Modern Day, 3am, Suburbia Code flowed from his fingertips. Procrastination had been biting him in the ass for months but finally it was gone, he had passed the hump and the whole complex interrelated system was once again his toy, his slave, obeying his command. As his fingers danced over the keyboard, he built objects and tied them together, massive complex data-structures working in well-documented harmony. This is how coding should be: the direct interfacing of programmer and computer. Grokking, music playing without distracting, fingers typing to the tempo, coding rush! Who needs caffeine when... *tok tok* An interruption. Data-structures collide and collapse in his head, he strains to maintain the precious mental map of how it all works, but it's too late, gone. It's OK, he's on a roll, he'll get it back, but still, grrr. "Come in!" *toktoktok* More urgent this time. Not the door - the window. The hell? A bird or a branch or something, unless some weirdo kid was climbing on the tiles outside his window - they better not have cracked any tiles! He got up, flicked the music off, and light off (no need to give them the advantage), slipped one of his knives into the back of his belt and propped a sword by the window within easy reach, then pulled the curtain aside, keeping to one side in case someone leaped through the glass. No-one did. A small, dark silhouette huddled outside on the tiles. Definitely not a bird, outline of a child with a woolly hat, in what looked like a thin nightshirt, looking behind itself to the trees, and cowering against the window. Well, if it was a trick, it was a trick and he'd deal with it, but there was a scared kid needing his help. He turned the handle and opened the window, keeping it between him and the crouched child. In a trice, the child had slipped in and scampered to cower on his bed, in the far corner of the room. Through the window, in the far distance, he saw lights moving slowly in the trees. He closed the window and curtains, trying to give equal time to the child and the window, in case danger came from either, then went and sat at the far end of the bed. He tried to speak reassuringly. "Looks like you're running from something, eh? It's OK, I won't hurt you, not unless you attack me first. And you don't look like you're about to do that. So, who were you running from? Do they know you came here? Might they follow?" The child just shrugged, silent, afraid and vulnerable in the darkness. "OK, then. I'm going to turn on the light - that way, if they come in, we have a good chance that they'll be dazzled for a moment, and I'll have an advantage for a moment... which I shall use to run right the fuck away, and I advise you to do the same. No point being a dead hero just to score points in some gang war... well holy fuck, you're a furry." The old energy-saving light bulb had faded on, and before him, illuminated at last, sat what was clearly an anthropomorphic kitten. Curled into a ball, dangerously thin arms wrapped around scuffed knees, big solemn eyes looking up at him from a head that seemed too big for the body to support. The fur looked as if it might be tawny, perhaps, if it were washed - as it was, it was just matted dirt. The nightshirt suggested a girl - and so did the trickle of semen and blood oozing from between her thighs. So that's what she was running from. Poor little thing. "You poor little thing. It's OK, you can stay here as long as you like, and you will be safe. I will not hurt you, and I will not let anyone else hurt you. I promise." He looked into her eyes. So big, liquid and vulnerable! (If she's some new bioweapon, those eyes alone make her invincible). The eyes left his, looked around his walls, and widened as they took in the mounted swords, the knives, the various other edged implements. She whimpered and clasped her knees tighter, her eyes going to the exits, the closed window, the door behind him... "Easy, easy! I won't hurt you. Here, if I hurt you, you can make damn sure I don't do it again." He pulled a sheathed knife from the wall and slid it to her, handle first, still sheathed. "There. Now I'm as scared of you as you are of me. That's a start, right? Maybe we can be..." He stopped. Wherever she had come from, did "friends" mean the same thing? Or did it mean something that ended with the pain of rape? "Well, we can help each other not to be scared of each other, I hope. Go on, pull the knife out and look at it. Knives aren't something to be scared of: it's only bad when people use them to hurt each other." The big eyes watched him carefully, and her hand reached to the blanket (so