Author's Note: Written for Faberry Week, Day 5 - Possessive. Set in the Don't Blink series because it I haven't visited it since July and its been too long.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta and for helping me decide where to place this story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

A Feline Casanova

Stray cat strut, I'm a ladies' cat
A feline Casanova, hey man, that's where its at
~Stray Cat Strut, Stray Cats

It seems like a good idea at the time.

Rachel is working a fairly new schedule of eight shows a week, Monday through Saturday this time around. She'd stepped into the role in late January after the leading lady had become unavoidably indisposed just four months after the revival of Crazy For You had opened at the Shubert Theatre. She has her former costar, Brian, to thank for the recommendation, since he and the producer go way back, although her agent, Evelyn, was quick to take credit and get Rachel on the short list for auditions. To be honest, she'd been wary of even auditioning since the cast had already had time to establish a rapport, and there was an understudy chomping at the bit to take over, but the show featured some of her very favorite Gershwin classics, and the original Broadway run had lasted four years and earned a Tony. She simply couldn't say no to the opportunity, especially after she'd spent six months touring with Les Mis, waiting for the day she'd finally come home and praying for a job to keep her here

She sees him for the first time on a Saturday night, hanging around Shubert Alley near the stage door. He's cowering at the corner of the parking garage with wide, green eyes trained on the foot traffic that's passing by, and Rachel's heart instantly tugs her toward him, but the moment her foot points in his direction, he scrambles back across the garage entrance and disappears into the darkness. Rachel sighs and bundles her coat more tightly around her, raising the collar to keep the sting of the cold off her neck as she continues her walk to the end of the block to attempt to flag down a taxi. If the weather were warmer, she'd just walk home, despite Quinn's protests about the lateness of the hour. It's a good twenty-five minutes, but it's cheaper and easier than public transportation, and taking the subway still requires her to walk nearly as far as she'd ride. Finding a vacant taxi takes a few minutes—it's cold and snowing, and everyone has the same idea to stay warm and dry—but eventually, she's safely seated inside one of the army of yellow Fords that prowls the city at all hours of the day and night and on her way home to Quinn.

She sees him for the second time on Monday as she's heading into the theatre. He's darting out from the service entrance to the garage onto the slush-covered sidewalk to steal the crushed kernels of popcorn that had been dropped there. She watches him skitter between the boots of the pedestrians and reach out a little paw to snag a piece and drag it closer before he chomps down onto it in a rush and scampers back against the partitioning wall. A few moments later, he does it all again. Rachel inches toward the wall, but the ball of fuzz hisses at her and jumps back, turning tail and running for cover under the nearby dumpster. She huffs in frustration and heads for the stage door. She has a show to get ready for after all.

She doesn't see the kitten again that night.

Before her show on Tuesday, she leaves a few slices of turkey from Quinn's not-so-secret stash of dead animal meats on a paper plate by the dumpster. She somehow doubts that the kitten would be as amenable to tofu substitute as Quinn, which isn't actually saying much. Quinn might be consuming more vegetarian options these days, but Rachel has accepted that she'll never completely reform her girlfriend from her carnivorous ways. She doesn't really expect to see the kitten again, and the poor little thing might already be frozen, but at least she feels a little better knowing that she'd tried to help. So she's more than a little surprised when she sees him after the show, hovering at that same corner once again.

Rachel smiles, coming to a stop in front of him. "Why, hello again," she greets him softly, squatting down as best she can without losing her balance on the icy sidewalk. The kitten takes a few steps back, but doesn't make a break for it. "Did you find your dinner today?" she asks him, not caring that she probably looks and sounds like a fool.

His little mouth opens and he lets out the most pathetic meow that Rachel has ever heard. In fact, there's barely a scratchy 'me' before the rest falls quiet. The next attempt is completely silent, and every one of Rachel's heartstrings is pulled.

"You poor little thing," she whispers, tentatively reaching out her gloved hand in the most non-threatening way she can manage, but it proves too much for him, and he disappears back under the dumpster again.

Rachel brings more turkey on Wednesday before the matinee. As soon as she sets it down, she sees two little green eyes peek up at her, but the kitten won't come out no matter how she coaxes. She finally leaves him there because she doesn't want to be late for her wardrobe and makeup, pausing around the corner to glance back and giggling when she sees him inch out to drag the entire paper plate back under the dumpster with him.

