Chapter Text
Now, with Shadow having successfully accepted her embarrassing plea for emotional exposure, a new problem arises: how the hell is she going to get ready while he's her?
She considers the idea of bathing, which is revealing and ironic, because even considering cleaning herself up denotes the fateful situation she's in. If she were where she ought to be—that is, in her body—she wouldn't hesitate to undertake the first major step in getting ready; she'd even sacrifice looking fabulous rather than attend an unforgettable evening smelling worse than the fetid stench of a skunk. It's pointless to project a sophisticated and glamorous appearance if that frontispiece is boycotted by an unpleasant stench for which she herself is responsible. It's a universal rule that it's better to look unkempt than unclean. Hygiene is far more important than physical appearance.
Being beautiful is not compatible with stinking like a bum.
But she absolutely will not allow Shadow to bathe her, nor will she allow him to do anything that entails: to see her naked, to touch her, to caress her, to soap her, to feel her. The mere hypothetical scenario makes her bristle as if she had been electrocuted so mercilessly that her fur transcends the defenseless properties of soft filaments to the solidified sharpness of a metal needle. No one, not a single soul, has ever seen her naked: she’s not about to honor Shadow with the trophy of being the first, even if it’s due to an exceptional occasion.
She can devise solutions to lessen the gravity—intimacy—of the situation, such as putting on Shadow a long, loose-fitting, lightweight but not see-through t-shirt that doesn't interfere with her personal hygiene but satisfies the function of covering her, and assisting Shadow in shower so she can scrub his fur herself, because that's her duty as the body's owner. Even so, whatever she resolves, she cannot prevent the inescapable certainty that Shadow will sense her.
It's true that Amy stops feeling like herself for reasons even more complex than the simple, crude fact of ceasing to be herself: it's reinforced by having exchanged bodies with someone of the opposite gender. Amy may feel she has been stripped of intimate areas which have either ceased to be there or been substituted by others. Like her breasts: the pillows stuffed with round mass are evacuated from her torso to be replenished by a breast that is not regarded as immoral, firm, without circumference, with fluffy white fur; or like her abdomen, which isn't as soft or flat as hers, but is strengthened with muscles highlighted beneath the fur that camouflages them; or like another area she refuses to describe because she would have to ponder the sensation of... wielding another organ classified in a nature she’s unwilling to explore.
Therein lies the great problem: she doesn't dwell on the sensation of having other things—muscles, organs— that she shouldn't have and shouldn't voluntarily want to feel because, first, she doesn't desire it, and second, no stimulus instigates or compels her to feel she has what she has. Of course, she can feel it deep down, because obviously, possessing any body, even her own, makes her aware of all the areas it encompasses. But it's something she ignores, something she doesn't delve into, because it's not hers; it's improper, strange, and invasive, even if it's pointless to try not to be invasive, to respect what should remain private, when she’s literally inadvertently invading someone's physical form.
Shadow, unfortunately, must also perceive what she wishes he were unable to perceive. However, it's only a faint perception, not something fully felt. But that could change if the outbreak of a stimulus harasses his consciousness, clogged in another corporeal mass, compelling him to appreciate it. How could he not feel the private areas that belong to her, if water is the obscene and incorrigible catalyst that triggers it by constantly striking them, by caressing them in lewd collisions, enlivening the absorption of consciousness into the knowledge of usurping what it shouldn't? It's a well-known fact that if something touches you, by mere reflex it makes you more aware of that specific area being touched.
She won't allow a bath to be the trigger for Shadow to feel anything he shouldn't feel.
Unless…
She looks at Shadow, this time looking at him more with herself in mind than him, and walks toward him. He stares listlessly at the horizon, she breaks his reflective bubble by uncrossing his arms to grab one of his hands. He reacts with a start, not expecting it, even more so when she unscrupulously approaches the sensitivity of her own neck, almost pushing the uncomfortable stiffness of his muscles to fit her nose into its curve. Ugh, this would look so weird from another perspective, because, in reality, she's smelling herself, so she's not invading someone else's personal space. Still, she's Shadow, so to an uninformed observer, it would appear as though Shadow is pressing himself into her neck. Ew.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He tries to push her away, but she forces his arm so he can't break free. "Get off me."
“What else am I supposed to do?” she replies, irritated. Why does he have to get so defensive and aggressive when she approaches him, if she has every right to smell, tempt, and inspect his body as its legitimate owner? “I smell myself.”
Shadow goes quiet when she raises his arm to smell his armpits. Fuck, she smells awful. She's sure it must be not only because it's been a whole day since she last bathed, but also because she was thrown, dragged, and tossed around in the filth that’s not only intrinsic to damp earth but also pestilential. Given that, how does she expect not to smell bad?
She sighs; she'll have to. She has no other choice. That's not a stench she'll allow to be overpowered by an exhaustive abundance of perfumes if it's so foul that it's obviously ingrained in her fur. If she wants to be clean, she must extinguish it, not camouflage it.
