This story is written strictly for the free enjoyment of fans of the "Beauty and the Beast" television series. No copyright infringement is intended.)

Cat Fits

Angie

Cruel, but composed and bland
Dumb, inscrutable and grand,

So Tiberius might have sat\
Had Tiberius been a cat

- Matthew Arnold

It was fall now, and Vincent was in the garden cutting and clearing up remains of his extravagant flowers. The sun was no longer a threat to his tunnel-adapted skin, so he was wearing a long black tank top and shorts. Catherine had bought him a number of them after she had recovered from her tumble down the stairs (*), declaring them the sexiest thing she had ever seen him wear. He had to admit he liked them too – but because he liked the slight breeze stroking his hirsute body. It was a magical sensation and he never tired of it.

All that was left in the garden now were the hollyhocks and willowherb – their purple and yellow a beautiful counterpoint – and the big fans of Russian sage. He had already harvested a lot of the latter. William used it generously in his stews and soups, and Vincent found both the flavour and the scent delightful. He had bunches hanging from the kitchen ceiling to dry. Catherine, who had gained some expertise in both kinds of one-pot meals, also used it. To Vincent, it smelled like summer.

He carried armloads of dead flowers to the compost pile next to the shed. He had built a low wooden enclosure to contain it and periodically shoveled soil on top. Now, the pile was growing unwieldy. Those damnable berry canes were preventing proper settling. He would have to cut them into smaller lengths.

He was chopping the canes when he gradually became aware of an annoying noise. The door on the garden shed, which did not close properly, was squeaking. He sighed and went into the shed to find the can of lubricating oil. He found it pushed into a corner and diligently oiled the door’s two hinges until they were quiet. He was testing the door with satisfaction, when the identical noise started again. It wasn’t coming from the door now.

Puzzled, Vincent tried to locate the source and realized it was coming from the space between the shed and the compost pile. He got down on his hands and knees and peered into the dark crack, shading his eyes to see better. There was something there, something small. An animal. He reached in a long arm and was immediately stabbed by needle-sharp claws. He yelped and looked at his fingers. They were bleeding. He sucked them and went back into the shed for a leather glove. Then he reached in again until he felt something soft and made a grab for it. There was a plaintive screech, but he got a grip on its source and carefully brought it out into the light.

It was a tiny ginger kitten. What else? He was holding it by the scruff and all four legs were windmilling, the tiny paws extending needle-like claws. It was emitting the peculiar squeak, exactly like the rusty shed hinge.

Vincent sat down on the ground and removed the glove. He put the kitten in his lap, and began stroking it lightly. It immediately stopped its struggle and rolled on its back to have its belly rubbed. Vincent complied, realizing as he did so that the little creature was mere bones and fur. Some cat must have had a litter under the pile and this was the only survivor. Now the kitten was happy, its tiny body vibrating with a purr completely out of proportion to its size. Vincent abruptly decided he had done enough gardening for the day.

Cradling the kitten, he put his tools into the shed and closed the door. Then he went inside and gave his charge a saucer of milk. It did not attempt to lap it up, so Vincent heated the milk, then found the eyedropper that Catherine used to measure warm olive oil into Jacob’s ears when he had ear infections.

For the next hour, Vincent sat on a kitchen chair with the kitten on its back in his lap. He squeezed eyedroppers full of milk into its insatiable gullet. He had to heat up a second pan of milk. By the time it had swallowed the better part of two cups its little tummy was distended and it was purring with a noise like a ratchet wrench. Examining it carefully, Vincent realized it was a male. He had read somewhere that true ginger cats were always male.

He carried the purring bundle with him while he found a cardboard shoe box and lined it with a dish towel. He put the box next to the radiator in the kitchen.

He was washing his hands when Jacob came bounding up the basement stairs, followed by the more sedate tread of Catherine. He quickly dried his hands as his son burst into the kitchen and jumped into his arms. Vincent lifted Jacob up to eye level and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Jacob put his hands around his father’s neck and hugged him.

"And what mischief have you been up to today," Vincent asked the squirming bundle.

"William taught us kitchen safety," he crowed as Vincent put him down. "We made cupcakes."