thin! Not a paw, but no fingernails. Retractable claws?), feeling around, finding the handle, pulling it towards her to see if he would complain. But he just nodded and smiled. "Good girl. You can keep that one. It's your very own knife. If you see the people you're running from, you can poke it into them, but only if you absolutely have to." He tried to look relaxed about it, but he didn't feel all that relaxed. What if she went nuts with it? He didn't want to hurt her, but she moved fast, and he wasn't even sure he'd win if it came to it. He was very conscious of the wooden staff to his right... would he have time to reach it? She was holding the sheathed knife in front of her face now, struggling with the leather tie, eyes focused on it, not him. He kept still, and she triumphed over the tie; a triumphant grin to him, and she started to slide it out... and gasped! He grinned, pleased. "You see why I collect them, now? They can be beautiful. You're holding a blade of ladder-pattern damascus. Only master bladesmiths can make Bowies like that, and there aren't too many of them." Unlike most Bowie knives, which are by design macho, this one was more than beautiful, it was positively sensual, almost erotic in its perfected balance of utility and form. A simple, practical black handle begged to be held, and ten inches of two-tone black and white steel swirled down the blade's curves, bevels and grooves, inviting the curious finger to follow them to the tip, which... "Careful! It's... yeah, sharp. Shit, sorry, I should have thought. Are you OK?" A small smile, sucking the finger and nodding, clutching the knife as if it was a teddy bear. "You should put her in her scabbard, then, and we'll see to your finger." He rummaged under the bed for his first aid kit. "Here we go. I've got these plasters, with pictures on. Which do you want, the puppy, the kitten or... eh, thought you might!" Yay, she had pointed! It's not so hard to pull a kitty out of her shell after all! "OK, now I'll show you how to put a plaster on. Hold your finger out? Good kitty!" He kissed the finger softly: the claw extended, just a little bit. Oooh-kay, careful with kisses. He showed her how to put the plaster on, then put the first aid kit back, showing her where it went. He turned off the light again, and they peeked out the curtains. The lights seemed to be lanterns or flashlights, shining in the distance in the forest, spending a fair amount of time pointing up into the trees. The kitty growled at them quietly, but they seemed to be moving east, following the stream downwards. They sat in the dark window until, after what seemed like half an hour, the lights disappeared into the distance. He sighed and relaxed a little. She seemed to have escaped her pursuers. He got up and moved to the door, holding out his hand. She walked over, reluctance in every step... and put the knife in his hand. Aww, she wasn't used to holding hands? "No, no, I told you, that's YOUR knife now! Yours to keep and look after. I'll show you how to look after it properly later, but first we need to clean you up. C'mon!" He put the knife back in her paw, and held his hand out to her other hand. She held it out hesitantly, and he held it in his, smiling. Gave it a little squeeze. Uncertain, she squeezed back, and they grinned at each other. Progress! As they came into the bathroom, she let go of his hand and climbed onto the toilet, lifting her nightdress and relieving herself without a trace of shyness, using the toilet paper efficiently. "Guess that answers one question, eh? You are toilet trained!" He felt bad as soon as he said it, but she didn't seem to mind. As she went about her business he dug through the airing cupboard for the towels. "OK, you finished? Good li'l kitten. We need to find you some warmer clothes. Come on, help me find something that'll fit you." The kitten-child came to stand beside him, and picked some clothes out of the airing cupboard to sniff, but made a face and put them down. Then she looked at him, and tugged at his sleeve. "Whatcha want, kitten?" *tug tug* "Eh? I don't understand." The kitten took a handful of his jumper and pointed at it. "What, my jumper? I've been wearing that for days, it stinks of me!" Kitty nodded. "Well... OK, but not while you're so dirty yourself. Have you seen a shower before?" The way her hackles rose made it very clear that she HAD seen a shower before, and had no pleasant memories. "Oh... kay. Guess we're going to have to do this by example. I'll take a shower, and you watch, OK?" She nodded. "Righty-oh." He took his jeans, t-shirt and jumper off, putting the jumper