He's waiting for her again after the show with his silent meows, and she feels terrible because she doesn't have any more food to offer him. Once again, she reaches out a tentative hand. The kitten takes a few wary steps forward before he seems to think better of it and turns for the dumpster once again.

She decides to take a little shopping trip before the evening performance to pick up several cans of cat food, remembering to also get some more lunch meat for Quinn because she's bound to notice her dwindling supply after today. She stops next to the dumpster, sets her bags carefully against the wall, and tugs off her gloves. She opens one of the cans, wrinkling her nose at the vile smell and texture that assaults her senses. It nearly makes her gag—which is truly a feat since she still doesn't have a gag reflex—and she quickly puts it on the ground and backs away. She's pleasantly surprised when the kitten darts out from his hiding place and immediately digs into the can with a rumbling growl.

Rachel bends down slowly, studying the little creature closely for the first time. His coat is matted and black with dirt, but she can tell that some of the black is the coloring of his fur, and some of his fur is probably supposed to be white. There is a little chunk missing from one of his ears, a few scrapes and cuts on the top of his head, and what looks to be dried blood on one of his paws. He's chowing down that food like he's never eaten in his life, and Rachel can see that he's almost finished the can. Against her better judgment, she carefully reaches out a hand again, palm up, watching as the kitten eyes her warily, but apparently the food is more important than her right now. The tip of her finger brushes against his ear, and he winces away.

She freezes.

He freezes, staring at her hand. After a few seconds, he very slowly cranes his neck forward and sniffs her fingers. She gasps when his tongue darts out and starts to lick the pads, and then she giggles because it feels weird—kind of rough and tickling all at the same time. When he finishes bathing her, Rachel takes a chance and gently bumps the fingers he just cleaned into the side of his face, scratching lightly when he tolerates her touch. A stuttering, raspy rumble begins to vibrate against her fingers, and Rachel realizes with a grin that he's purring.

"Aren't you just the sweetest little thing once your tummy is full?'" she coos. He attempts another weak meow and butts his head into her hand, tilting it to the side to get her fingers to go where he wants them. Rachel happily indulges him. Anyone passing by would probably think she's crazy, sitting on the cold concrete by a dumpster, baby-talking a dirty, scruffy stray, but his sudden affection is absolutely irresistible, and when he actually digs his tiny claws into her jean-covered leg in an attempt to clamber into her lap, she knows that she's completely smitten.

He lets her pick him up and carry him inside, but the sudden change in scenery and all the strange, new people around him send him scrambling—painfully—onto Rachel's shoulder. She grimaces and cups a hand over his back to keep him from jumping down and wreaking havoc on the theatre as she attempts to pry him off of her without him taking any skin with him. Kevin, one of the stagehands, sees her struggling and comes to her aid. With a deep, soothing voice, he coaxes the kitten away from her neck, despite the hissing, but a paw snags Rachel's coat and clings to it. "I think you're gonna have to hold him for a minute," Kevin tells her, carefully transferring the kitten back into her arms. This time, he burrows his head into Rachel's elbow and hides as his little body begins to shiver.

Rachel falls in love.

Kevin walks her to her dressing room and helps her set up a makeshift cat bed from one of the cardboard boxes that had been tossed into the garbage backstage and some clean dust rags. He opens another can of the cat food and fills one of the spare prop tumblers with water. This seems to win their furry friend over a little, and Kevin is even able to wipe some of the dirt off with a warm, wet rag.

Rachel asks him if he would mind checking in on the kitten during her performance, and he readily agrees. "I have two of my own at home," he tells her with a grin. "If you want, I can call my vet and see if he has an available appointment. Doctor Sweeney is really good, and you should probably get this little fellow checked over if you're going to keep him."

Rachel bites into her lip, glancing longingly at the kitten. "I'm not sure my girlfriend will agree to that."

"Well, I guess I could take him, if you want. My other two cats should be okay with it."

Rachel knows she should say yes and thank him for being so kind, but she can't bring herself to do it. "I...I should probably see to his medical needs, at least. He is my responsibility, after all."

Kevin chuckles knowingly. "Of course. Let me just get you that number. Maybe I can even get him cleaned up a little more before the show's over."

