Cerulean Cape where the moon is made of gold

Coelacanth curved her tiny frame impossibly, craving the close communion of their bodies; and when Screech turned, burying his nose into the silken fur of her collarbone to sob openly, she froze. With infinite gentleness, she began to groom him, wherever and whatever she could reach. The nape of his neck was easiest. Her teeth combed gently through the thick fur there, and her tongue smoothed the meticulously delved furrows left behind. Her throat was thick with empathy for him! — and her bright cerulean eyes were made brighter by a misting of shared sorrow. “Humming” to him softly, she continued to groom him unhurriedly. Like the sea, she sheltered him, the swanlike curve of her neck shielding his face from view and her feathery décolletage catching his tears.

“Shh,” was a sound even her ruined throat could make, and she dispersed wavering waves of it throughout her rhythmic purring. “Shh.” She rested her chin atop his head with a soft sigh.