in the warmest part of the airing cupboard and closing the door. "Think I'll leave my underwear on for this, though, this time." He climbed into the bath and started the taps running. "See? Nice and safe!" He splashed, washing himself clean as it filled, making appreciative sounds at the warmth, and the drumming massage as he played the shower head on his shoulders "Look, you can splash the water, and it doesn't come and getcha!" he splashed the water away from her a little bit, to demonstrate. "C'mon, it's fun. Try it. For me?" He cocked his head to one side and tried to pout cutely... to his surprise, it worked! She put her knife down on the toilet cistern, safe from the water, then came over to the bath and poked the water. "You call that a splash! No no, cup your hand like that, see, then GAH! Hahaha, oh you naughty kitty!" He flicked a few drops back at her, but she gasplooshed him back, so he splashed her, then she really soaked him, he went "eep" and... she laughed! It was beautiful, like a little girl's laugh, bubbling and musical, but with just a hunt of a purr. He was entranced. She saw him looking, and stopped still... so he laughed and splashed her back! In but a few moments, there was about as much water outside the bath as inside, and both were soaked. "Enough! You, missy, need to get in the bath with me, and give me your foot. Good girl, sit there. and... foot! Gah! Naughty kitty, even if you are adorable, now... let's get you clean." He worked on her ankle first, then the top of her foot, stroking the fur, using just a tiny bit of shower gel, massaging, teasing the fur to lie straight, taking his time until her foot was nice and clean. He put it down and reached for the other, which was released without a struggle, and she lay back to a more comfortable position in the bath. This one had the same treatment, and soon he was working on her shins (so skinny! Maybe he should get her food before continuing? No, he'd just speed up a little). This time, the sound was definitely a purr, a quiet rumble that accompanied his work. Only a couple of times did the purring stop - both when he got too close to her injured genitals. He continued upwards, wincing every time he looked between her legs. Her ribs were visible, too visible. More visible than they would be on a cat, it can't be right. She seemed not to mind at all having her breast-buds washed. There were two of them with fat below them, human-style, though there was a hint of two vestigial ones hidden in the fur lower down. She even closed her eyes and tilted her head to either side to have her neck washed. Eventually, her front was done, and her body completely relaxed. He felt guilty, then, but there were parts of her that she would need to wash herself, and washing her back after that would probably be kinder and help take the edge off it. "Hey, kitten? You need to wash yourself a little, down there. I'd better not touch you where it's hurting." He handed her the shower gel and the cloth, and she looked at them for a moment, through her comfortable daze. Then she understood what he wanted her to do, and her smile faded, but she tried her best. After a few seconds, she whimpered, and reached for his hand, putting the cloth back in his hand, and pushing it downwards. "You trust me to clean you? Okay, I'll be very careful and gentle, then." He wondered if she'd ever heard those two words before. They seemed to help her relax, though, she lay her head back and closed her eyes, but the tension in her muscles was still there. He was surprised by how unerotic it was. He'd fantasised about catgirls (what internet furvert hadn't?), but it was never like this - all he felt was tenderness and pity. He washed gently, and softly, trying not to take any more time than he needed to. Yes, she'd definitely been raped. She was cut down there - he used the shower head to wash it with warm water, the massage setting to wash inside her. She whimpered a few times, it clearly seemed to be hurting her, but she moved her legs to help him get access - she wanted it all cleaned out of her! He noticed she had her claws dug into her thigh, perhaps to stop herself scratching him? He resolved not to complain if she did scratch him for it. "All done, now. Clean as a button. Turn over and I'll do your back, ears and tail." She rolled over and he began with her butt (mmmm, so little meat, but so muscular, HEY! Stop thinking like that!), grooming her clean, then working to her tail, admiring it, telling her what a good kitty she was... even then, it was twitching by the time he got to the end. Hrm, so kitty didn't like getting her