Rachel beams at him. "That would be so great, Kevin. Thank you so much," and she gives him an impromptu hug that makes him blush—and makes the kitten growl possessively and attempt to climb Rachel's leg to reclaim her attention.

When the curtain closes, Rachel returns to her dressing room to find a completely different kitten, metaphorically speaking of course. Kevin has managed to clean him up enough that his white fur is almost white—well, more of a pale gray really, but no longer black with dirt—and his little nose is actually pink now! The wound on his front paw is even more obvious, red and angry against the nearly white fur, and Kevin tells her that he managed to get her an appointment at nine o'clock in the morning. Rachel is certain that Quinn will agree to keep him for at least one night.

She calls a taxi before she removes her stage makeup. There's no way she can juggle her bags and the kitten and get herself home without incident unless she has direct transportation from door to door. When she's finished, Kevin helps her secure the kitten inside the box and carries it out to the waiting car. She thanks him again and balances the box on her lap protectively. She can feel the kitten scrambling around inside and hear him clawing at the cardboard. "It's okay," she tells him soothingly. "We're going home now."

When she steps inside the apartment, everything is dark. It's not unusual for Quinn to have already gone to sleep on these late weeknights. She works long hours at her job and has to be up with the dawn. Typically, Rachel would tiptoe into their bedroom, strip out of her clothes, leaving them in a wrinkled mess on the floor until morning, and quietly slip into bed with her gorgeous girlfriend. Sometimes, Quinn will blink open her eyes and give Rachel that sleepy, sexy grin that occasionally leads to an even later night for both of them but just as often only leads to some epic cuddling, and other times, Quinn will barely move, leaving Rachel to burrow into her side until she's comfortable and content.

Tonight, Rachel attempts to be as quiet as she can as she moves through their apartment. Kevin had warned her that she should keep the kitten in a smaller space, both to limit the amount of damage he could do to his surroundings and to prevent him from hurting himself. The guest bedroom is too big for him, which really only leaves the bathroom or one of the closets. She doesn't want to chance Quinn getting up in the middle of the night and tripping over him, so she opts for the closet in the guestroom and begins to move out the shoe rack to make room on the floor. Quinn really does need to downsize her wardrobe so Rachel doesn't have to keep half of hers in here. She thinks that she can use one of her old shoeboxes for a makeshift litter box. She'll just need to shred some newspapers until she gets actual litter, assuming Quinn will let her keep him.

She's in the middle of moving her clothes out of the closet and onto the bed, because she imagines that the kitten could be quite the little acrobat if he puts his mind to it, when Quinn staggers grumpily into the room, rubbing at her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asks in that low, raspy just-woke-up voice that never fails to make Rachel's insides quiver with awareness. "It's late," she mumbles as her gaze grows a little more focused in the light, eventually locking on the half-empty closet. Her brow furrows in confusion. "Rachel, what are you doing?" she repeats with a hint of concern creeping in.

Rachel had been fully prepared to delay her announcement until the morning when Quinn was a little more awake, but she's not about to lie to her girlfriend's face. "I'm...ah...cleaning out the closet," she says sheepishly, dropping the clothes in her hand and inching over to the box on the floor.

Quinn runs her fingers across her lips and sinks down onto the edge of the bed next to the pile of Rachel's clothes. "Why?" she practically whispers, still staring worriedly at the open closet.

Rachel grips the box and lifts it easily, moving it over and laying it on the floor at Quinn's feet. She kneels down behind it in silent supplication as she pries open the lid. "So Oliver can have a place to sleep tonight," she announces, lifting the kitten up and presenting him to Quinn with wide eyes and a hopeful smile.

Quinn stares open-mouthed at the kitten.

Oliver hisses.

"What the hell?" Quinn growls.

Oliver hisses again, and then does a pretty fair impersonation of Quinn's growl for such a tiny thing.

Rachel tucks him protectively against her chest as she continues to gaze up at Quinn. "Shh, you'll hurt his feelings."

Quinn huffs and crosses her arms under her breasts. "Seriously, Rachel. Did you find that thing in a garbage can?"

Rachel ducks her head, cuddling Oliver closer and mumbling, "Under a dumpster."

"Well, you can put him right back where you found him," Quinn mutters, jerking up from the bed and pacing out of the room.

Rachel scrambles to her feet and chases after her. "Quinn Fabray, it's five degrees outside and snowing. You cannot possibly expect me to toss Oliver out into the cold."