“I have to take a bath,” she tells him, frowning at her own resolve. She hates this, but there’s no other way out.
“What?” Shadow says, puzzled. It’s a rather pointed what.
“I won't go smelling like a wild animal to a fancy event,” she argues, crossing her arms. “You know how good our sense of smell is as hedgehogs? I won’t let Sonic smell something awful on me. He’d realize right away it’s not me, because I always smell great. So there’s no way you’ll change my mind.”
With that said, she grabs his wrist and leads him to the far end of her cabin where her bamboo closet is located. Surprisingly, Shadow doesn't resist, letting himself be led away.
As he watches her looking for clothes, he asks, "Are you seriously gonna let me take a bath knowing I’m you?”
Amy is startled by his question, which is really asking for confirmation, tacit authorization. She almost scoffs with a forced laugh, a snort. A dry chuckle is the result. “I'll be the one taking a bath.” As she reflects on what she says, she realizes she hasn't clarified what she means, so she corrects herself: “I mean, I'm gonna bathe you.”
Shadow is about to answer, but he’s interrupted by seeing himself going backwards and by a handkerchief being placed over his eyes. She ties it tightly so it won't slip off and adjusts it so there are no gaps where he can foil the purpose of the piece of fabric and peer out to ‘see himself,’ which would actually be seeing her naked.
Okay, that should be enough to protect her from being seen without clothes.
“I wasn’t planning on seeing you.” He clarifies, referring to the precautionary measure, but meekly lowers his hands after adjusting the blinding fabric. “I’m not interested.”
Intelligible translation: I'm not interested in you.
Good for her.
“Better safe than sorry,” she says, starting to ‘undress him’ as she kneels down to untie and remove her shoes. “I don't even want it to happen by reflex.”
Shadow remains silent while she goes on with her long purple stockings, watching out not to brush against his thighs. Even so, it's unnecessary because, although the stockings extend past her knees, they don't even reach the introductory edges. She helps him by holding his ankles and lifting his legs to make it easier to pull the stockings off. With his legs now free of fabric, she stands and heads toward his arms. First, she unfastens the decorative rings, ponderous on her wrists, then continues with her gloves and purple athletic tape on her forearms.
Now, she moves on to the essentials: her dress and what lies beneath it. Before unbuttoning it, she unwraps the sarashi cinched around his waist, and proceeds with it. Careful not to press too hard or make it too obvious that she's stripping him, she undoes the gold buttons keeping her dress fastened. She slides it down his torso, dispelling its apprehension as she withdraws it from the sides of his arms. Taking a deep breath, she moves on to the trickiest part: her underwear. She positions herself behind him and unzips her white sports bra. Chest free, good, now for the worst: her panties. She gets on her knees again, and, with the greatest delicacy in the world, wraps her thumbs around the elastic that constricts his hips and pulls them down with a speed that rivals Shadow's—that is, 'her own'.
Phew, she did it, she's naked. And she did it after shaking off the horrifying reality of this from an ignorant perspective about a hundred times: that Shadow was undressing her.
A shiver eats her alive. Enough of indulging in this nonsense.
“Wait a second,” she says, folding her clothes before heading back to the closet in search of a specific item.
After a few quiet seconds, with her organizing her daily clothes into a pile and Shadow standing rigid, without moving a single muscle, he suddenly speaks.
“It's such a relief not having all that stuff on me. It feels like prison.” He says to the air, and she’s surprised to hear him. “I don't get how you put up with it.”
She believed Shadow would hold his tongue; she presumed him to be the type of guy who, if he had any complaints about some inner turmoil, kept it to himself. Like when he couldn't even admit that her body was hungry. It was something he endured without uttering a word of annoyance, because he's someone who struggles to communicate his discomfort due to his desire to perpetually project the appearance of not being defeated by anything—typical of arrogant types with incurable superiority complexes. She's used to guys like him, because Sonic is like that too. In that respect, they’re infinitely alike.
For this reason, she’s shocked by the honesty in his comment, by the genuine display of his displeasure, even if he expresses it harshly, as if wearing clothes were equivalent to enduring the pitiless and ineradicable onslaught of a virus.
She chuckles, simply because of the nature of his complaint. She hadn't thought about it, but it's true that he must have felt suffocated since the shift occurred, not only because he was in a different body, but also because she wears a lot of fabric and accessories, and for someone who has lived exposed as if the world didn't matter, it must be like hell. Quite the opposite for her, because she feels the pressing urge to cover herself, even if she knows she shouldn't and it's not necessary because of the sex she now belongs to. She hasn't stopped feeling naked, even though she strives to dispatch the sensation of exposure.
“A lifetime of dressing makes you get used to it.” She replies with a soft smile. "So much so it makes me wanna do it even if I'm under your skin. You know, you’re naked, but that’s not frowned upon in men. It’s not in women, so we’re taught from childhood we should cover up. It’s part of my ‘programming,’ so being you makes me feel too exposed, even judged.”