tail wet. OK. Well, it did make her look a bit drowned-ratty. And washing her ears made her hackles rise again, so he did them as quickly as he could. Then he moved up to her shoulders, and started rubbing and stroking, and all her tension dissolved away, replaced by purrs. Slowly he stroked, and worked the tension out of the muscles, flowing warm water over her to rinse her. By the time he'd finished, she was asleep, still purring. He rinsed her once more, stroking to sluice the water out of her fur. "C'mon, wakey wakey sleepy-kitten! Need to get you dry, and then get you some food!" She shook water from herself, cat-style, then, a warm towel from the airing cupboard wrapped around her, and her paw in his hand, she stepped out of the bath, picked up her knife, and let him dry her thoroughly. The 'waterproof' bandage had fallen off, so she picked another one - kitty again! "I'll run out of those soon, then you'll have to have a puppy on your cuts instead!" He laughed at the face she pulled, dried himself, and wrapped a dry towels around them both. "Dinner time, then!" He started to leave - but she pulled him back, with a sad little mew. "What's up?" She was looking at the airing cupboard. "Oh, the jumper? I toldja, it's all smelly, and now you're clean, you'll smell it too! Here, see?" She ignored him completely and hugged the jumper, burying her face in it. "Eh, fair enough. Hold your arms up, we'll put it on you - but if the smell turns you into a smelly programmer-geek like me, it'll be your own fault!" The look of hope she gave him then, nearly broke his heart. "Oh, you poor thing, it doesn't really work like that. You and I both, we're stuck being who we are, and we'll never be anyone different. But I like you just who you are. Would you want me to be someone different?" She shook her head and clung to his hand as if he was about to suddenly go away and become someone else. "Heh - see? It's a good thing we're us, then, see?" Down the hall in the kitchen, he rummaged through the cupboards with her - she was curious about everything, holding each new thing up with raised eyebrows, and he'd explain what it was for. "That's a whisk. When you want to mix two things together, you put them into a bowl and..." Eventually though, she sat still enough for them to think about food. "What do you like?" A shrug. "Well, what did you eat, before?" Another shrug. "Well, I don't want to give you something that'll be bad for your diet, so I'm going to introduce you to the tuna and cucumber sandwich." The sandwich was an unparallelled success! The smell had her ears perked up and her purr engine going, but she didn't touch what was on her plate until he had picked up his, showing how to hold the sandwich so none of it fell out, and taken a big bite out of it. Then she did the same, cautiously, lifting it to her face, sinking her teeth into the bread, then chewing slowly. That was probably the only bite of the meal she tasted, for the rest of the meal was gone in seconds, and she was eyeing his hungrily. She'd got half of it, too: he'd only made it so that she wouldn't be eating alone. Once both plates were licked clean by a finely-rasped kitten-tongue, she sat back, smiling beatifically. "Bedtime for you! I still have some coding to do." Somehow, programming no longer seemed as appealing as it had less than an hour ago, but he led her up to bed and tucked her in, stroked her head until she purred, and went back to work. He couldn't concentrate. At first he tried programming, but eventually he gave up and just watched her sleep, listening to the very quiet snore-purr, and watching her chest rise and fall. He turned everything off and peeked out the curtain again - good, no lights or movement. He lay down on the far side of the bed from her, not touching, and watched her sleep, snuggling her sheathed knife. He was almost asleep himself, when she grumbled in her sleep and rolled over to snuggle against him. He tensed up, expecting her to wake at any moment, but she didn't, she just nuzzled under his chin in her sleep and started to purr. So he put his arm gently around her, and her hands started to knead at his chest, softly, without claws. After ten minutes of lying there with a silly smile on his face, he finally fell asleep. ===//=== In his dream, text swirled before him: a window pinned in place with pointers was just a view onto a much larger page. The text was broken into lines, the lines grouped into blocks of similar characters, the blocks holding communal information like width, height... the window pointers narrowed, placing a block at the end of a line: the block spawned