Quinn stops and spins around, eyeing the kitten again with a calculating glare. "Did you actually name him after a Disney movie?" she asks incredulously.

Rachel gasps, affronted. "Of course not! It's only a coincidence that the film in question happened to use a kitten as its protagonist. As you certainly know, it was based on the classic musical, Oliver!...a critically acclaimed Broadway success with ten Tony nominations."

"And adapted from Dickens, which is, by far, the superior version," Quinn reminds her testily.

"That's open for debate," Rachel argues with narrowed eyes. "In any case, Oliver was a poor orphan, cast aside into the cold, cruel world. It seemed apropos." And she couldn't very well keep referring to him as the kitten. He'd develop a complex!

Quinn sighs, dragging a hand through her choppy hair and tousling it even more than it already was. "Rachel, sweetheart, do you have any idea what kinds of diseases that little fleabag could be carrying? He could have rabies, for God's sake!"

Rachel drops her palm over Oliver's ears. "Don't say that in front of him."

"Rachel, be serious," Quinn snaps.

"He has an appointment at the Midtown Animal Hospital tomorrow morning," she admits, gently stroking Oliver's head with a fingertip as he purrs in her arms. "I'm not completely without sense, Quinn. I know he needs to get a thorough checkup and a clean bill of health before we can even think of keeping him, but I just couldn't, in good conscious, leave him out there under that dumpster for one more night."

Quinn's face instantly grows soft. "I know you couldn't. Your compassion is one of the many things I love about you." She edges closer, tilting her head to look down at the kitten skeptically. "But even if he checks out okay, you know this isn't the best time to try to work a pet into our schedules. Between the two of us, he'd be alone in this apartment ninety percent of the time."

"Cats are extremely self-sufficient," Rachel insists stubbornly.

"They're also extremely destructive," Quinn counters.

Rachel sighs and nods dejectedly. She knows Quinn is mostly right, but he's just so cute. "We're at least keeping him until we know he's okay," she insists. "Then we can find him a good home. I might even know someone willing to take him," she confesses, thinking of Kevin.

Quinn agrees after a moment, brushing her fingers over Rachel's wrist where she's still holding Oliver. "Come on. I'll help you get him settled for the night. Maybe he'll consider the closet to be a step up from a dumpster and refrain from clawing the paint off our walls."

"You'll be a perfect little gentleman, won't you, Oliver?" Rachel coos as she carries him back in the bedroom.

"A bad smelling one," Quinn mutters. "Can we spray him down with Febreze or something?"

"Quinn," she chastises. "We are not spraying Oliver with air freshener."

Quinn grunts. "Well, at least it's the spare closet he's stinking up."

"You mean my closet," Rachel mumbles, realizing that she probably will have to scrub it down before she puts her things back in. Oliver may look a little cleaner, but he really doesn't smell it.

They work together to prepare Oliver's temporary home, taking turns keeping a watchful eye on him as he slowly begins to explore the bedroom. More than once, Rachel has to rush to keep him from jumping into the bookshelves or onto the bed. She feels bad when she finally has to corral him up and lock him in the closet, so she decides to leave the light on for him.

"You're ridiculous," Quinn teases her before she's caught in a yawn. Rachel ignores the comment and kisses her cheek, telling her to go back to bed. She checks on Oliver one last time before she pads after Quinn, shedding her clothes and snuggling up to her already dozing girlfriend.

The next morning, she wakes up with Quinn's alarm, as she normally does, but instead of lingering in bed to watch Quinn get ready for her workday, Rachel bounds off the mattress to check on Oliver. She opens the closet door slowly, preparing herself for the worst, but instead she finds the kitten curled up asleep in his makeshift litter box—which is actually kind of gross, but he's sleeping so peacefully that she can't really care. She unthinkingly leaves the door ajar and heads out to the kitchen where she'd set the last can of cat food the night before. Taking a fortifying breath, she peels open the lid of the can, turns, and nearly stumbles over Oliver, who's somehow at her feet, chirping for his breakfast with his barely-there meow.

"You're a sneaky little thing, aren't you?" She laughs as he paws at her leg, looking ready to climb for the food. "I guess I'll have to be more careful with you around," she tells him, setting the can down in the corner to keep him from pouncing on her.

