A Bit of Fluff

(Or: An Addition to the Family)

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 9,828

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: The pitter-patter-pitter-patter of little feet…

Disclaimer: Not mine at all.

Notes: They say to write what you know about… Dedicated to my own little peanut. Also, I am floored that this is nearly 10,000 words. WTF is wrong with me? ;)

It had been a very long day. There had been nothing Mark had been looking forward to more than going home, stretching out his legs on the sofa, and resting while supper baked in the oven. The very thought was what had kept him sane all day. He could hear Bridget talking from the kitchen, chatting with Tom (or so he gathered) on the telephone, but he felt his head continuing to lower then jerk back up in an attempt to not fall asleep.

However, he lost the battle.

It was the method of his awakening that came as something of a shock to him: needle-fine pricks to his stocking-clad toes.

"What the hell—!" he exclaimed, springing to wakefulness, pulling his feet back.

He was met by an inquisitive pair of golden eyes, surrounded by short, sleek black fur.

It was a tiny black kitten, staring at him like he was mental to think such an innocent creature could be capable of such mischief.

"Bridget," he called out as if addressing a person holding a lit match against a bomb fuse, "why is there a cat trying to attack my toes?" In fact… "Why is there a cat in this house at all?"

"Oh, bugger," she said. "Tom, have to go."

He heard the phone meet the receiver, then she appeared and scooped up the kitten, scratching it behind the ears. Mark could hear it purring from his position on the sofa.

"I was hoping to talk to you about this after dinner, but the little guy got out of the loo, didn't you?" she said in a gooey voice to the furrball. She sat beside Mark just as he sat upright, bringing his foot up, peeling off his stocking to examine the damage. "I found him on the porch, poor little thing. Brought him in for a bit of something to eat, and… well… he's just so adorable."

He knew that tone. He was afraid of that tone. It was the tone that said to him, 'I've become irrevocably attached to this object and you can't talk me out of it'—or, as was the case here, this small, evil being.

He watched her plant a kiss on the kitten's head; inside he reeled. "How do you know that cat's not teeming with infection or illness?" he said sharply.

She made a dismissive sound. "He's perfectly fine. I don't think he's much beyond weaning and was very clean when I found him."

He sighed. "Bridget, a cat's a big responsibility," he said, opting for reason. "That and I don't care much for cats."

"Oh, I bet you'd prefer a big hunting dog," she said accusingly, holding the kitten close to her chest.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I would," he said. "But the point is I know better than to try to commit to a pet when you and I work all day."

"But a cat is so self-sufficient," she said. "Cats don't need to run around outdoors in big, wide open spaces or to… well, that's what a litter box is for." She then pulled out the big guns, turning her eyes from the cat to him, and the pleading look was causing his resolve to disintegrate on the spot. "Besides. Wicksy is a perfect angel, aren't you?" she said, looking back to the kitten, turning the attention of her fingers to the cat's tummy. Revelling in the petting, the kitten turned over on his back to expose more belly fur.

Mark, on the other hand, was absolutely sunk. She'd named the beast. "'Wicksy'?"

"Hm, yes, after Mr Wickham." She looked at him through her lashes. "I figured if another male was going to vie for my affections with a Darcy, he might as well be properly named."

She might have thought she was being cute, but he felt like he'd just heard a declaration of war. Man vs. monster.

"Fine," he said grudgingly. "Though you are going to be responsible for all of the kitten's needs and care on your own. That includes feeding and litter box cleaning. And you are to immediately make a veterinary appointment and see that the… that he's in good health. And neutered."

She looked up in alarm. "Oh, Mark, I can't take him for that. I would feel so bad."

"Bridget," he said. "These are the terms, take them or leave them."

"Fine," she said curtly, then smiled as she continued stroking the kitten's fur until he had decided he'd had enough, then launched himself off of her lap in pursuit of what Mark could only guess were invisible fellow demons.

As Wicksy attacked Mark's discarded sock, tearing it to shreds in the matter of an instant, she cooed at the vile critter. "Look at how cute he is. Mark, isn't he cute?"

"He's going to ruin every sock I own."

"Chuh," she said. "Not every sock. That can be his sock."

Even though it was only him versus her in this matter, why did he already feel outnumbered?

………

He should have known that he'd be pulled into the kitten endeavour from the get go.

After supper, she begged him to go to the pet store with her. "We need to get some food. And a litter box, and litter, and lots of toys…"

"Darling, I can't. I have work to do tonight. Besides, let's not get too attached," he said; even as he did, he knew it was too late already. "If the kitten's… not well," he said delicately, instead of 'mortally ill', "we should do the humane thing—"

"Bite your tongue, Mark Darcy," she said crossly.

"I'm just being realistic."

"No, you're being fatalistic. Wicksy is fine."

"Promise me this will be a quick trip."

"Cross my heart," she said, raising her thumb up to make the accompanying gesture on her chest.

As they perused the aisles at Pets at Home, he could only think of the old saying:

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Because he apparently never learned when it came to giving into her. Not that he minded terribly much most of the time, surrendering to her, but this evening all he could think of was the work waiting for him.

He pushed impatient breath out from between his teeth. "Bridget, the store is closing. Can we please make a decision on a collar?"

"Which do you think? The shiny silver one, or the shiny red one?"

"All I ask is no bells, please."

"Red. No, silver."

"Bridget," he said in warning.

"I'll get both and decide later," she said, pleased with herself having come up with the idea.

………

At least her preoccupation with the kitten had allowed him to get his work done more quickly than he'd thought, and as they climbed into bed, she looked worn out, but happy.

"Where's the kitten?" he asked.

"Oh, the sitting room, I think," she replied.

"Oh no," he said decisively. "The kitten cannot have the run of the house while we are asleep. There's a lot to get into, and that's a very small cat."

"Can he stay in here with us then?"

Thinking surely even kittens must need sleep eventually, he agreed. She bounced up. "I'll go find him."

