Gabe couldn’t give two shits about what people think of him right now. He eagerly pets each bunny, practically chomping on his nails with the pressure to pick the right one. When he settles on a brown and gray female, Theoden moves the basket to Beau’s desk.
I can see the determined look on his face, so I know he has a plan. Without hesitation he pulls a solid white bunny from the pile by the scruff of its tiny neck. The rabbit immediately starts struggling as if its life depends on it, and kicks its way out of the neat little swaddle. With its eyes open I can see that they are blood red, which is an altogether horrifying contrast on such a cute little bunny.
“Ah, I wondered who’d pick our albino,” the professor comments. “I suggest you swaddle him back up to calm him down so I can get his tag.”
I must admit: right now one of my top ten favorite moments in life is watching Beau Richards trying to swaddle a tiny, pissed off bunny with a scrap of fleece blanket.
He eventually manages to get it somewhat wrapped and sedated, and the professor moves on with his basket. My sweet little bunny continues to sleep peacefully, tucked into the crook of my elbow against my body, and Gabe is already talking to his in a low voice with the most adoring smile on his handsome face. Eventually we have all selected a practice omega of our very own, and I can’t resist looking around the room once more. Like a room full of new fathers, these teenagers are all staring in wonder at palm-sized, sleeping furballs with a mixture of fear and adoration that is comical to behold on this scale.
Something tells me that all of my mother’s seemingly unnecessary infant care lessons are about to pay off.
By the time we leave class, we’ve been given a crash course in bunny care, along with the promised sheet of instructions and a kit of supplies neatly packed up within a black wire cage. The guys struggle to figure out how to transport all of their stuff—suddenly their refusal to use a backpack to carry books is a serious disadvantage. No one is willing to trust a classmate with their own adoptive baby, but they only have two hands and three armloads of stuff.
Smirking to myself, I pull a small crossbody purse from my backpack and tuck my little friend neatly inside with his blanket, then shoulder my backpack with books inside and carry my cage of supplies out of the room with one hand free.
I can feel the eyes of the entire class on me, as if they have altogether decided that I know what I’m doing and plan to model their behavior on me.
That was a sudden shift.
And sure enough, after I set up my cage and head down to the dining hall, I can see many of my classmates have already begun to mimic my plan of attack.
I have no idea how they acquired them so quickly and I’m too disturbed to guess, but several of the guys are sporting small purses or even fanny packs as a means to transport their bunnies around. The terror of responsibility continues to dominate their faces, and suddenly these big hulking alphas are tiptoeing around with their trays like off-balance ballerinas.
I traipse up to the milk dispenser and fill the tiny bottle that came in my kit, then cross to the microwave and warm it per our instructions.
As if this hadn’t occurred to them before I did it, a line of my classmates sprung up behind me like lemmings, filling their bottles and waiting for the microwave.
I might be able to use this blind panic to my advantage—what if I were to mime doing something, and they all copied me and failed?
Even before I finish the thought I know I’d never follow through. I can’t intentionally hurt innocent bunnies.
I test the temperature of the milk, then get a tray and collect my own dinner, choosing an empty table along the wall. When I pull my little bun-bun burrito out, he is still sleeping soundly in his cozy blankie. However, a nudge with the tiny nipple of his milk is all the encouragement he needs, and he goes to town on his meal.
Before I get a chance to touch my own food, Beau and Gabe plop down across from me. Gabe has swallowed his pride and crafted some sort of sling from an old t-shirt that holds his practice omega tightly to the middle of his chest.
Beau, of course, is above such things. He juggles the rabbit in one hand and his tray in another. I can only conclude that Gabe has helped with his swaddling technique because the white bunny is far better wrapped than anything Beau managed during class. And, similarly to mine, the animal wakes up with a vengeance at the first nudge from his bottle.
Mine is tucked down in my purse once again, fast asleep.
“So, Kitten, what did you decide to name yours?” Beau leers at me, and the contrast of his expression with the activity of his hands, bottle-feeding a tiny bunny, is too comical for words.
“I haven’t picked a name yet,” I shrug, tucking into my pizza. “I’ll know when I’ve got something.”
“Mine’s named Killer.” He smirks like he’s so incredibly clever.
“How did I know you’d pick something stupid?” My eyes roll and I can smell the fury rolling off him, despite his outwardly calm appearance. Depending on his mood, the spicy notes of thyme can swell and overtake the smooth cedar that I prefer. But it’s always nice to know my attempts to get under his skin actually work.
“It’s not stupid, it’s genius. She looks like the killer rabbit from Monty Python’s ‘The Holy Grail’. I think for Halloween I’m going to dress up as a knight and paint her face red. It’ll be awesome.”
Gabe must have already heard this plan; he doesn’t react as he continues to feed his practice omega.
“Gabe, did you name yours yet?” I ask, preferring to give my attention to anyone but the person demanding it.
A telltale flush creeps up Gabe’s cheeks. “I haven’t decided on anything for sure…”
“What are you considering?”
“Killer’s taken, you better not fucking copy me,” Beau inserts.