It's strange to talk openly about this with Shadow. She didn't think it was plausible for them to discuss what it feels like to inhabit each other's skin as a man or a woman because of how complicated their relationship—no, their cohabitation—is. However, she's glad she can do it, even if it's just for a fleeting moment or comment, because thinking about it to herself is quite different from sharing it. It's liberating.
“No wonder, with all the fabric you're carrying.” He replies sarcastically. “And don't even think about putting a single garment on me. It's bad enough I have to wear them because I'm you, without having to see myself in them too.” As expected, he protests again about his apparent fatal fate.
Rolling her eyes, she replies, "as you wish, commander."
Having placed her accessories and underwear where they belong, and having hung her dress on the coat rack, she takes out an oversized t-shirt, made of fabric not too thick but not thin either.
“Alright. Raise your arms.” She instructs him. Shadow, hesitating, obeys.
She puts the t-shirt on him and, after making sure nothing can be seen—although she knows in advance that nothing will be visible because she has put it on several times, she does so just in case—she removes Shadow's blindfold.
“Follow me. The bathroom is this way.”
She leads him there, glancing back a few times, noticing that Shadow is following her almost by peripheral vision because he's engrossed in studying the t-shirt, but not looking underneath it. Even so, she’ll keep a crimped eye on him. Amy doesn't trust the guy, even though he pointed out, reassuringly, that he's not interested in her, so he wouldn't peek to snoop on anything, that it's her body and therefore he wouldn't do anything she didn't want him to do with it. Still, she doesn't know him, so she can't guarantee how reliable his word is. The only thing she knows about him is, from time to time, he shows up in town with the aspiration to tear apart whatever orbits around Sonic.
It would be foolish to trust him: you can't trust villains, they're ready to stab you in the back when you least expect it. But… there's something about Shadow, something that makes her doubt her conviction. He… doesn't seem like Eggman, or like the rest of them. Despite the evil, the violence he's shown to harbor, she believes his word is trustworthy, because there's a frankness in it that's hard to disregard, to deny. She doesn't think he'd be the type to hatch elaborate plans that employ treachery as their main, coarse weapon; he hasn't shown himself to be, nor does she think he ever will be, because he's always been straightforward about what he wants. He doesn't need extravagant introductions or elaborate disquisitions.
Because of how the issue is being handled, she begins to doubt whether this plan will work out well for everyone. It's certainly not the noblest thing she'll do, and she admits that her ambition and stubbornness are taking things too far. How could she possibly lie to the hedgehog she's supposedly in love with, just because she needs his answer today? If this comes to light, not only will she be judged fairly as a desperate fraud, but Sonic and even the others might find out in the worst possible way. For God's sake, Shadow, of all people, is the one who will relieve her. Sending him on a date with Sonic would be like sending a bloodthirsty wolf in sheep's clothing, like concealing a deadly chainsaw in a sweet presentation. Besides, if Shadow is as outspoken as she believes him to be, sadly, that outspokenness isn't a helpful quality in this unhappy circumstance. With Shadow being like that, she’s stranded, having no assurance he will be able to mask his contempt for Sonic.
Addressing his contempt, she never understood it. She understands Eggman's, because he's a dictator who yearns to acquire, seize the world through unbridled violence, and Sonic, being a hero, is naturally opposed to it. But what is the root of Shadow's contempt for Sonic? That they share similar abilities, yet Shadow decrees Sonic's misuse of them is a disgrace to their species? Amy doesn't buy it. That's no reason to support the origin of a feeling as intense as contempt for someone.
And she doesn't think Shadow would choose to squander energy despising someone for something as absurd as bestowing 'honor'.
She should question it to him, now that it's a transcendental bit of information to consider for their ‘undercover mission.’ Amy won't let any resentment derail the date because, due to it, something like an unforeseen event or the mere occurrence of being with Sonic could spur his susceptibility to anger, and that would be the end of her. She has no idea how Sonic would react to this, even after all these years of knowing him. She only knows that he wouldn't take it lightly. And he would be right to be upset with her, even to recant if what he has prepared to reveal will bring gladness to her heart, because she's deceiving him. It was her idea, her plan, to involve Shadow in their intimacy. It's a betrayal. A betrayal that, even with Shadow's inconsistent morals, he didn’t agree to consent to, but she insisted on shielding herself with the armor of pity.
Besides, did Shadow really agree out of mere pity? That's something she doesn't buy either. She doesn't believe that pity has enough convincing power to get someone to turn up at a date, of all events, with whom they despise.
None of this makes sense. Why is she even doing it…?
“Rose?” A call from her own voice alerts her. How strange to hear herself call her by her last name; if she didn't know they'd switched bodies, she might think she'd lost her mind. “What is it? You're staring at your bathroom door as if it were a portal to the underworld.”
And perhaps it is, because once she crosses it with Shadow being herself, there will be no turning back. Perhaps she doesn't want there to be, because she has made up her mind. She didn't suffer for days on end, underlining the calendar to postpone the answer that will stipulate the course of this chapter in her life. Her will will not change; she will not let ruinous contingencies screw up her destiny: she's the one who will do it, nothing else.