She returned shortly thereafter with Wicksy in one hand and his litter box (the sort with the snap-on lid and a handle on top) in the other. She set the litter box down on the floor in the bathroom, then returned to the bedroom. "I'll get his food and water in case he gets hungry or thirsty."

He simply laid down on the pillow. She set the cat on the bed.

"Go to sleep. I'll be right back."

"I'm trying," said Mark.

"Not you, silly—Wicksy," she said, leaving the room.

Amazingly, the kitten padded on the duvet then curled into a small ball at his feet. Small miracles, he thought.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew Bridget was crawling in beside him, then reached over to turn off her light. He reached forward and ran his fingers over her shoulder.

"Oh," she whispered. "I thought you were asleep."

"Not really. Was waiting for you." He pulled her into his embrace, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He'd come to find it hard to fall asleep without her there.

"Thank you, by the way," she said.

"For what?"

"For Wicksy."

He chuckled. "I didn't realise I had a choice in the matter."

She propped herself up; he could just make her features out in the stray moonlight. She looked very serious. "Of course you did."

He made a noncommittal sound. He couldn't well admit to her he was powerless before her requests.

"It means a lot to me." She bent forwards and kissed him, briefly at first, then a little bit more deeply.

Powerless before her in many ways. He reached up, brushed his hand down the small of her back, reaching for the hem of her nightgown, anticipating an escalation in affection.

"Oh, no," she said suddenly.

"What, darling?"

"Not in front of the kitten."

He exhaled loudly. "Jesus, Bridget, he's a cat."

"It doesn't feel right."

"Right."

He pushed the sheets back, got out of bed, found the food and water bowl and set them on the opposite side of the bathroom from the litter box—having some faint recollection that cats won't eat food placed too near to where they relieve themselves—then scooped the kitten up, set its very drowsy self into the loo, and shut the door.

"There. Problem solved," he said, climbing back into bed.

She didn't seem satisfied. "Now he's in there all alone."

"He'll be fine. He'll probably curl up on the bath mat and go right back to sleep."

"Are you sure?" she said.

"Yes."

She resumed her place in the crook of his arm, and he resumed kissing her.

This time when he lifted her hem, she didn't object.

………

It had been a nice delusion to labour under.

He awoke during the night to use the loo and almost forgot, until the last moment, that the kitten was in there until he felt a rush of wind against his shin. He shut the door quickly to keep him from getting out.

As he went to the toilet he realised what used to be a roll of toilet tissue was now unrecognisable: Wicksy, the little bugger, had shredded it to pieces where it hung. Mark sighed. No use in putting a new roll on now. They would just have to set aside a spare room for the kitten, one without a loo attached.

As he slipped in beside his slumbering wife, he laid down on his pillow, slipped an arm around her waist, and curled up to her back. He closed his eyes, felt himself quickly returning to sleep—

The sound of claws on the wooden door brought him back to wakefulness, scratch-scratch-scratch. It was followed by the most pathetic mewling he'd ever heard.

Try as he might, he was not able to ignore the scratching or the crying out by the cat, not with his arm over his ear, not with his pillow folded over his head… and there slept Bridget, as peaceful and as undisturbed as an angel.

Perhaps there was no time like the present for that special kitten room.

He knew what he should have done: woken her up and made her deal with the kitten. Seeing her sleeping there, however, he didn't have the heart to wake her, and even if he did wake her, he knew there was no way he would be going back to sleep until the kitten was resettled, anyway.

He decided that the room at the end of the hall, the small one with nothing currently in it, not even carpeting of any kind, would be ideal for Wicksy to spend his hours in sequestration in. He thought too it might be best to fetch one or two of the toys she'd picked out, just to give the creature something to do.

After relocating the litter box, the food and water bowls and a few of the toys from the shopping trip, he picked up Wicksy just under his tummy. The kitten immediately turned into a spinning sphere of claws and teeth, and rather than cry out with the pain, Mark bit on his lower lip as he transferred the kitten from one hand to the other, grasping him instead by the flap of skin at the back of his neck and holding him out like a live ordnance.

"Like your mum ought to have done for you more often," he said through clenched teeth.

He tossed the kitten onto the floor of the room and quickly closed the door. Mission thus accomplished, he retreated to the bedroom. He went in the bathroom again, swabbed his scratches with a white spirit-soaked cotton ball, and restored a useful roll of toilet tissue to the holder. He then gladly resumed his place by Bridget's side.

………

"Mark!"

The terror in Bridget's voice brought him to instant alertness, and he sat up, seeing her standing at the foot of the bed. "What, darling?"

"The kitten! He's gone!" she said, looking stricken. "The doors were open and…"

"Darling, darling, it's all right. I simply moved him and his things to the small room at the end of the hall. Did you not notice the litter box and food were gone as well?"

"What?"

"He's fine. He's in another room."

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Thank you."

"It wasn't completely out of concern for the cat. The bloody thing—"

"Don't speak of Wicksy that way!" she said, cutting him off.

"Wicksy," he said with deliberate emphasis, "tore a roll of toilet tissue to shreds, then started to scratch the bathroom door. It was for my own sanity and ability to sleep that I moved him."

"He's only a kitten. He doesn't know better." She walked around and sat down, enfolding him in her arms. "Thank you again, Mark."

"You'll call a vet this morning?" he said, then pressed a kiss into her tousled hair.

"Absolutely."

"Good girl," he said returning the embrace.

"Just as soon as I finish getting my morning snuggle," she said into his shoulder.

He chuckled and tightened his arms around her.

True to her word, she went to the phone directory (and made the call) immediately after a lengthy embrace and one or two lovely kisses, and came back momentarily looking slightly panicked once more.

"They have an opening today."

"Terrific. You took it?"

She nodded, but said, "Mark, I can't do it."

"Can't do—what?"

"Can't take him down there."

"Yes you can. You put Wicksy in his brand new cat carrier, you set him into the passenger seat, and you head in the vet's direction."