"We're not keeping him, Rachel," Quinn says, surprising her. She jerks upright and spins around to see Quinn wrapped in her robe with her hair still damp as she stares at the kitten with a frown. "And he needs to stay in the other room. I don't want cat hair and claw marks all over our furniture."

Rachel sighs. "I'm just getting him breakfast."

"You're getting attached," Quinn warns her gently.

Rachel glances down at Oliver. "I'm not," she swears. There is no getting—she's already attached. Quinn shakes her head knowingly, brushes a kiss over Rachel's lips, and heads into their bedroom to get dressed.

Rachel runs some water into the saucer of one of Quinn's teacups—she rarely uses them anyway—and sets it down beside the kitten. She watches him lick the can dry before dipping his little tongue into the water in rapid motion. She manages to usher him back into the guest room before Quinn comes back out, firmly closing the door behind her before she attempts to get her girlfriend's breakfast prepared with the same ease that she had Oliver's. It doesn't quite work out, but luckily, Quinn has developed a strange fondness for runny oatmeal and burnt toast.

After she sees Quinn off for the day, she gets herself (and Oliver) ready for their appointment. He's less than happy to go back inside the cardboard box that he'd been carried home in, but Rachel manages to maneuver him inside with little to no bodily injury to either of them. Doctor Sweeney turns out to be every bit as good as Kevin had promised. He's friendly and knowledgeable, and his cursory examination of Oliver yields a relatively clean bill of health. He estimates Oliver to be about six to eight months old. "He's a bit on the small side due to malnutrition," he tells her, recommending kitten food get some weight on him.

He cleans the cut on Oliver's paw with peroxide, telling Rachel that it doesn't appear to be infected, but he prescribes a mild antibiotic anyway. Then he gently lifts Oliver into his arms and takes him back for a full panel of blood work and a flea treatment. Rachel paces the exam room like a worried mother until Oliver is safely back in her arms.

When Doctor Sweeney finally brings him back, Oliver is a little damp, but he looks cleaner than he did—the white of his fur is actually white now—and the doctor tells her that they gave him a quick sponge bath after they took his blood. "He'll take care of the rest himself," he informs her kindly.

The blood test will take a few days, and he promises to call her with the results as soon as he has them. "Assuming everything is okay, we can schedule a follow-up appointment at that time so we can give him all his shots."

Rachel frowns, dropping her gaze to the exam table where Oliver is trying to burrow into her body to hide. "I…I'm not sure that I'll be able to keep him permanently," she guiltily confesses.

Doctor Sweeney only smiles sympathetically and gives her a list of the local 'no kill' shelters. He also gives her a cardboard carrier that's much easier to handle than the box that she'd been using and directions to a nearby pet store where she can pick up some affordable supplies if she's so inclined. She is, and she thanks him profusely.

She calls Quinn as soon as she gets home to tell her that the appointment went well. She doesn't mention the brand new litter box, food bowls, kitten chow, and cat toys. "We should have his final test results in a couple of days," she tells Quinn, even as she sits on the living room floor, dancing a pink feather across the space in front of her and watching Oliver chase after it with enthusiasm.

"Rachel," Quinn sighs across the line. "We're not keeping him," she repeats.

Really, she's like a broken record today.

"But it's only a couple of days," Rachel reasons. "Just until we know that he's okay and…and ready to be adopted."

There's a long pause before Quinn groans quietly. "Saturday," she concedes. "We're taking him to a shelter on Saturday morning."

Rachel grins at the small victory, offering a docile, "Whatever you feel is best," before she asks, "Do you think you can make it home a little earlier today? I don't want to leave him in the apartment alone."

Another long pause follows before Quinn says, "I'll see what I can do."

What she can do has her walking in the door at five-thirty, and she freezes in the entryway when she sees Rachel on the sofa with Oliver curled into a little ball beside her. "What is that cat doing on my sofa?" she asks testily, tugging off her scarf.

"I thought it was our sofa now," Rachel quips, although technically it was Quinn's first.

"He's supposed to be in the guest room. Not out here bleeding fur and fleas all over everything," Quinn reminds her, standing over them with her hands on her hips.

"He doesn't have fleas," Rachel defends, "and I wasn't about to lock him in the closet all day. That's just cruel, and anyway, he's much easier to keep an eye on out here with me."