“Listen, if you’re not sure about this, we can figure out something else to get rid of your stench.”
Of course, Shadow surely deduces that she acts as she does because she’s unsure about him bathing in her body, rather than correctly concluding she is undecided about her resolution itself. If he knew, he would insist she abandon it, which would only intensify her determination to do so.
Furthermore, if Shadow hadn't expressed it like the jerk he is, she almost would have thought he was being considerate.
“No. I’m okay.” She grabs him by his bare wrist and pulls him into the cubicle.
At that instant, she turns on the tap, releasing a deluge of water rushing against the fur that Shadow has appropriated. He glares at her, as if annoyed at her for not warning him. Even though it's her own face, she can't deny he appears funny like this, with the uninterrupted flow of water battering him without offering respite, creating a soaked fur, weighed down as it absorbs the moisture at record speed, and a wrinkled expression making him appear even more helpless against the liquid that’s extracting the lightness of his soft fur.
It’s now that Amy is grateful to be an anthropomorphic hedgehog, because the furry jungle restricts the organs that not just anyone should see, hiding them within its masking abundance. It’s a privilege, a tremendous relief, for them don't emerge from their “cave” unless induced to come out by a stimulus. This way, they don't feel too much from their withdrawn protection, so both can pretend they don't exist.
Seeing that her fur is completely wet, that her shirt sticks to her, molding her figure with an immodesty she wishes it wouldn't, she moves without delay. Fortunately for her, Shadow keeps his head up, not lowering it to sniff how her water-smeared body looks. She grabs the soap and... another problem.
“I’m gonna have to take your gloves off,” she says, holding up the soap. “To make lather.”
Shadow approves with a grunt, as if it were a substitute for a 'go ahead'.
She frees Shadow's hands from the cloth, without taking off the strange—and uncomfortable—long red and black cuffs, because impressively they aren't attached to the gloves. She wouldn't have denied that she would have liked to free her wrists from those things too: her rings are like weights, yeah, they also serve to contain her strength, but the weight of Shadow's is ridiculous. She'll have to make do.
With Shadow's hands free, she's momentarily caught off guard by what she sees. They're so… strange, extraordinary, unlike anything she's ever seen. It's not that seeing other people's hands is commonplace; it's taboo in their culture, so she doesn't have much to compare them to. Even so, she doesn't think any ordinary hand could compare: two of his fingers, the middle and ring, offer continuity to the red line on his arms, so they’re lined with red fur while the other fingers are black. Furthermore, turning the back over to see the palm, it’s crammed with white fur, which stands in a rather captivating disparity to the black wrist adjacent to it. And if that weren't enough, his pads have a variety of peach gradations, sometimes darkening or lightening into brown patches in random sections, implanting asymmetrical patterns that are unique. And his claws, they haven't sprouted from their hideout because nothing has ripped them out, but now, with his hands in the open air, it's easier for her to perceive how long and sharp they are.
Without omitting the exorbitant volume of them.
How can someone so cold, even heartless, have such beautiful hands?
Amy wonders if the ones on his paws are like that too.
“What are you staring at?” Shadow’s question startles her, so she stops what she’s observing. Shadow—herself—is staring at her with narrowed eyes, his gaze accusatory. She can’t discern whether it’s a good or bad thing that Shadow is herself because, even though she knows it’s Shadow, she can’t help but relate the sight to herself judging her for her audacity.
“Sorry.” She apologizes, because she has to. While Shadow is mindful not to look, understanding that doing so would be violating her privacy, she has no qualms about doing so. She's behaving like an idiot. “It's just… your hands are…” She wants to excuse her indiscretion, but she really can't find the right word to describe them. So she says the first thing that comes to mind. “Peculiar.”
She expects Shadow to scold her, to yell at her to stop being so nosy or to elaborate on what that choice of adjective alludes to; however, what she gets almost dislocates her jaw.
Shadow raises his hand—no, her hand—to examine it. He strokes his sturdy fingers due to the compactness of incorporating water, leisurely gazing at her peach-colored back as he rotates it to squeeze her pink and fuchsia pads. She believes that the plurality of colors on some of her pads, some being a more muted pink, are actually moles. But unlike Shadow's, whose spots are scattered across each pad, hers retain the same color, though not uniformly, across all six.
“Yours aren’t bad either,” Shadow declares, his voice, though confident in its assessment, a whisper. Before returning the arm to its place, that is, down below, he caresses the softness of the exposed skin on her hands once more. “They’re small.”
Amy wants to shoo it away, but she fails abjectly, because a scorching heat gallops shamelessly toward her face, and she can do nothing to extinguish it. She can feel the flush sprawling across the muzzle that isn't hers, impertinently staining it an unwelcome red. What does Shadow mean by 'small'? Of course they are compared to his own, because Shadow's are gigantic. Even his pads, his claws, are disproportionately larger than they should be. Good heavens, even the fur there is bushier than it should be. If this is a competition, his hands are the winners for being wider than hers in every regard.