"That isn't what I mean."

"Bridget, you promised. We have to know he's not sick. And he must be neutered. I won't have a male cat spraying around and making the house smell."

She took in a deep breath. "I'll take him on one condition."

"There are no conditions."

"Mark. Talk to the kitten. Tell him it'll be all right."

He blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You must talk to Wicksy and tell him it'll be all right. You know. To get, er, snipped."

Mark couldn't refrain from laughing. "That's absurd."

She continued looking at him, her expression very serious. "Mark, if you don't talk to him, you'll have to take him."

"Bridget, setting aside for the moment the terms I set for you: he's a cat. He wouldn't even understand me."

"Not in so many words, no, but you're a man, and he's a boy kitten… you have that masculine bond. He'll understand."

He conjured up an image of the kitten, and had a hard time considering the small fluff ball as 'masculine' in any sense of the word.

"Please," she said.

Marriage is about compromise, he reminded himself, though I fail to see the compromise here.

"I'll… talk to the cat."

"Oh, thank you, wonderful, lovely husband of mine." She embraced him again and as she was still in her nightie, he didn't mind one bit. Especially since it was a short nightie.

"When's the appointment?"

"For noon."

"Far from here?"

"Not far, no."

"Good. Care for breakfast in bed?"

She pulled back to look at him, raising a single brow. "And keep Wicksy locked up in that room all alone?"

He sighed. He suspected he'd be doing a lot more of that in the near future.

The compromise—there was that word again—was to allow the kitten into the bedroom while they had their coffee and croissants. This, unfortunately, precluded lazy morning intimacy.

The kitten had taken a perch on Bridget's leg as she sat propped up against the pillows. "Well, Daddy? About time for that little chat?"

Daddy? So much for Wicksy being her kitten.

"I think you should leave," said Mark, a plan formulating in his head. "So that Wicksy and I can have a private, man-to-man chat."

"Oh, right, of course. I'll go out in the hallway."

Mark nodded solemnly. She lifted the kitten up with both hands, set him onto the duvet, then left the room.

The moment she was out of the room, he sighed heavily, and said quietly, "She's lost her mind. She's absolutely lost it. Asking me to talk to you, a kitten, about—and here I am, talking to a kitten. Crikey."

At that moment Wicksy hissed and pounced on where Mark's hand was resting on the bed. He shouted out in pain, pulling his hand back lightning fast. The kitten then went for his knee. "Stop it, you foul beast!" he said through clenched teeth. "Deserve to have your bits lopped off—"

Bridget burst through the door. "What's the matter?"

"He's attacking me."

"He doesn't want the… you know."

He's getting it whether he wants it or not, thought Mark, then diplomatically said, "I think what Wicksy needs the calming effect of a female."

"You're right," said Bridget. "He needs both his mummy and daddy during this difficult time." She came in, scooped the kitten up and held him to her chest, then looked to Mark expectantly.

Ah, Jesus, thought Mark. I have to extemporaneously give a reassuring pre-neutering speech to a kitten.

"Wicksy," he began, reaching his hand out to touch his fingertips to the small furry head; a silent bearing of teeth caused him to retreat them. "There are a times in a man's life when he has to stiffen his spine, raise his chin, and take difficult things head on for the greater good. Today will not be easy, it will not be pleasant, but it will be done."

"Mark," she chastened, "you're scaring him!"

"What I'm trying to say," he said, "is that you will be a better man, er, cat for it. But it will be all right and you don't have to be afraid, because you'll have your… mummy's loving care when you come home."

"And his daddy's," added Bridget, beaming up at him.

"And your daddy's," he added. He was careful not to let the reluctance show in his voice.

Bridget continued to beam. "Oh, Mark, that was great. Come on. Let's get ready to go."

"'Let's'?" said Mark.

She nodded. "He needs the both of us, Daddy," she said. "It's going to be traumatic despite your pep talk."

What he wanted to say included a reminder that this kitten was to be her responsibility, that those were the terms she agreed to, and that he had a boatload of paperwork to wade through for Monday. But he didn't say any of those things. He merely leaned forward, cupped her face in his palm and kissed her. "Yes, darling."

Sometimes it just wasn't worth the argument.

………

"What do you mean, you can't just neuter him now?" Bridget asked, horrified.

The vet, Dr Stearnes, looked to Bridget. "We need to know he's got his vaccinations, is free of feline leukaemia, and we need to know with certainty that he hasn't eaten after midnight, or else complications can arise during the procedure. I'm sorry," she said. "However, since we don't know exactly how old he is, I would definitely recommend neutering as soon as possible."

"If everything goes well today, if he gets his shots, when is the soonest we can do it?" cut in Mark.

"Well, I suppose tomorrow, but I'd have to put a rush on the blood test results."

"Do it," said Mark, anticipating Bridget's relief. He also didn't want to stretch this process out any longer than necessary, and he didn't want to take time off on Monday to get it taken care of, since she would surely insist upon it.

Dr Stearnes smiled. "All right, then. Let's get started."

………

Wicksy was a picture of health, and Mark was not sure if he was glad for it, or disappointed, as it meant they had to keep the bloody—

No, Mark said to himself. You will not be disappointed that the cat isn't fatally ill. That's not very charitable.

It was hard to be charitable, however, when Wicksy was tearing up another of his socks.

"So he has two socks now," said Bridget. "They're only socks, Mark."

Mark sighed. As frustrating as seeing his socks rendered into piles of thread, she was, of course, right. What meant more to him was that his Bridget was happy. "So you heard what we have to do tonight?"

Bridget nodded. "Take his food bowl out of his room."

Mark nodded.

"But he'll get so hungry," said Bridget.

"You understand the reason for it, though, don't you?"

"Yes, Mark." She sighed. "I'm tempted to give him a piece of lunch meat before we have to lock him up for the night.

He chuckled, taking her into his arms. "Whatever makes you happy, love."

