and morning began not four or perhaps five hours later. The starry sky, however, showed no signs of either dawn or dusk.

'I could just lay down on the couch in his garage,' she thought to herself. Ratchet had once said that she was free to stay any time Greblin got too cold for her. 'But that's not what I came here for. I came here to...to...' Her thoughts would not complete themselves. The truth was that she had merely wished to see Ratchet, but that seemed so silly and sentimental, as if she were infatuated with him. Well, what if she was? Why did that matter? Who cared that she was a good ten years his senior, perhaps even more? They hadn't exactly sat down and compared ages - in fact, their dialogue was severely restricted - but she guessed him to be around seventeen or eighteen. That was just her guess, though; he could have been any age and simply looked young, and therefore acted as others expected him to based on appearances.

Lifting the door to his house gently, so as not to allow it to creak, she let herself in. It surprised her that he didn't lock his door, but then, when you slept with a wrench in arm's grasp at all times, you didn't exactly fear intruders. She watched her step and made sure not to fall or make a sound. 'Now, which way...?' She stepped gingerly on the metal floor, wondering why she wore boots with steel toes and heels. Clink, clink, clink, clink. One foot in front of the other; no tripping, no loosing her balance. The air was thick and uncirculated, and Ratchet's scent hung heavily mixed with oil. Ratchet himself did not smell so bad, but the suffocating smell of engine grime nearly choked her. Luckily, his house was as small as hers, smaller, even, and she knew her way around from the single time she'd come inside before. A simple living room, kitchen, laundry room, and bedroom were all she could find in the dark. On the other side of the bedroom, she reasoned, must have been a bathroom, but she didn't need a toilet. No, it was the figure in the bed, slowly breathing, that held her attention.

Ratchet did not stir when she knelt by the bed, watching his unchanging face. He did not roll or respond at all when she placed her hand on his cheek and stroked the fur with her glove. In fact, were it not for the rhythmic up-and-down movement of his chest under the thin sheet and the soft sigh of air through his mouth, he would have seemed dead. She noticed the photo beside his bed; it was the same one she kept on her nightstand. She smiled behind her mask, the blue glow of her eyes sqinting slightly in pleasure. They had something in common, it seemed, beyond having worked for Megacorp at least once and being lombaxes. It was a small, silly thing, but somehow it made her happy. That was all she needed. She left his bedside as quietly as she'd come; she'd greet him properly in the morning, as if she'd just arrived.

However, she was also slightly thirsty. Ratchet wouldn't mind if she got a glass of water, she reasoned. No harm in it. She could take a glass from his kitchen cabinets and place it among the other dirty dishes that were piled in his sink, and no one would be the wiser. But, as she reached to take a glass, it knocked against another, and this second glass went crashing to the floor where it shattered into a million tinkling bits with quite a lot of noise. Her gentle touch, it seemed, had indeed roused Ratchet from his normally deep sleep, as the sound was enough to wake him fully. "Clank doesn't usually get up at night," he mumbled, taking his Omniwrench from under his pillow and going to investigate.

In the dim inside light provided only by the glow of a computer from the next room, Ratchet made out the shadow of a tall figure in his kitchen. He tightened his grip on his wrench and leaped at the burglar, deathly silent in his attack. The intruder seemed to sense him anyway, though, and turned in time to have the small male lombax land upon its gut, the force knocking it down.

"Ratchet, it's me! It's me!" Angela said frantically, but the mask distorted her voice into that of a gruff man. The gleaming metal of the wrench seemed ready to be brought down on her covered face, where the bones would surely be shattered as badly as the glass. Ratchet was no pushover; he may have been small, but he had quite a bit of strength in his arms. She tugged at the mask with the hand that he hadn't pinned so he could see her and she could speak clearly. "It's me!"

His vivid green eyes widened in recognition, but he made no move to let her up. He was too surprised - and perhaps a bit too happy - to think of doing anything but staring at her. Angela, however, was quite ready to get up. It was rather embarrassing to be pinned on one's back by a guy in only his boxers. What did he think about sometimes? It was rather comical, actually. Ratchet, who now wore a stunned expression in place of a malicious snarl, was kneeling with one knee in the soft spandex of Angela's stomach, the other on the ground beside her. His left hand was clamped on her right wrist, pinning it to the ground, but his right was still raised, as if he would strike with the wrench in it. And Angela, ever-calm, tried to keep her eyes focussed on his and not allow herself to think about what it must've looked like to anyone who happened to walk in, or about exactly how good he looked without a decent set of clothes on. "Angela?"