Does Shadow like hands like hers? Delicate? Fragile-looking? Is that what he's implying?
Why is she asking all these nonsense questions... and why has this become so intimate?
She never would have imagined that the first person to see her hands without gloves would be Shadow.
Amy shakes her head. Enough of this.
She secures Shadow's gloves to the bathroom shelf before turning off the tap, grabbing the soap again, and being granted the glory of the lather for having no obstruction to tangle its fervent production. Having obtained enough, she grasps Shadow's wrist, extends his arm, and begins to rub his fur with the foaming soap. Once the task is completed with his right arm, she does the same with his left.
She dispels the persevering reminder that this, from another perspective, would look like Shadow is soaping her for some bizarre reason, due to the devilish spectacle of Shadow's foolish dark polychrome bare hand rubbing against the peach-colored length of her arm, from her shoulder to her wrist. She would ignore it, but it's difficult when she has to see what she's doing; in other words, she can't tear her attention away from her hand—Shadow's hand—on her, or else she won't get properly clean and this will all have been for nothing.
Even so, she manages it; his arms are soapy.
She continues with her legs, kneeling on the damp ground to make it easier. She’ll only embalm herself with soap on the limbs that are outside the t-shirt, her torso and what it encloses are out of the equation for obvious reasons. Even though it's her body, scrubbing inappropriate areas that Shadow might feel is unacceptable. Besides, she'd also consider it strange to touch him there because, she restarts, even though it's her body, it doesn't override the fact that Shadow is like a captive inside. So, after lathering her legs, she'll devise another solution to get the soap to the places that are sunk out of her reach.
Before inducing the foaming of her legs through friction, she reflects on how even more grotesque this must look in third person, because of course her mind has to torment her with the undocumented concept of this, being her own worst enemy. And, if that particular voyeur witnessing it from a third-person perspective were Sonic—which would be ironic because, in theory, she's doing this for him—she wouldn't even know how to justify herself. How could she justify something like this? As outlandish as it seems, this isn't obscene because neither she nor Shadow have done it that way, and besides, it would be bizarre to get a… strange reaction when they're actually seeing each other in a mirror, divided from their real material form, yeah, but still seeing themselves.
They're not demented narcissists who would get aroused about this.
So, swallowing her nervousness and sucking deep into the cursed basement of her imagination this mental conception from the eyes of an unconscious victim, she presses Shadow's two stupid, beautiful hands against the edge of her pink thighs and dictates the start of the friction. Fortunately, Shadow has persisted in his rigidity since she began to ‘bathe herself’, his facial muscles not tensing, nor averting his eyes from their statism in the bathroom doorway, ever since the water droplets, those unworthy bandits, succeeded in getting the t-shirt to grip the curves that shrink with each slope of fur—curves belonging to a woman he shouldn't appreciate.
Having concluded with the right leg, she turns to the left. This time it’s easier, as she overcomes or deals more calmly with the relentless alarm of seeing Shadow's claws possess her legs as if they were a prize. Nevertheless, with her hands still held on his thighs, Shadow stops her.
“Your body is reacting weirdly,” he announces, his voice showing his mortification. “Why is your body reacting weirdly?”
And Amy… doesn't know what to say. What is she supposed to say to that? And what is Shadow implying?
“What do you mean by that?” Amy asks him, her voice defiant, grave, and suspicious. Once again, it’s useful to exploit the harshness in Shadow’s voice, which works as a good thrust when questioning. “You know what? On second thought, I don’t even wanna know. Spare me the thing that would keep me up at night for weeks.”
It's better this way; sometimes living without knowing the truth saves you from living tormented by it. The life of the ignorant is happier, even if they are ignorant.
But that asshole Shadow won't shut up.
“I don’t need to tell you, you’re not that stupid. You know what I mean.” Shadow’s voice drops. Amy notices his hands are curled into fists. Oh shit.
“No, Shadow, I don’t know, because I don’t wanna know.” She insists, and regardless, she resumes moving her two hands up and down the leg she still has to clean. However, a start makes her stop.
“What's it worth not wanting to know if you already know?” Shadow raises his voice a little more. His mortification, agitation, seems to have intensified.
“I told you I don't know. I won't assume anything that hasn't been made clear to me.” Thoughtlessly, out of anger, she buries her hands even deeper into her legs, not realizing that she’s almost digging her claws into herself because she’s instinctively starting to uncover them.
“You won’t make me say it by playing innocent.” She can glimpse her own claws, short as they are, also unsheathing from Shadow’s fists. “What other ‘weird’ way could your body react other than that?”
“I don't know and I don't wanna know!” she exclaims, annoyed by this tiresome discussion.
“You have to know because it's your body.”
“Seriously? Now you're gonna use that as an excuse to avoid blame? You're in my body, so you're the one reacting like this.” Realizing this angers her even more, so, blinded by the impetus of rage, her claws unfurl and pierce her thighs, without drawing blood yet.