………

After the neutering appointment—which went blessedly quickly, though Bridget needed hand-holding the entire time—they brought home a very drugged and sleepy kitty and took him right up to his allotted room. Mark had to admit it was the most endearing Wicksy had seemed yet.

"You have the veterinarian's instructions for after care?"

"Yes. Oh, no… wait. I left them in the car."

Mark refrained from rolling his eyes. "He's already got his warm, dry quiet place; you can spend some time with him in there, see if he takes any food or water, though he might not tonight."

"I know, Mark," she bristled, as she set the carrier down in the middle of the floor, and opened the door. "I was paying attention to the vet, you know."

"I've got yesterday's newspaper."

She blinked. "What?"

"For the litter box. No litter allowed as it's an open incision."

"Oh, yes, right." She watched as Wicksy walked unsteadily out of his carrier. "He looks so pathetic."

"He's still under the effect of the anaesthesia," said Mark. "He'll be fine. You should get to the litter box though before he decides it's time to go."

She turned pleading blue eyes to Mark. "Will you get the paper for me? And a bin liner? I don't want to leave him alone."

As the alternative was to stay with the kitten while she went for the paper, he said, "I'll be right back."

Mark was ashamed to admit he was surprised that she handled cleaning out the litter box—not that it'd had much time to get sullied—without complaint, and in his shame took to tearing up the newspaper into strips as penance.

In the end, the paper strips were laid down at opposing angles. They watched Wicksy take a very loopy turn about the room, then head for the litter box, sniffing, before doing the same to the restored food bowl. He didn't eat, but that wasn't surprising. Thankfully there was no furniture for him to try to jump upon.

"I think he'll be okay," said Mark as they slipped out of the room. "Why don't we go wash our hands and think about dinner?"

Her face belied her worry. "I don't want to be away from him very long."

"We can check on him periodically."

"And I want to stay the night in there with him."

"Sleep on the floor? Bridget, I can't function if I don't get a good night's—"

"I didn't say you had to," she said.

"Bridget," he said, feeling a little cast aside. "Of course I'd want to be where you are."

She smiled. "I know. But you don't have to tonight, not if it means you're going to have a miserable Monday."

"I don't see why you should need to sleep in there at all," he returned gruffly. "He's a cat, not a newborn infant."

"He's like a baby to me."

Now he was just getting annoyed. "What about your own back? You'll surely suffer tomorrow if you sleep on the floor."

"I'll just do some yoga or something. I'll be fine."

When he realised he was not going to win this argument, he agreed to the separate sleeping arrangements grudgingly but with his own agenda in mind. He found her a storehouse of spare pillows to sleep upon and some blankets, and he left her with Wicksy tentatively sipping at his water.

Mark sat up in bed reading the rest of the paper, then glanced to the clock. Surely she's gone to sleep by now, he thought. He pushed back the sheets, then crept into the spare room. The hall light cast its beams upon her solidly sleeping form amongst the pile of pillows, Wicksy curled up near to her head, and he smiled at her dedication before bending down, scooping her up, and carrying her off to her own bed. He switched off his bedside lamp, curled up to her back and slipped his arm around her. There was no mistaking her soft, happy sigh as she relaxed into his arm. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

………

She was not, however, happy the next morning.

"What if something's happened to Wicksy!" she said in a near-hysterical voice, as she threw back the covers, heading for the bedroom door.

"He's fine!" called Mark.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Because I just checked on him, and he was eating his food."

She froze in place. "He is?"

Mark nodded. She grinned.

"Well, then, I need to go say good morning, don't I?" she said, resuming her dash once more.

Mark came up behind her in the doorway of the spare room to see her cradling the kitten in her arms. "Seems to be very well indeed," she said, looking down over him. "Doesn't look infected or anything to me. What do you think?"

He decided not to think of what he needed to do to confirm this statement, just did it and said, "Yes, he looks fine. I told you he's fine."

"I wish I didn't need to go to work."

"Darling, we'll just keep him in here all day. If you like, just stay home. You don't call in that often."

Bridget slowly began to smile. "I think I will."

………

The kitten's recovery continued to progress and within no time at all, Wicksy had the run of the house again when he and Bridget were home. Mark felt a little uncomfortable letting such a tiny cat having the run of the house unsupervised, and thankfully Bridget agreed.

Upon arriving home from work, Mark took his attaché directly into his office and found, much to his confusion, a small wrapped gift. The wrapping paper was covered in small paw prints. There was a small card and in the centre of it was a tiny, freshly-made paw print in what looked like grape juice.

He chuckled. God, he loved that crazy girl.

He took the package and went to look for his wife to see what this present was all about. She was watching telly with the kitten happily purring on her lap, getting his tummy rubbed. "Bridget? What's this?"

"Oh," she said, looking up to him. Her smile was tentative. "Well, that's a present from Wicksy."

"Why is the kitten giving me a present?"

"Well," she began, standing and cradling the kitten almost protectively in her arms, "he wanted to apologise for tearing up the brief on your desk."

"The brief on my desk?" He blinked, incredulous, thinking of the detailed handwritten brief he'd composed on a legal pad, making a copy for filing which was now safely at work waiting to be typed in. "And how, pray tell, did the kitten get through the bedroom door and the office door to get to that brief?"

"Um, I forgot to put him away when I went out for a bit—and you must have forgotten to close your office door."

He kept a stern expression on his face; clearly she thought Wicksy had gotten to the only one in existence, and decided to milk it. "I worked very hard on that brief."

"I know, and we're so, so sorry," she said. She really looked traumatised. The kitten, however, looked up as if to wonder what all the fuss was about, and why didn't Mark just go away and leave them in peace.

He couldn't keep up the façade, though. "Good thing there was a copy."

Her relief was quickly supplanted by an irresistible urge to punch him lightly on the arm. "Why didn't you say so, you bastard?" she said with a laugh. "Open the present!"

Mark tore open the paper to find three pairs of pristine new socks. He looked up, chuckling. "Three?"