off a child block to go onto the second line. The window grew again, the parent absorbed the child back. A cursor drifted over, two rapidly-changing numbers printed over it, reporting its pixel position within the window. As it passed out of the boundaries of each block, a binary search object found the next block it fell within, and that block lit up. The cursor clicked a link and a message flew away into the distance. It started to highlight text, splitting the blocks into child nodes once again: highlighted and not - of course! He woke up, throwing aside the pillow he was hugging (glancing at it, feeling that loss you get when a really good dream turns out to be just a dream), and sat at the computer. Within minutes, text-highlighting was working with his new new block-based system - yay, that one had been one of his big worries. Time for morning coffee, and maybe icecream as a reward. He stepped out of his room, moving with the force of long habit to step on the non-creaky floorboards (when you keep strange hours, neighbours appreciate things like that). As he passed the lounge, movement in the corner of his eye made him look over and catch his breath. She was sitting on the floor looking up, big eyes startled to see him, still dressed in his baggy jumper, her knife hooked to the collar, handle poking her chin. She was cross-legged (yikes, have to get her to dress more decently!), books scattered all around her in an arc, and the day's newspaper spread in front of her. Belatedly, she picked up a book and started chewing on it softly, looking up with big innocent eyes. He couldn't help but laugh. "You're really real? Awesome." He remembered the sad feeling of loss when he'd thought she was a dream, but was still surprised at how good it felt that it was reality. "You had breakfast yet?" She bounced over eagerly, all perked up and fluffy. He reached over and gently took the book out of her mouth. "First things first. Ground rules!" She drooped and looked up at him guiltily. "Number one: we like books. No eating them until we've *both* finished reading them!" She looked at him blankly, but he shook his head. "Don't try that, now. We're friends, and friends don't lie to each other. What you were just doing was reading. You've carefully selected about two dozen books from my shelves, stacked them three deep, the right way up, categorised by type, the newspaper is open and facing towards you, and you expect me to think you can't read? Nuh-uh. You can understand me, and read, maybe write, and who knows, if you can talk, maybe one day you'll even let me hear your voice." She had drooped, looking guilty, but he scritched behind her ears (short hair, or maybe a mane, same tawny colour as her fur: perky ears flick in his hand). "From your laugh last night, I think it'll be well worth the wait, but there's no rush. You talk well enough without words." He remembered reading somewhere that not speaking was common in people dealing with trauma, and he didn't want to push her. "Um... ground rule two, when you wake up, you don't need to wait for me to make breakfast, so long as you keep the kitchen tidy. Ground rule three, if you want to make me a coffee to wake me up in the mornings, I will most likely build a shrine to you and worship you forever!" She looked confused, chewing her tail and looking up at him with raised brows. "Eh, ignore that one then, let's make breakfast. I'll show you how to make coffee later." In the kitchen, he made her a bowl of cereal, and topped it with a scoop of icecream "just 'cause you're fluffy and it's a nice morning", then set about making the coffee, watching her out of the corner of his eye. As he suspected, these were all new things to her - the spoon was familiar enough it seemed, she picked it up without hesitation, but then took a small spoonful of cereal and milk, tasted it... decided she liked it. A small spoonful of icecream, a careful taste... "Mya!" A definite success! OK, score one for Ben & Jerry's, then. Unlike supper, she seemed to be savouring every taste of breakfast, taking small bites, closing her eyes, and purring. He sat beside her with his coffee and a bowl of the same. "You like?" She nodded without opening her eyes, dipping a skinny finger into her icecream and popping it into her mouth. He ate with her, watching her enjoyment, until she put the bowl down with a happy sigh, licked clean. "You've got a bit on your chin." Long tongue couldn't reach it, little fingers did. "so," he asked, trying to be casual, "was there anything about you in the paper today?" She froze and looked at him, suddenly defensive. "Oh, you