Quinn shakes her head and unbuttons her blazer before bending down to grace Rachel's mouth with their habitual hello kiss. "You'll be the one vacuuming up the cat hairs from the furniture."

"Of course," Rachel agrees easily.

Oliver lifts his head during the exchange, gazing up at Quinn warily and emitting a faintly growly little rumble. Quinn glares right back at him. "Don't you sass me, mister," she warns him, and Rachel giggles. Quinn puffs out a breath and straightens. "He's going back in his room when you leave," she warns.

"His room," Rachel echoes daringly, grinning up at her girlfriend.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I think Oliver is winning you over."

"Don't count on it," Quinn says evenly, quelling Rachel's hopes. "Although, he does look and smell less like a sewer rat now."

She turns to walk away—no doubt to shed her stuffy business attire and slip into something more comfortable—and Rachel playfully slaps her ass with a teasing, "You're so rude."

She's admittedly nervous to leave them alone together. She knows that Quinn doesn't have anything against animals in general—she'd just never felt the urge to have one as a little girl. Animals were dirty, messy things according to the book of Fabray. Rachel, on the other hand, had always wanted to have a pet, but there had been so many singing and dancing and acting lessons, and her dads had both worked long hours. Dogs required training and walking and letting out to do their business, so owning one just hadn't been feasible, and her daddy was allergic to cats, so that had been off the table as well.

Oliver is already being locked away when Rachel walks out the door. She frowns at Quinn's stubborness, but there's nothing she can do about it. She has a show to do tonight, after all. At the theatre, Kevin asks about the kitten, and she tells him what Doctor Sweeney had said. "Can…would you still be willing to take him if I can't get Quinn to come around?" she asks him. "I really don't want to turn him into a shelter." Kevin smiles and says he will. She feels a little better about everything. Maybe Kevin will let her visit Oliver from time to time.

When she gets home, she finds Quinn still awake, sitting comfortably in the armchair and reading a book. It's not a completely unprecedented occurrence on a work night. She's waited up for Rachel several times before, typically when she's excited to tell her something that happened while they'd been apart or when the weather is particularly bad and Quinn is worried about her. No—what really takes her by surprise is that Oliver is sitting on the ottoman at her feet. Quinn glances up at her with a wry smile.

Rachel quirks an eyebrow, though she still doesn't do it as well as Quinn despite all her practice in front of the mirror. "I thought he was staying in his room."

Quinn lowers her book and sighs dejectedly. "He was. Until I heard a crash."

Rachel grimaces. "What did he break?"

"Surprisingly, nothing. He just managed to pull some of the books from the shelf down on top of him." She holds up her book again—Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, ironically—and taps her finger against the cover. "But I haven't read this one in years, so I figured, what the hell? At least he's got good taste in literature."

Rachel tries and fails to smother her grin, certain that she and Oliver are winning her over.

But on Friday morning, Quinn gently reminds her, "We really can't keep him," and Rachel bites her lip and nods. Still, Quinn's tone is slightly less authoritative and a little more wistful, so she isn't quite ready to give up hope. Later that afternoon, Doctor Sweeney's office calls and lets her know that Oliver's test results were perfect. They ask if she wants to schedule his follow-up, and she almost says yes, but she tells them she'll have to call them back. Quinn comes home a little early again so they can engage in their 'kitty switch,' as Rachel has taken to thinking of it, and she leaves for the theatre with Oliver still sitting in the middle of the living room floor. It's definite progress.

When she comes home, she finds Quinn asleep on the sofa. Cat's Cradle is upside down and open on her stomach, and above the book, Oliver is tucked into a ball and sleeping just beneath her breasts. Rachel's heart melts, and she tiptoes over to the pair, kneeling down to ghost a kiss over the lips of her sleeping girlfriend and hearing the rumble of contented purrs coming from Oliver as she does.

Quinn sighs contentedly as her eyes flutter open, and she grins up at Rachel. "Hey, there," she rasps groggily. "Did you have a good show?"

Rachel licks her own lips, savoring the taste of Quinn's strawberry chapstick. "The best. Did you two have fun reading together?" she asks cheekily, nodding at Oliver.

Quinn glances down at the kitten and rolls her eyes. "He wouldn't stop meowing until I let him stay up on the sofa. He's got some lungs on him."

Rachel's eyes widen. "He was meowing? Like, an actual meow?"