"Paying you back with interest," she advised. "Also against future possible sock-related calamity."

He laughed, reached for the kitten and set him down on Bridget's vacated chair, then took her in his arms. "How about instead of you spending your evening petting your kitten," he said in a low voice, kissing her cheek, "you spend it petting—OW!"

Wicksy had made his disapproval known in the form of needle-sharp claws to the backs of Mark's thighs. Bridget gasped and grabbed the kitten. "Naughty cat!" she said, pulling the cat up off of the chair, thumping him squarely in the centre of the forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"That's how his mum would have punished him," she advised.

"I know how I'm going to punish that bloody cat," said Mark crossly. "Banished to the room, then tending to my massacring."

"Oh, Mark, don't be so dramatic," she said.

"He doesn't like me," Mark said.

"You don't like him, and he knows it."

"Sometimes," retorted Mark curtly, "when he destroys my socks, tears up my briefs, and digs claws into my legs, no, I don't like him very much."

Bridget looked sad. "He's just a kitten. He hardly knows better. His manners will improve when he gets older."

"If he lives that long," Mark muttered.

Bridget's mouth formed a tight O. "And when you're like this, I don't like you very much." Looking on the verge of tears, she clasped Wicksy more tightly to her chest, and left the sitting room.

Mark sighed, reaching around to absently rub where his legs had been pricked, wondering how he could undo the fiasco he'd wrought. He knew he had to try.

He found her on their bed, lying on her side, curled around the kitten who was himself curled into a ball against her chest. She was stroking his silky fur. She looked up at Mark, then looked back down again, not saying a word. He sat down beside them, and reached down to pet the kitten, too.

"I'm sorry, Wickham," he said quietly. "I should be more patient, understanding and accepting." His fingers came down under the kitten's chin and as he rubbed the fur there, Wicksy closed his eyes and started to purr. Mark lifted his eyes and looked at Bridget, waited for her to return the gaze. "I hope you can find a way to forgive me."

The taut line of Bridget's mouth quivered.

He looked to the kitten again. "I love your mum as much as you do—so if you don't mind us coming to an understanding over her attention and affection…"

Just then, Wicksy stood up, stretched himself up into a furry arch, then, as Mark watched in surprise, bounded off and out of the bedroom.

"I don't know if that was leaving in disgust, or acquiescing to my request…" said Mark. As he turned back to look at his wife, he saw that her expression had completely changed; she now had a smile on her lips and her eyes were soft, emotional.

She pushed herself up and slipped her arms around him. "I'm sorry if I've been giving more attention to the cat than to you…" she said into his shoulder.

He kissed her on the crown of her head. "I've got tonight free," he said quietly.

………

She was only supposed to be gone for a day. Then two. As Mark was planning their dinner for her supposed arrival back, his mobile rang.

"Mark, I'm sorry," came her voice immediately before he could even get a greeting in, "but I've got to stay longer. Like, overnight longer."

"What? Why?"

She sighed heavily. "Thanks to the whims of Richard Finch, for which I might have to kill him, we were delayed in leaving and can't now due to the weather."

All he could think of was another night alone with the small, cute, furry creature terrorising his life. "I'm sorry, darling. I know you wouldn't stay there if you didn't have to."

"Thanks for understanding. Take good care of Wicksy for me, please?"

He swallowed hard. "Yes, of course."

Dinner was a lonely affair—as it always was without her—and after putting a portion of kitten food in the bowl, he retired to the sitting room to catch up on a little reading. For pleasure for once, thought Mark, and so far, the kitten and I have reached détente.

He'd settled in his favourite chair with The Firm—he loved reading legal thrillers to find the errors, though Bridget so hated being plagued with his finds she would always distract him with a kiss—and was thoroughly entrenched when he felt his trouser leg being tugged downward ever so slightly. He looked around the edge of the book, leaning down to see Wicksy with a paw on Mark's trouser leg, golden eyes wide and pleading. A soft, pathetic mew followed.

"You miss your mum, don't you," he found himself saying to the beast. It was a little alarming how often he'd taken to talking to a cat. Sighing, he added, "I know how you feel. I miss her too."

He leaned back again and to his surprise Wicksy jumped up into his lap, purring and mewling. The cat did a turn on his lap, padded at his trousers with surprisingly little claw involved, then curled up in a ball, looking up at Mark expectantly.

"What?" said Mark.

The cat replied with the most pathetic sound ever, then attempted to push his nose under Mark's free hand.

Taking that to be the very pointed hint it was, Mark began stroking the cat's head, then back. As the cat began purring like a motorboat, he also turned over to expose his tummy, which Mark was then obliged to scratch; all four of the critter's legs were up in the air making the kitten look like a puppet of sorts. Wicksy then curled up again and Mark resumed petting his head and back.

Strangely, Mark himself began to feel a little calmer, a little less stressed. His hand eventually came to a stop on the cat's fur as Mark continued to read, but Wicksy didn't seem to mind and even went to sleep, all of his legs stretched out, continuing to purr.

There was something so very warm and cosy about the little bundle of fur on his lap, something so soothing about the soft fur under his hand, that he started to slouch in his chair, felt his lids get heavy, his book falling to tent on his chest, and soon, he too drifted off to sleep, only waking when he felt fingers combing through his hair.

He looked up to see Bridget smiling down on him. "This is beyond sweet."

Mark blinked sleepily. "Thought you were trapped for the night."

"Storm blew through more quickly than expected, and I came home to my boys as soon as I could." She crouched, bringing her fingernails to tickle Wicksy's head, and he looked up drowsily, offering a silent meow. Bridget cooed at him, moving her attention to his ears. "You don't have to take my word for it, though." She grinned. "My phone takes remarkably good photos."

"You're lucky I'm so incredibly glad to see you home," he said. "Take your ball of sleeping fluff, please, so I can stand again. My feet are going numb."

"Ohh," she said in a painfully gushing voice. "Two weeks ago you would have heartlessly stood up and let Wicksy fall to the floor."