"Yes, Ratchet, Angela. Do you mind letting me up?"

"Oh, uh, sorry." He got off her quickly and retreated a few feet, somehow avoiding the broken glass with his bare feet. "I was just...surprised, that's all. Surprised that it was you and not a...thief. Well, not a...an evil thief, at least..." He couldn't seem to hold eye contact with her, nor form complete sentences without severe thought. The truth was, he was happy to see her, and had even been considering braving the cold of the Tundor Wastes for a visit, yet he somehow wished their circumstances were different. Why did she break into his house and sneak around in his kitchen instead of simply waking him up at a normal hour? He'd told her the couch was hers to use whenever she wanted, so why sneak in?

They stood in an awkward silence for several moments before Angela asked for a dust pan and broom and began to sweep up the shards of glass. She couldn't get all the little fragments, but she got most of them. Those that were left behind would have to be cleaned up with a vaccuum cleaner in the morning, when the noisy appliance wouldn't disturb anyone. After that, there was more silence. Ratchet couldn't think of anything to say, and neither could she. It was a long, awkward five minutes before either of them spoke.

"Ratchet, I... I'm sorry I snuck into your house. Mr. Fizzwidget told me to come here on vacation, and I...wanted something to drink," she said, quickly cutting out half of the truth. Sure, it was her thirst that had awakened him, but the actual fact was that she'd wanted to see him, if only for a moment. A moment of sentimentallity was all she had time for; any more would have to wait. "I didn't think you mind, so I came in. The door wasn't locked."

The smaller lombax just nodded dumbly for a moment. "Well, then...do you want me to get a blanket for you, so you can sleep on the couch?"

"Yes, please. That would be nice." She slipped back into her overly-formal, polite manner of talking that she always used when she was nervous. She watched as Ratchet slowly unfolded the thick blanket on the metal couch, not as a cover for her - the air was too how for any sort of cover - but as a cushion. She set down and removed the thick, heavy armor that hid her body and set it on a nearby lamp table. The dark did not seem to hinder either of them; the soft glow of the computer's screen saver was all they needed to see. She laid down and rested her head on a small roll that was apparently to be her pillow and sighed slightly, half-dejected, half-content.

"Everything alright?" Ratchet asked, kneeling in concern before her.

"Yes, yes...well, actually, the couch is a bit hard..." She sat up again and shook her head. "But I'll be okay."

"No, it's alright. I'll try to find another blanket for you to lay on." Angela flushed deeply, but between her fur and the dark, it didn't show. She hadn't actually wished for another blanket, but she said nothing. Ratchet left and came back a few moments later with empty hands. "I'm out. It's not like you need blankets on Veldin."

"That's okay. I'll be fine anyhow." She waved her hand dismissively and tried not to look in his eyes. "If you can't find another blanket, don't worry about it. Just go back to bed and get your sleep."

"But, Angela..." The final syllable of her name seemed to hang between them for a moment. "I..." Ratchet closed his eyes to shut out the look he just knew she'd give him. "I want you to be comfortable." He dared to open one eye a moment later and found her staring with an unreadable expression on her face. Was it pity? Adoration? Incredulity? He couldn't tell. And he wasn't sure he wanted to. "Um...I'll just...go to bed now, okay?"

"Wait..." she whispered. He did. Angela's eyes darted around the room nervously, trying to find a place to settle. They found one: the soft, pale fur of Ratchet's chest, barely concealing the muscle there. She pulled him against her suddenly, in an impulsive, out-of-character move, and pressed her cheek against his furry body. He was warm and soft, unlike the couch, and, due to their height differences and the fact that she was sitting down, she was able to look up at him for once, instead of the other way around.

At first, Ratchet wasn't sure what to do. Should he hug her back? Should he push her away and tell her to get a grip, that she never acted like that? Instead, he simply stared down at the top of her head, then, as she turned to look up at him, he smiled. He knew what she wanted him to do, even if she didn't say it. However, that didn't mean he had to do it... No, he could make this fun! "Yes?" he questioned.