"What the hell are you accusing me of? I haven't done anything to make you react like this, you're the one touching me."
“I’m touching my body!”
“In which I am.” Shadow matches the heightened volume of her voice, his hands are even tighter.
“Why would the fact that I'm touching myself while you're in my body make you react inappropriately?!” That sounds ridiculously wrong, but she couldn't care less in this fit of rage.
“Perhaps because your body gets worked up knowing it's with a man.”
The brazen sarcasm with which he articulates it almost unhinges the fragile mechanism of sanity in her brain.
"What the fuck did you just say?!"
"You heard right, you're not deaf."
"You're a fucking egomaniacal pervert. Does all this turn you on because you're in the body of a half-naked woman, while your original body is touching me, isn't it?"
With her abrupt, scornful pronouncement, Shadow abandons his abstention and lowers his head, which he had somehow kept raised despite the argument. He had been sensible in deciphering without an explicit statement that Amy wanted him to keep it firm at its height; he had to glimpse, through loose perception, the t-shirt that flattened as the moisture twisted into indecent folds across her form. Even covering her, Amy doesn't want him to see her, because the t-shirt clings as if, instead of water, it were mirroring the adhesive rigor of glue onto the circular mass of her breasts, outlining them in shimmering strokes that arc over the circumference and intertwine with the sticky fur by the watery suction. It clings to her abdomen, displaying the straight lines that trace the paths to the concave hollow of her navel, nestled in the thick fur that breaks away from the pink to round off into a peach.
Shadow doesn't realize it, but she does.
“The only pervert here is you. Your body is the one getting turned on because it's being touched by a ma—”
"Don't look!"
And surrendering control to panic is the worst thing she can allow because, with her claws further retreated by the panic's insecticide but her padded fingers still secured like pegs in his thighs, she plunges them even deeper into the soft flesh, triggering a pair of reactions that are like collapsing dominoes: Shadow is not victorious, unable to guzzle a short whimper that sneaks out due to the stupor of the fingers’ pressure delving more heedlessly there, so, because of that same stupor, he lowers his head in the unthinking reflex of grasping what has provoked it, unprepared for the senselessness he has plundered from himself as he contemplates the body beneath him. His eyes grow in their ocular seclusion and, for the first time, his muzzle undergoes a pigmentary conversion from peach to deep red.
Because of his reaction, which makes it clear he's witnessing what she had forbidden him, she doesn't think twice before lunging at him. She knows it's pointless, because what she had wanted to avoid cannot be undone, yet it is the frustration that propels her in a rush toward Shadow. She's about to place a hand over his eyes, but the roughness with which she rises to confront him causes Shadow to slip backward on the tiles. So, driven by the terror of finding a skull perforated when they claim their lives, nimbly grabs Shadow by the wrist and anchors him before falling. He, for his part, holds on to one of her shoulders.
The new position forces them to look into each other's eyes, their faces too close. They are agitated, their ragged breathing is abnormal as it echoes the irregularity of the rise and fall of their chests.
It's so weird to see herself in such an intimate moment, but, it's odd... why can she glimpse a scarlet gleam swallowed by her greenish eyes?
It's irrelevant now, because Shadow pushes her away. She blinks, disoriented. Shadow's brow is furrowed, his muzzle has returned to its inherent color, and his gaze is etched into her like the clean charge of a bull.
“Let’s put an end to this once and for all.”
It's the only thing she's been able to agree with him on.
With one last homicidal flash, she abandons cleaning his left leg, grabs a bucket, fills it with water as she moves Shadow away and turns on the tap, pouring in a special soapy liquid that, thank goodness, she decided to buy. It's supposed to be mixed with bottled water in bathtubs, but even though she didn't have one, she wanted to try. It was an impulsive, not a cautious, purchase, but she didn't regret it. It smells like vanilla, and bubble baths are the best, even if they're spread out on the hard floor.
When the water is slimy with the substance added, Amy grabs the bucket and throws that bunch of vanilla at Shadow from his collarbones, without starting from the top because soap and hair are the key to hair stiffer than a stick.
Job completed. Her fabulous bubbly product is her perfect saviour.
To conclude this odyssey, she turns on the tap and stands him under it. The water itself washes the soap from his fur. Satisfied that there is no more vanilla stickiness, she turns off the tap and leaves the bathroom to find a towel and blindfold.
When she returns to Shadow, the first thing she does is place the piece of cloth over his eyes. This way, she can safely remove his soaked t-shirt and wrap him in the towel.
She grabs him by the wrist, pulling him out of the bathroom stall and leading him to another stall where she's getting dressed. Tightening the blindfold, she unwraps him from the towel and, once he's naked, his fur uncomfortably matted with moisture, plugs in a device that blows a powerful, fan-like breeze toward him.
“Is that a fan?” he asks, taken aback.
“No. It’s a special dryer for fur.” She explains, moving the device up and down. “What? Did you expect me to just dry myself with a towel? I don’t have time for that.” Not to mention that, to dry him, she’d have to rub him with the cloth, which she wouldn’t allow.