"I know better," he said with a smirk. "I have felt the wrath of those claws before."

………

"Do you have a cold again?"

"What?"

"You've been sniffling all day, and your eyes are all red.."

"What do you mean, 'again'?"

"Before your trip up north, you were a bit on the sniffly side," explained Mark. "Blowing your nose, watery eyes… but you seemed to have gotten over it by the time you got back."

She furrowed her brows. "I haven't got a cold."

"You've got something," Mark said, as he watched the kitten scamper by, playing with one of Mark's old socks.

As the days progressed and her symptoms didn't abate, Mark began to have another suspicion: that perhaps Bridget was allergic to Wicksy.

It was an innocent comment to Bridget's mother when he answered the phone that gave him his answer.

"Playing with the cat?" said Pamela in surprise. "When did you get a cat?"

"About two months or so ago," said Mark.

She made a clicking sound with her tongue. "She should know better."

"What?"

"She didn't tell you she's allergic? I'm not surprised," said Pam. "We got a cat for her when she was seven but it was a disaster: sneezing, teary eyes, congestion… had to give her over to the Enderburys—the cat, obviously, not Bridget."

"No," said Mark, "she didn't tell me."

"Well, I suppose it's possible she's outgrown it—oh, Mark, tell her I'll call back. The timer's just gone off on my pineapple surprise cake. My love to you both. Bye."

When he went into the cat's room, he found her sitting on the ground, dangling a string over a fully supine kitty, all four legs in on the action, and even though she had a grin a mile wide, her red, rheumy eyes and continued sniffling spoke volumes.

"You look terrible," he said, leaning against the door jamb.

She looked up to him and pulled a face. "You don't look so hot yourself, smarty pants."

"I mean you look like you have a raging cold. Come on, let's leave Wicksy to killing the string and go and take your temperature."

"I told you I'm fine. Now leave me alone." She picked up the cat, held him close to her face on her shoulder. She then unfortunately sneezed.

"Bridget."

"I just got a bit of dust in my nose. I'm—" She sneezed again. "—fine," she finished weakly.

"You're obviously not," he said; he took the cat from her arms, set him down, then grasped her by the wrist, intending to march her into the bathroom. She jerked her arm away.

"Mark, I'm telling you. I don't have a cold."

"Bridget," he said again. "Stop with the subterfuge."

"I told you I don't—"

"Not about a cold. I just talked to your mother. Why didn't you tell me about your allergy to cats?"

"I'm not—" Sneeze.

"—Allergic?" supplied Mark.

At that moment she visibly deflated, looking down in defeat. "I guess I kind of am, aren't I?" She turned her eyes back up to him and the gloss in them was not due to the allergy. "But I love Wicksy so much. I don't want to have to get rid of him."

"Darling," he said tenderly, reaching for her hands again. "You can't continue to live like this. You look miserable."

"Maybe I can get anti-allergy pills?" she asked brightly.

He hated to quash her ray of hope, but he shook his head. "Maybe it would just be best to find someone to adopt Wicksy. Someone that we know, so that we can visit him when we like."

"Such as…?"

"Well, I don't know straight off the bat," said Mark. "But surely someone we know would be up for adopting him. If no one else… perhaps the Enderburys."

Bridget rolled her eyes. "Oh, she told you about that, my mum did."

Mark nodded.

"I really thought it might have been a temporary thing…"

She looked so forlorn that he could not help but pull her into his arms. "We'll find someone to love him as much as we do," he said quietly, realising at that moment that he, too, would miss the little guy. Mark had gotten quite used to the kitten being underfoot, sitting on his lap frequently since their truce, even finding him curled up asleep on his side of the bed when he'd head up there in the evenings.

"I still want to look into allergy treatments," she said in a muffled voice into his shirt.

"You do realise they're shots."

She tensed up for a moment.

"I'll do it anyway. Wicksy's worth it."

………

The following Wednesday was shot number one of four weekly shots, and Mark went along to hold her hand. She was very brave in getting the shot, smiled even as she winced when the needle pierced her skin.

The problem started about ten minutes after the shot.

"Mark," she said, furrowing her brows. "I don't feel very well. I'm… having a hard… time breathing all of a sudden."

Alarm flashed through him; simultaneously the nurse in there with them jumped up to spring into action, reaching for the anti-anaphylactic auto-injector. They'd been told there was a slight chance of systemic allergic reaction to the allergy shot itself, but the doctor had said it was a very small probability, and it seemed well worth the risk.

He could hear the click of the auto-injector as the nurse pressed it to her upper arm, watched the nurse hold it fast with one hand, her free hand pressed to Bridget's forehead. Within a few minutes she began to look her usual self again.

Mark took her hand, squeezing tightly, as she took in deep breaths. "Breathing any easier?"

She nodded.

"Thank God," he said, exhaling heavily.

"Looks like you're in the minority, dear," said the nurse, pressing two fingers to the pulse point in her wrist.

"Minority?"

"Your reaction to the treatment. Obviously we can't continue."

She pushed herself up in the seat, tears springing into her eyes. "No. No!"

"Bridget, darling, we tried," said Mark.

"There must be another way," she said.

"I presume you have tried antihistamines?" asked the nurse.

Bridget nodded.

"Oh, dear," said the nurse. "Mr Darcy, we'll want to keep her here for a little while longer, make sure there aren't any further complications. Don't expect there will be any, but then again, never expected this reaction either." She offered them a smile then headed for the door. "I'll be back in a little while, but call if you need me."

Mark nodded.

As soon as the nurse left, Bridget brought her hands up to her face and though she tried to hide it, she started to cry. He dropped to his knees next to where she was sitting and pulled her to him. "I'm sorry, darling. I really am."

"What are we going to do now?" she sobbed.

"We'll fall back to our original idea. We can find someone to adopt him."

"I don't want to."

"I know. I don't want to either. But I don't think we have a choice." He stroked her hair. "It'll be fine. We'll still be able to visit. I promise you."