"I guess that antibiotic fixed his squeaker," Quinn replies.

"Squeaker?" Rachel echoes with a giggle.

"Shut up," Quinn mutters, blushing.

"Aw, baby. You're so cute right now," she coos, practically draping her torso over Quinn's to kiss her again, sliding her fingers into her hair and lightly scratching at the back of her head. The hiss from Oliver surprises her, and she turns her head in his direction to see him glaring at her as bats his paw into her arm.

"I think you're disturbing his nap," Quinn comments in amusement.

Rachel smiles and reluctantly pulls her hand away from Quinn and rests it on top of Oliver's head as she scratches his ears. "Sorry," she whispers. If a cat could huff in indignation, she thinks he would, because he drops his head back down onto Quinn's breast and continues to watch Rachel through narrowed eyes, even though he permits her to keep petting him.

"So, tomorrow is Saturday," she says quietly, glancing back at Quinn. "I…I found a home for him so he doesn't have to go to a shelter."

Quinn bites her lower lip and looks down at the kitten, then back at Rachel. "That…that's good."

"Or we could…maybe just keep him this weekend and see how it goes," Rachel suggests hopefully. "He's been pretty good so far, hasn't he?"

Quinn drops her hand onto Oliver's back, sifting her fingers through his fur next to Rachel's hand. "You're still going to be the one vacuuming his cat hairs and cleaning up after him," she finally says, and Rachel practically squeals in delight, disturbing Oliver again. He releases an indignant yowl and jumps down off Quinn.

Rachel crawls onto the spot he abandoned and captures Quinn's mouth deeply. Quinn slips her arms around Rachel, working her hands beneath her sweater, and Rachel forgets all about Oliver for the time being.

Later, when she and Quinn are tangled, naked and sated, on the cushions, two little eyes appear above their heads, looking down at them from the back of the sofa in confusion. He meows once as if to ask them what the hell they're doing before he jumps down, using their bodies as a stepladder, and plops onto the coffee table to watch them.

"Okay, it's a little weird to have an audience," Quinn remarks sleepily, and Rachel hums her agreement, but neither of them attempt to move.

There's no more talk of not keeping Oliver, and treats and toys begin to appear with increasing frequency around their apartment. For the most part, he's a wonderful cat—affectionate and fairly well-behaved, if occasionally too curious for his own good. The shy, frightened kitten of those first few days is completely gone, replaced with a confident, demanding cat. Quinn jokingly calls him a diva and claims he's taking after Rachel, but she scratches his ears affectionately every time.

Rachel is never sure exactly what goes on in those hours when she's at the theatre and Quinn is left alone with Oliver—but she begins to notice that he's always (always) attached to Quinn in some capacity when she comes back home.

It begins on that very first Saturday, when Rachel rushes home after her matinee to check on them and finds Quinn preparing dinner and talking softly to Oliver as he weaves between her legs. Rachel is thrilled by the discovery, but when she wraps her arms around Quinn from behind and kisses her jaw, Oliver emits a disgruntled meow and squeezes between their legs, pawing at the bottom of Quinn's track pants. Rachel bends to pick him up, and he calms for a moment as they both scratch his head, but as soon as Quinn stops paying him attention and pecks Rachel's lips, he's snagging the material of her loose hoodie and pulling himself up onto her shoulder. Quinn hisses in surprise, and Rachel laughs at the picture of her usually composed girlfriend frozen like a statue with a kitten wrapped contentedly around her neck.

Then there's the evening when Rachel comes home to find Oliver on the armrest of the sofa next to Quinn, who is distractedly stroking his head as she peruses a manuscript. Rachel sits down beside her, kissing her hello, and Oliver slips down over Quinn's lap and wedges himself between their bodies with his paws draped over Quinn's leg. It's the first time that Rachel begins to suspect that their cat is trying to claim Quinn as his own, but she dismisses it as a manifestation of her own overactive imagination.

Until it happens again.

And again.

He's on Quinn's lap when Rachel wants to fool around. He beats her to the seat cushion next to Quinn when they want to sit down with a bowl of popcorn and watch a movie. He yowls pathetically at the bathroom door when they try to conserve water. He launches himself onto Quinn's shoulders when they kiss in hallway.