Once she's dry, she goes out to gather the most essential items: her outfit for tonight. Thanks to her predisposed foresight—or perhaps anxiety—she has the clothes and accessories she'll wear today all laid out, so she doesn't take long to return to Shadow. She won't deny her excitement, even though, in theory, she isn't the one who will be sporting that phenomenal outfit. She wanted this day to come, not only because of the sheer exceptionality of it, but because she'll be debuting a new look. And, although it won't be her very being clothing it, her appearance will, and she knows it will look sensational on her, not only because she tried it on and, indeed, the dress hugged her figure in enchanting waves, but also because she knows that, with the ornamental adjustments, there's no way Sonic will be able to resist her.
Sighing, she bends down and swiftly puts her underwear on Shadow. This time it's just panties, so she doesn't have to bother with her breasts. And now, her favorite part: the dress. She curls her lips into a grin that betrays her effusiveness for its abnormal blooming, taking advantage of the fact that she can now grin with this shameless, vehement nakedness. She positions him to put it on: she lifts his legs by the ankles so both limbs are enclosed in the fabric 'entrance' of the garment, thus lifting the dress by the straps and, as it hugs him at the hip, she grabs Shadow's wrists to bring them through the hole in the straps, which fasten around his shoulders and pin him splendidly in the dress.
Upon seeing herself, she doesn't hold back the broadest grin coming rushing to her face. The dress is perfect for her: it's red, long with two slits that show off the rosy length of her legs; the neckline is daring, meeting the perpendicular line until it drowns at the top of her abdomen, revealing a glimpse of the peach-colored fur on her torso; and there's another low-cut back, this one longer than the bust, ending at her lumbar region, almost unleashing her tail from the confines of the long dress. Not to mention that the fabric is cool, thin, and yet thick enough to gather sparkles that make it divine.
“Are you done?” Shadow asks in a bored voice. He hooks and twists a piece of the dress fabric as if to test what he's wearing. “Ugh. Clothes. What do we need them for when we have fur?”
Oh, right. She was distracted for a moment. With a chuckle, she replies, "I dunno, complain to society, not to me."
She puts on the short white gloves, the wrist rings, and an additional accessory: a gold necklace.
When she finishes, she unties the pressure from the blindfold on Shadow's eyes and, without waiting for him to see what he's wearing, grabs his wrist and leads him to the far end of her cabin where she's grooming herself.
Because, of course, it's not over yet.
She doesn't let him sit in front of the mirror at her vanity, because she prefers Shadow give her his honest opinion after completing the process of her beautification, instead, she seats him behind the mirror, having moved the chair back to make space between the vanity and herself.
Before applying her makeup, she proceeded with her next dazzling adornment: her hair. She had been considering changing her hairstyle for this occasion ever since the proposal came out, and after weeks of trial and error, she had finally found the right technique. It was difficult, of course, because her hair was composed not only of fur but also of quills, but, having tried again and again and again, she emerged victorious.
First, the hair is tidied up by running a comb through each quill, untangling any clumps of fur. Once this is done, a special cream for quill hair is applied, and the arduous maneuvers to achieve the desired shape begin.
She pulls her hair up into a high bun, leaving only small strands of her two front quills. It's a little difficult to pull it up because of its short length, but with a lot of practice, she manages it. In addition to securing it in a red bun, she adorns it with a rose-shaped hair clip, along with other similar but smaller hair clips surrounding her bangs.
Done. Now it's time to groom her face.
As she applies her makeup, viewing herself closely to spread the cosmetic products, she reflects on how strangely disciplined Shadow has been since she began styling him. Disregarding the setback in the bathroom, he has been inordinately composed, docile with each guidance or manipulation of an area on the body he hosts. She knows he must resign himself to this, for this is what he agreed to, yet Amy hadn't expected him to be so diligent, to not grumble, and to tamely surrender to the calamity of being handled like a mannequin. He’s solemn, not rolling his unwavering eyes to hold her, nor relinquishing the complete solidity he retains as he allows the brushes to caress his face.
Besides the strangeness of contemplating her own face, having been deported from it, she doesn't need a mirror to admire herself while getting ready because, being divided from herself, the other perspective of the hedgehog in whom she is a recluse serves as the mirror. She believes that the only benefit of this exchange is how easy it’s to refine her appearance by not relying on a mirror that cannot capture concealed angles or neglects to alert her to any misalignment, as it is as if she has hired a stylist who perfectly exercises the science of beauty for herself, because this stylist knows her inside out.
It's a shame they have Shadow's physique.
To conclude, she goes to put on lip balm, but Shadow grabs her wrist, stopping her.
“Why are you putting that thing on me?” he asks, his typical frown returning.
“Because it’s one of the most important elements in makeup?” She answers as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She tries to break free from Shadow’s grip to finish applying lipstick, but he still doesn’t loosen it.
“No,” Shadow says, his gaze cold and dark. “I won’t allow you to put anything on me that lures the blue fool to a place I won’t even allow him to be tempted to go near.”