Angela didn't respond right away. The nearly-cold exterior she often wore was back, and, though she didn't push him away, she no longer nuzzled and rubbed against him. "It's nothing," she said at length, sighing and looking down again. She dropped her arms and leaned back so that they were no longer touching. "Sorry about that. I guess I kinda lost it."

"Maybe I knocked you a bit harder than I thought, eh?" Ratchet laughed. "Well, if you're sure, goodnight." Angela said nothing, but lowered her head a bit more. Ratchet turned and walked towards his room. She looked up and followed him with her eyes; he could feel them on his back as he turned the corner. She sighed and shook her head, and closed her eyes once more. "Hey, I thought you said you were uncomfortable. Here, have these." Ratchet had somehow suddenly reappeared at the end of the couch and was arranging a pillow and bedsheet.

"I thought you said you were out."

"In the closet, yes. These are from my bed."

"Then what will you sleep on?"

Ratchet smirked. "These right here," he told her, sitting down next to her and laying back on the pillow with his hands behind his head. He slung his legs over her lap and grinned like a fool. She leaned back a bit from him, and his face fell slightly. He sat up to explain, but kept his legs over hers so she couldn't stand up. "You said the couch was too hard. I'm out of blankets - for real this time, none anywhere in the house - so I figured you could lay on me. I'm pretty sure I'm a little softer than the couch, at least..." He stopped talking then, as Angela had leaned against him and now had her face pressed against his neck, her hands curled in a child-like manner on his chest.

He smiled and put his arms around her before leaning back. Her long legs were tucked up under his, as if using them for a blanket. She may have been a good deal taller than him, but with the way they were laying, Ratchet was just able to lay his head on hers. He stroked her cheek lightly, the powder-soft fur yeilding to his touch. It was at that moment that he thought with a slight grin that it was almost a reverse of the photograph they both kept - almost. Only it was better than the photograph, because now, not only was she leaning on him, but he was leaning on her as well. Their embrace was not purely platonic, nor was it posed. It was natural and loving. And, very gently, he leaned down and pressed his furry lips to the end of her nose. After all, she had once kissed him, so why shouldn't he return the favor? Ratchet closed his eyes and fell into a light sleep almost immediately.

Although his desent into sleep had been normal, how Ratchet awakened was quite different. He felt a warm, furry pressure against his lips, and when he opened his eyes, there was Angela. She was more than likely asleep, seeing as how he didn't know what time it was, and what seemed to be a tender kiss was more likely just sleep movements. He'd get her either way, though. Without a mischevious smile to betray himself, Ratchet gently extended his tongue and licked her lips. She jumped back, almost immediately, though the reaction was delayed a little bit. So she had been awake, after all! And enjoying it, too, it seemed; she had been a bit reluctant to break free of him.

"Sleep well?" he teased, laughing a bit.

"Until you woke up, yes," she replied, sounding perfectly serious. It seemed she had stolen more than a kiss; she had taken a few of his smarmy remarks as well. <[>Ratchet shook his head, grinning, and stroked her hair slowly. She didn't balk at his hand. Instead, she leaned foreward a bit, as if to kiss him again. However, a sudden giggle caught both their attentions. Turning to look, they found Clank, a holorecorder in his hands. "Clank?!? Oh, you're a dead robot!" After a momentary struggle to untangle himself, Ratchet was scrambing around the house after the small bot. They really were like brothers, right down to showing embarrassing holograms of each other to everyone in sight. The only trouble was, most little brothers didn't have a nearly-impenetrable compartment in their bodies in which to hide the incriminating holos.

At once point, Ratchet nearly succeeded in recovering the device from his robotic friend: he had him by the legs and was shaking him quite roughly, but that quickly stopped as the robot converted himself to Thruster mode and fired up, almost burning the lombax's hands. The holorecorder rattled inside him as he fell to the floor and shot off again, keeping ahead of his very angry friend by any means possible. The chase continued for quite some time - Ratchet was in good shape, and robots don't get tired. However, they eventually decided to give it up.

Laughing, Ratchet rejoined Angela on the couch, where she was now sitting instead of laying. He grinned at her and laid his head in her lap. She placed her hands on her hips in mock annoyance and laughed, shaking her head. They were an odd pair, yes indeed. Strange and awkward, but, for the moment, perfectly happy. Yep, that little vacation Mr. Fizzwidget had suggested certainly had paid off.