………

The entire afternoon consisted of Bridget alternately playing with the cat and crying. It didn't seem that anything he did could console her, and frankly he was at his wit's end.

Might be time for a second opinion. He reached for his mobile and dialled.

"County morgue, you stab 'em, we slab 'em."

Mark laughed. His friend Hugh was always a joker.

"Hello, Hugh."

"Mark. What do you need?"

"What makes you think I need anything?"

"That's usually when I hear from you," he said dryly. "What's the matter?"

"It's about Bridget."

"Of course it is," replied Hugh. "What's wrong?"

"Bridget brought home a kitten and as it turns out, she's allergic and wanted to get allergy shots to be able to keep him."

"Sounds like a sound plan. So what went wrong?"

"She's one of the rare ones who's actually allergic to the allergy treatment."

"Oh, bugger."

"Yes," concurred Mark. "So she's been in tears all afternoon because our alternative is to give the cat away. Is there something else we can try that you know of?"

"Aside from antihistamines, keeping the cat out of your room, hoovering and laundering constantly…. Not really."

Mark sighed. "We're already pretty much doing that."

"I'm sorry, mate," added Hugh.

"I told Bridget we could give him to a friend, but I can't think of a single person who might want a kitten."

"I might."

Mark blinked, stunned. "You?"

"Well, you don't have to act like I'm going to boil him up for supper," said Hugh with an air of affront. "I happen to be very fond of cats."

"Since when?"

"Since it might mean you'd come to see me more often," he said, his grin evident in his voice. "Seriously. I've been considering a pet for some time. And a cat that's lived under the thumb of Darcy rule can't be that much of a menace."

Mark grinned too. "I think this might be an acceptable solution to Bridget, whenever's all right to make the drive."

"Anytime. I'm off the next two days."

"Great! I'll see if I can get a room for us tonight—"

"Nonsense," said Hugh. "I've got a room you can use."

Hugh gave Mark his address and directions there from the main road into Stratford, then they said their goodbyes. "I'll call when we're close to town."

"I'll be here, unearthing that spare room. Bye."

Mark disconnected and went to find Bridget, who was currently in the downswing stage, looking very sad and forlorn, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the sleeping cat. "Darling, I've found someone who can take Wicksy."

In retrospect, he was not sure it was the right thing to say at that moment in time. She started bawling harder.

"It's someone you're longing to see anyway. And we can see him tonight."

She blinked, wiping under her eyes. "Who?"

Mark grinned. "Your very favourite doctor."

She looked up, surprised. "You're joking me."

"I'm not," said Mark.

She leapt up from her place on the cat's room floor and into his arms. "He'll be so happy there," she said, "but so far away from London."

"Not so far away," he said. "We can visit whenever you like, I promise. It's not really that long of a drive… and I have been very remiss as a friend."

"Well, then, I guess there's nothing to do but gather all of his toys together."

When all was said and done, the cat had more to travel with than Bridget and Mark did.

………

"So where's the little darling? Ah, there he is."

Hugh had met them outside upon their arrival, and as he spoke, saw the cat carrier and whisked it up off of the back seat of the car, immediately peering inside. "You found him," said Bridget with a smile, "though I'm hurt you should greet the cat before you greet us."

"Where are my manners?" He set the carrier down on the kerb then gave Bridget a great big hug. "Always lovely to see you. And Mark," he said, releasing her and turning to his friend. They clapped each other jovially on the shoulder. "Have a good drive?"

"Except for the wailing cat for the last hundred miles, very good indeed."

"Come on, let's go inside."

When they got into the house, Bridget set down the toys, Mark carried in the litter box, and Hugh immediately set down the cat carrier in the centre of the floor and opened it. Timidly, Wicksy poked his head out, peered up at the tall apes circling him, then took a slow step out, meowing pitifully.

"It's all right, peanut," said Bridget. "Come on out."

He meowed again. Hugh crouched down and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Intrigued, Wicksy went right over to him and, much to Mark's surprise, allowed Hugh to start petting his head and back. Wicksy's purring was audible. Hugh then picked up the kitten, stood up straight, and scratched his tummy as his paws padded at the air.

"Oh, Hugh, he likes you," gushed Bridget.

Mark felt his lips draw into a tight line. Bridget noticed and not being completely clueless, she went over to him and slipped an arm around his waist.

"It's a very auspicious beginning," agreed Hugh, setting him down. Wicksy immediately scampered off to sniff at the bookshelves. "I hope you haven't had supper yet, because I have a surprise for you."

Mark felt a little squeamish. While true it was from almost twenty years ago, his experience with Hugh's cooking was not a pleasant one.

Bridget asked, "What did you make?"

Hugh laughed. "Make? Surely you jest. I've got a couple of large pizzas on order."

"What about Guinness?" asked Bridget, who only seemed to like beer in Hugh's company.

"Fully stocked," grinned Hugh.

The pizzas came, dinner was eaten, and an excellent time was had playing with the kitten while the three of them were slightly buzzed on the beer, sitting on the floor.

"I think she loves that cat more than me," said Mark, a grin on his face, taking another drink from his beer.

Hugh made a very exaggerated surprised face.

Mark continued: "Took that allergy shot without so much as a whine."

Hugh started to laugh, while Bridget merely pouted.

"Bugger off, both of you," she said; Mark merely put his arm around her, attempting to plant a big kiss on her cheek, but succeeded only in knocking them both over onto the floor. They started to giggle before he gave her a proper kiss.

"Hey, hey, not in front of those of us with such fragile sensibilities," said Hugh, shielding his supposedly delicate eyes with one hand and the cat's with the other.

"Oh, be still," said Bridget with a smile, getting back to a sitting position. "The thought horrifies me."

"I think the thought of being in front of the cat horrifies you more than being in front of Hugh does," said Mark dryly.

Bridget turned around, smacking Mark hard on the arm, but flushing a bright pink.