silly: we've had this discussion. You can read. We can pretend you can't, if you really want to, but it seems just silly. I'd much prefer to discuss good books with you, and fight over the best ones. You weren't just reading it for the comic strips, either, not when you were also getting your teeth into..." He looked at the book. "'The Romance of Lust'? Girl, this isn't a book for children. It's Victorian porn!" Big, guilty eyes looked at him, flicked to the window, the door, back at him. She was cowering, poor thing. "Eh, I'm not angry at you, kitten, please don't be scared. Read any book you want to: reading isn't a sin, and if you were reading it, it's my fault for buying it. Please don't be frightened?" She quietened a little. "We can read the paper together. Maybe you can help me with the sudoku, too." They had gone into the living room to read the paper, sprawled on their sides along the couch, with her leaning back against him, the purr making the whole couch tremble. They found that there was nothing about her in the newspaper (and no missing pages - he checked surreptitiously as they went through, feeling bad to be so cautious). He made sure to talk at least a little about at least one story on each page, getting her to laugh, or smile, or agree with a nod. Then he'd explained the rules of sudoku and given her a pen, and they went to work. He let her write most of the numbers, watching her write. Her penmanship wasn't practised, but she clearly knew the character shapes from before, rather than just copying: her fours were open, the ones on the game were closed. "Eh? How'd you get that one as a two? Oh, the other block can only have twos in the top line? Clever kitty, well done!" He had kissed the top of her head before he thought about it, and she froze. "Oh! I'm sorry, little one. I didn't mean... eh, and I was being so careful not to kiss you too. I'm sorry." He'd spoilt the moment, he felt bad. He pulled away from her in case she wanted space. She turned her head to look at him, and smiled weakly, lifting her hand to him, placing it to his lips. He raised his eyebrows. She pressed it on his lips, insistent. So he took it in his hand, looking into her eyes to make sure he was doing the right thing, and kissed it softly. She didn't flinch. He kissed it again, and placed it over her heart as her smile became stronger, warm, happy. She leaned back against him again. A couple of soft strokes of her fur, and her purr was back where it belonged. The next time she found a number, she tilted her head to accept the kiss as her due. ===//=== About forty head-kisses later, they had abandoned the soundly-beaten sudoku, and gone clothes-hunting again. He had found her some old jeans and cut them to length, fastening them with a belt that she proudly put her knife on, but she refused to part with the jumper, so in the end he had to let her keep it, even though she could probably have slipped through the neck of it without breathing in. For the rest of the day, she seemed to want to spend most of her time in his lap, and he was quite happy with that arrangement. Her purring was a better accompaniment to programming than music had ever been, and if he lost a bit of time to just watching her and stroking her, he didn't mind. She did, though. Two minutes of that and he'd get a bap, or an almost-breaking-skin squeeze from the claws, and he'd have to go back to work, muttering about slave driver kitties. She was good for him, and the code showed it. "OK, I'm done for the day, and now I'm going to call someone." He rummaged through his address book to V. "That's V for Vincent, the Vet. If I'm lucky, he'll come, look you over. He might ask to do things to you, or feed things to you, but he'll always ask you first, and you may refuse if you want. OK?" He felt her tense up - had she had some bad experiences with doctors? Almost certainly, an impossible creature like a furry doesn't come into being without doctors involved. "It's OK, Kitten, he's one of us." He reached for the phone, dialled the number. "Vince? Hi! Hey, you want to come over tonight, have a few beers, order pizza, watch the game or whatever it is you do to wind down? No, didn't think so, you work too hard. Look, I'm in a bit of a bind, I've picked up a... well kind of a stray, more of a rescue deal really, and I don't have a license or anything and... yeah, don't tell anyone, they'd just take her from me. I'll pay you double your call-out fee. Triple, I really am desperate, and if you tell me to call the authorities after seeing her, then I will. Half an hour? You're a life saver, Vince. See you then, thanks