“What?” Amy asks. Is he seriously complaining about the lipstick and not the dress? “Do you think women wear lipstick to provoke men into kissing us?” Amy places a hand on her hip. “Because that thought is pretty sexist and self-centered.”
It's the most colossal load of nonsense she's ever heard. And it's coming from the same hedgehog who has to deal with hearing stupid things from her friends every day. Although, she's not impressed coming from Shadow, considering a comment he had the temerity to proclaim: ‘Perhaps because your body gets worked up knowing it's with a man.’ Ew, if they go by that logic, ‘Shadow's body' must have reacted that way too when he was 'intimate' with a woman. Although… if she had been in that situation in her true body, she doesn't know how she would have reacted. Perhaps it was influenced by the fact that Shadow couldn't be sure who was touching him because his head was up, or perhaps by the fact that her thighs are indeed one of her erogenous zones, or…
Whatever, it's buried dead in the past.
“That's not what I said,” Shadow counters, his brow furrowed even more. “I said I won’t allow any ‘trigger’ to lead him to a place he might want to take.”
Amy is about to object, but the thought of it overwhelms her, so she stumbles.
“D-do you think Sonic will kiss me?” The mere mention, the mere possibility of it, makes her heart drill into the bars of her ribcage imprisoning it. “He won’t. Do you think it’s very likely I’d provoke him into doing it? We’re friends, and… friends don’t do that, but do you think…?” Amy cuts off her stammering: Shadow is staring at her as if she were a terrifying specter.
“This is worse than torture,” he declares, mortified. “Get that thing away from me.”
Sighing and calming herself, she argues, “Shadow, Sonic won’t do anything because we’re nothing. I can wear whatever I want and he still won’t do anything. Believe me, I know.” She says, her voice low, weighed down by certainty, yet she continues, without losing the evenness, the impassive firmness of Shadow’s voice. “I know him, so please, trust what I tell you.”
Shadow gazes at her, an inscrutable expression and sustained gaze fixing her as its target. In a moment of contemplation, he gives in. With a slight smile, she smooths the pink, moisturizing, shiny balm over his lips.
Before feeling proud of her work, she picks up a couple of objects on the floor and shows them to Shadow.
“Do you think you can handle these?” She shows him the first option: the red heels, right in front of his face for him to examine. “Or would you prefer these?” She holds up the red flats, without a platform or heel.
“Give me the flats.” Shadow chooses, dismissing the heels with a grimace. “I’m not wearing those hellish shoes.”
Amy hands them over. She would have preferred to see her in the heels because she had bought them specifically to pair with the dress, but, given the major inconvenience, it's better for Shadow to choose the flats because she doesn't even want to imagine herself walking ungracefully in heels.
As Shadow stands up after adjusting his shoes, she takes the opportunity to spray him with odoriferous fragrance. He protests, obviously exaggerating as he coughs and exclaims that it's a stupid amount of cologne. She ignores him.
Passionate about the result of her transformation, she grabs Shadow by the wrist for the umpteenth time and takes him to the front of the full-length mirror so he can observe her... or rather, observe himself.
“Ta-da!” she exclaims excitedly, unable to contain her joy, looking at herself in the mirror just like Shadow. “What do you think? How do I look?”
Shadow imprints an irrevocable seal on his mouth as he stares at the reflection. His hand rises toward his face, but he retreats it before his fingers reach it. He clears his throat.
“You look…” he begins, too slowly to be premeditated. It takes him a while to find the right word. “Fine.”
Well, that's something.
“I look absolutely gorgeous,” she says proudly, placing her hands on her hips and grinning contentedly. “Hm, actually, you do.”
However, when she sees herself in the mirror again, her thoughtless emancipation of joy loses its vigor. Seeing Shadow grinning, she being the one who created that effusive vainglory diverging from the regular stiffness of the owner of those corners of mouth. If she stays still, even for a second, she’s almost spellbound by the illusory belief that, once again, she has the ability to control her body, but it’s not real, it’s only a mirage, the devastating reality of seeing herself portrayed in the mirror when another takes possession of it.
She… is beautiful, she really is, but… she wishes she could dwell peacefully in her own skin, be able to feel herself being beautiful, embellished for the day she longed for so much.
It's rare to envy herself.
“Don’t you feel weird wearing a dress?” she asks, partly out of curiosity and partly to distract herself. They both stare intently at their reflections in the mirror. She doesn’t know if Shadow feels the same way about seeing himself in it. “With all this stuff about you being a man, I'm betting you've never worn one before.”
“Any clothes I wear make me uncomfortable, so I don’t really have a proper answer to your question.” Shadow replies, shifting his gaze from himself to… himself? Wait—was Shadow engrossed by her reflection in the mirror? “However, I would argue it’s not so uncomfortable because your body shapes it well. Your fit makes it comfortable.”
She… doesn’t know how to take those words, so she just blinks and whispers her thanks.
Now, they just have to wait for her… their? suitor.