"I have one question to ask about this cat," said Hugh.

"If it's about his shots—" began Mark.

"He's got his shots, and has been dutifully and rightly fixed, of that I have no doubt," Hugh said, picking up Wicksy and propping him to sit on his shoulder; surprisingly Wicksy stayed put, looking a little like a pirate's parrot. "No, my question is about whether or not the pet store actually has any toys left in stock."

Bridget stuck out her tongue; Mark chuckled low in his throat. "That's a question," he said.

"At least I'll never need to buy any more."

"But he's home all alone… he needed something to do," she said, sniffling.

"Why not just let him outside?"

Mark shook his head as if to warn Hugh as to what was about to come.

"Oh, no, he mustn't go outside!" Bridget said in a sepulchral tone. "He could be hit by a car, get too far away from home to find his way back, be nicked by a crazy cat-rescuer, get in a fight, get sick, eat something poisonous, be eaten by wild dogs…"

"All right, all right," said Hugh, holding his hands up in surrender. "God knows the number of ravening hordes of wild dogs is at epidemic levels here in Stratford."

"Because I can't leave him here if I think you'll let him outside."

"I won't let him out. I promise. Scout's honour."

"A word of advice, though," said Mark as he turned to Hugh. "Invest in some socks."

………

The cat was not confined to one bedroom that night, but did not disturb Mark and Bridget while they slept on the spare bed. Mark was up at his usual early hour, even before Hugh, even though his sleep was interrupted by Bridget's worrisome somnambulant sneezing, and found and brewed some coffee. Hugh emerged from his room with a smug grin on his face.

"Wicksy slept at my feet all night long."

"Don't tell Bridget," said Mark in a low voice. "She'll be jealous."

"At least you know we'll get along well." Just then Wicksy appeared in the kitchen, trotting merrily along and talking away in a series of trills and meows. Mark blinked. He had never seen Wicksy behave in such a way.

"That's bloody adorable," said Hugh.

"Don't tell her about that either."

At that moment, Bridget herself came into the kitchen, smiling, bouncing and humming in such a way that Mark could not help but think of the kitten only moments before, and he laughed.

"What's so funny?" asked Bridget, sniffing then sneezing.

"You're definitely that kitten's mum," offered Hugh.

She looked confused for a moment before shrugging and heading for the coffee pot. "You two are weird," she said. "You know that, don't you?" Cup of sullied coffee in hand, she started rummaging through Hugh's pantries. "Shall I make us breakfast?"

Mark and Hugh shared a horrified look. They remembered what Bridget's breakfast looked, smelled and tasted like. "No," said Hugh. "You're my guest. That wouldn't be proper. I'll cook."

"No," cut in Mark dangerously. "I'll cook."

………

"I don't want to leave yet, Mark. I'm not ready to say goodbye."

She sat on the floor of the spare room, Wicksy upside-down in her lap, getting his tummy scratched. His purr was loud enough to hear from Mark's standing position. Her eyes were red and swollen but it had more to do with her emotions than her allergies. "Bridget, we have to leave sometime, and I'd rather it be sooner than later. Your allergy seems worse in closer quarters."

"I'm sorry I don't live in a giant wedding cake," teased Hugh.

She sighed, looking down to the kitten. "I'm gonna miss him."

"We'll visit again soon, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," interjected Hugh.

"Yes, yes, to see more than the kitten."

She wiped under her eyes. "Can I have a moment alone with him?" she asked. "And then we can go."

He crouched down, planting a kiss on her head. "Of course. Hugh and I will go in the other room."

They retreated to the sitting room. Hugh turned, looking very serious. "I promise I'll take good care of that kitten."

"Do you think I have doubts?"

"Well, I'm a bachelor, I'm a doctor, I have erratic hours, I forget to feed myself at times…"

"Then it's a good thing cats are so damned independent and self-sufficient."

Hugh grinned. "Right."

It was a few more minutes before Bridget joined them, wetness on her cheeks and a kitten in her arms. "Here you are, Hugh." Once he held Wicksy firmly, she placed her hands on either side of the cat's face and smooched him on the top of his head. "You behave for Uncle Hugh, do you understand?" she said quietly, before pulling away.

Wicksy merely looked up and offered a silent meow.

"Oh, Jesus, Mark, let's get out of here before I get all worked up again," she said, her voice tremulous. She put her arm around Hugh's waist to give him a hug, then got up on her toes to peck his cheek. "Bye, Hugh. I know you'll make a great cat-daddy. Mark, I have to go outside now. If you can get my things, I'll be in the car."

He could hear her crying as the door closed behind her.

"She'll be all right, won't she?" asked Hugh with concern.

Mark nodded. He wanted to say that within a week she would have forgotten all about the kitten, but he knew that would not be true. "It would have been much harder had we not been able to give him to a friend, because we would have had to give him to someone and she might never have seen him again."

"Yeah," Hugh replied. "Her allergies were very noticeable."

"Until our next visit," said Mark, patting Hugh's upper arm; Wicksy took the opportunity to bat one last time at Mark's fingers. He patted the cat's head. "That goes for you, too."

Bridget had become mostly composed by the time he joined her in the car. "He'll be fine," said Bridget. "I know Hugh will take care of him."

Mark nodded as he fired up the engine. He watched Bridget watching Hugh's home retreat from sight.

She was quiet for the drive home, and it wasn't until he pulled into their garage that he realised she'd actually fallen asleep. "Sorry I wasn't better company," she said. "I don't think I slept very well last night."

"You don't say," he commented wryly.

"Mark," she said, somewhat seriously, turning to him in the car; it alarmed him somewhat. She then said, her voice a little uncertain, tentative, "We really were very good parents to Wicksy. Maybe…" She drifted off, but she did not need to say the rest. He knew what she was thinking, why the hesitancy. It was not a discussion that had gone particularly smoothly in the past.

"Not 'maybe'," he said in an equally serious tone, before allowing a very broad smile. "Definitely."

The end.