again. Bye!" He lay back with a grin. He couldn't afford triple rates, and Vince knew it. Vince was a softy, odds were good that he didn't even intend to send a bill. And Vince was one of their local group of furs and fur-suiters - he'd understand once he saw her. A real furry. Wow. It was only then that it sank in - he held in his arms a real, live, honest-to-goodness furry. Not a furry-fan, a REAL living breathing people-shaped kitten. She shouldn't exist, the technology wasn't expected for generations yet. What were the repercussions? What other technology was out there? What physiological problems would she have as a result of such gene-splicing? How many more of her? Where from? His mind whirled, but he pushed the thoughts aside and gave her a squeeze, then carried her to the lounge, so he could neaten the place up, or at least, throw a few bits of laundry into his room, scoop her books back onto the shelves, and light the fire. They sat watching cartoons while they waited, but she was very quiet, very tense, and would not be reassured, no matter how much he insisted that Vince was the very best of men. The knock came. "Wait in here and be ready when I bring him in. If you hear more than one person at the door, or I say the word 'knife', hide behind the couch with your knife drawn. Otherwise, though, no clawing him or running away, OK? He's a guest, and he's not dangerous." She nodded sullenly, but patted her knife for reassurance. He went to the door. "Vince! You made it! Anyone else with you?" he glanced around anyway - nobody. "OK, come in, come in, don't stand in the wet, here, I'll take your coat..." He kept the pleasantries until they got to the lounge, then swung the door open to reveal his surprise to Vince. But they were both surprised. "Wha... Kitty, why..." He stared, guilt-struck. Of course. He had told her to "be ready when I bring him in!" And she had, the best she knew how. Her clothes were folded neatly beside her, her knife laid on top, and she was lying on her back in the middle of the carpet, naked, holding her painfully thin ankles in her hands, her legs akimbo. "Ready" for them to use her. Her eyes were closed tight. A tear had slipped out and splashed onto the carpet, glinting in the firelight. "Oh, no, kitten, I didn't mean like that!" She winced, as if slapped, and rolled over to another position, rising to all fours and lifting her tail high. She spread her legs and arched her back to give them the best view. And then her composure cracked, and a sob escaped her. It shattered his immobility. "Oh, kitten, no!" He pushed past the stunned Vince, grabbed her jumper, wrapped her in it, pulled her into his lap, wrapped her in his arms. "No kitty, I didn't mean like that at all! Vince is a doctor, a friend, he's here to see you were OK, to check I'm feeding you the right stuff, to see if you need any special vitamins, oh Kitten, I'd never ask that of you, never!" He was babbling, and squeezing her too tight, and rocking her, and she was clinging to him like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood, and sobbing so hard he thought she might never stop. Behind them, Vincent stood for a moment, watching them, then went to put the kettle on. ===//=== The crying had eventually ended, and sooner than he expected: he noticed the smell of Vincent's hot chocolate often had that calming effect on people. They were sat in the deep leather chairs before the fire, the kitten was in his lap, and most of the hot chocolate had been drunk, before anyone spoke. Vincent broke the silence. "Shall we start over, then?" They smiled wryly. "Hello, and very pleased to meet you. And I honestly mean that, I've never been so happy to meet anyone in my wildest dreams. My name is Vincent, but everyone calls me Vince, because two whole syllables is far too many for the busy modern mind. What should I call you?" The kitten's ears drooped, and she buried her face shyly in her protector's chest, but when she peeked out at Vince, he was still watching her, head cocked to one side, waiting for an answer. "Kitten." Her answer was the barest shade of a whisper, but even that made her protector jump. She looked up at him. Pointed at his chest, raised an eyebrow. He kissed her paw. "Typical, I sleep with someone before I even give her my name. Er," he looked at Vince and blushed. "That was a joke, we never did... I mean she slept in my bed but..." Vince nodded and chuckled at his friend's discomfort. "Kitten, our friend's name is 'Guy'. And Guy, I think you better start at the beginning, and then maybe, if she feels like it, Kitten can fill in the gaps." ===END===