It's not that Oliver becomes any less affectionate with Rachel. He still dances around her legs in the morning while she sings softly to the radio as she cleans up after breakfast. He curls up on her lap while she reads the newspaper and butts his head into her hand until she scratches his chin just right. He purrs like a motor when she lets him follow her into the bathroom and runs the water in the sink for him to drink from. It's just that—well, he likes Quinn more. And he doesn't seem to like to share her attention with anyone, even Rachel.

To some degree, Rachel can completely sympathize. She remembers how desperately she'd wanted to win Quinn over when she was younger, and once she had, she'd felt more than a little possessive of their friendship—her feathers getting ruffled whenever Quinn's attention strayed elsewhere. Like Rachel, Oliver had needed to win Quinn over before he could discover the joy of her affection—well, a little bit, anyway, because Quinn turned out to be a giant softie. But mostly, Rachel is getting a little pissy at being twat-swatted by their cat.

Especially when she comes home one Friday night, shedding her clothes as she pads into the bedroom, and starts to slide into bed with Quinn, only to discover Oliver curled warm and cozy against Quinn's ass. "Oh, no. No, no, no," she whispers harshly to him. "That is my spot." She reaches down to pick him up, and he growls in annoyance, digging his nails into the mattress and clinging with all his might. Rachel growls right back at him and tugs until he hisses at her. She lets him go, running a frustrated hand through her hair as he curls right back into Quinn. "Listen up, buddy. I'm the reason you have this cushy lifestyle. You can dominate her lap as much as you want outside of this room, but this is my bed, and that is my girlfriend, and I don't share her in here. Understand?"

Oliver blinks at her, but doesn't budge.

"You do realize that you're talking to a cat?" Quinn mumbles against her pillow before twisting around as best as she can without crushing Oliver. As soon as she moves, Oliver shifts and scrambles up onto her hip, rolling easily onto her belly when Quinn lies on her back.

Rachel grits her teeth. "No, Quinn. I am talking to a...a feline Casanova who is determined to displace me from our bed so he can have you all to himself."

Quinn chuckles and sits up, disturbing Oliver and causing him to sulk down to the corner of the mattress. "You're insane," she says with affection. "But I love you anyway." She pats the empty space beside her, silently inviting her into their bed. Rachel crawls over to her, eyeing Oliver, but Quinn's hands slide over her hips and pull her closer. She abandons her staring contest with the cat as their bodies sink together down into the mattress. Quinn's mouth is so very good at making her forget things, but even their heated kissing isn't enough to distract her when the stuttered purring begins to vibrate against her ear. She tears her lips away from Quinn's and turns her head, coming face to face with the cat.

"This is my Quinn time," she growls.

Quinn laughs again, stopping abruptly when Rachel scowls at her. "Okay, okay. He is kind of being a mood killer right now," she admits, squirming out from beneath Rachel and gently shooing Oliver off the bed. He jumps down with a swish of his tail and stalks out of the room in a huff.

Rachel bounces off the mattress and rushes to the door to firmly close it, making certain that she hears the click. She resists the urge to lock it too—Oliver can be a very crafty little kitty. When she turns around, she finds Quinn sprawled across the mattress, sexily rumpled and watching her with undisguised mirth dancing in her eyes. Rachel prowls back to the bed, pouncing onto Quinn and straddling her hips. "No more pets in the bedroom," Rachel mutters, running her hands down Quinn's bare arms until her fingers loosely circle her wrists. She positions Quinn's arms above her head and pins her to the mattress, leaning down to kiss her hungrily.

Quinn moans under her, rolling her hips impatiently. "Mmm...you're the only pussy I want," she purrs with a wicked grin.

Rachel groans, going limp on top of her. "You just had to go there, didn't you?" she asks breathlessly, caught between chagrin at the horrible pun and extreme arousal—Quinn's mouth forming those dirty words should be illegal.

Quinn smirks up at her in the seconds before she uses her incredibly well-developed legs to flip their positions and press Rachel into the mattress beneath her. Rachel's gasp of surprise disappears into Quinn's mouth, and Quinn sneaks a hand down over Rachel's belly and into her underwear. "I'd rather go here," she teases, stroking her fingers through Rachel's folds in the most delicious way. "And here," she whispers, sliding down and dipping her head to suckle Rachel's naked breast.

Rachel shudders and lets Quinn go anywhere she wants.

It seems like a good idea at the time—and every one of the many times that follow.