Vincent looked over his son’s head at Catherine, who smiled, dangled a bag and put it onto the table. She joined her two favourite men in a hug. Their bonds radiated with their absolute love. All three sighed.

"Well, he learned more than that, but I guess the times tables aren’t very exciting," Catherine finally managed to say.

"But very necessary, Jacob," Vincent reminded their son.

"I know Dad. But William is fun."

"Didn’t he growl, just a little?" Vincent asked, smiling. Everyone, especially the children, knew that Williams outbursts were just bark without bite.

"Aw no. He did clap Willis on the head for sticking his finger in the batter, though. Very unsanitary," Jacob laughed as Vincent put him back on his feet. Willis was Pascal’s youngest.

There was a rusty squeak from the box on the floor and Vincent remembered his little charge. Jacob heard it too and gave a good imitation of that sound as he spotted the source and knelt to look at it. He stroked the kitten gently, his bond transmitting his delight to both his parents.

Catherine smiled, but was obviously puzzled.

"Vincent?"

"Ah, I found him stuck between the shed and compost pile. It’s very thin and I fed it warm milk with your eyedropper."

Catherine hugged her hairy husband, then tilted her mouth up to be kissed. He used their private bond to transmit his pleasure and passion. It was something they had learned to do early on. Jacob was still connected to both of them, but their own, very private emotions now used a dedicated bond.

Catherine looked at Vincent with a promise in her eyes and he sighed, hugging her close. He would have to wait.

Reluctantly, Catherine stepped out of his embrace and regarded him.

"Hmmm. You look scrumptious in that tank top, Vincent. But now it has cat hair on it."

Vincent looked down at himself for the first time.

"I guess I’d better not wear black with that creature around."

"Oh you can, Vincent, but you’ll have to get used to using a brush. Actually, we’d better confine it to certain rooms, or we’ll have cat hair in places we would rather not.

"Which reminds me - I’d better get some supper going. Could you take Jacob upstairs and make sure he changes and washes up? I’ll find a place to put the kitten where it won’t interfere with our cooking."

Vincent took Jacob upstairs and Catherine thought quickly. She definitely did not want an animal in the kitchen. The den would be the best place, she thought, and carried the box there, putting it near the radiator. The kitten was asleep. She closed the door with a sigh. She liked animals but was not sure a kitten was a good idea. They were a busy family and with others coming and going all the time. The cat was going to be a nuisance if it were not trained properly.

Litter box! It needed a litter box! Catherine ran into the kitchen, rooted through the cupboard for a foil roasting pan, and then went outside. They had made a small sandbox for Jacob, and she quickly scooped some into the tray. That should be enough for now. She would have to buy some cat litter. Cats usually did not need any training in the use of a litter box, once they understood its purpose, but she placed some old newspapers next to the tray near the shoebox. Thank goodness they had hardwood floors. Easier to clean up messes.

Then she washed her hands and dug into the freezer for one of her pre-made cartons of stew. She missed William’s meals, but felt they should not join the tunnel community any more often than necessary. He had taught her everything she knew about one-pot meals, though. They were true Tunnel food, and her specialty. She was grateful that Vincent did not demand frequent T-bone steaks or ribs like other husbands.

In short order she had the stew ready and a pile of toast made from William’s wonderful bread. She could never refuse that – or his muffins, pies and cakes. He was only too happy to indulge herself and Vincent.

Vincent and Jacob returned and they all sat down to eat. Jacob was anxious to see the kitten again and nearly inhaled his food in his hurry. His parents exchanged glances, and admonished him, with little effect. They did make him stay until he had eaten everything, including a cupcake, then he ran into the den. Vincent followed while Catherine put the dishes into the dishwasher.

Vincent had barely got in the door when a hurricane of ginger fur launched itself at his legs. It scrambled up him, its needle-sharp claws digging into the sweat suit he had changed into, and therefore mostly missing his skin. The kitten reached his upper chest and pulled itself under his hair, taking up position his right shoulder and purring.

Jacob stood looking up at him with his mouth open.

"I think he likes you, Dad," was his son’s unnecessary comment.

Vincent tried to extract the kitten from his clothing, but was rewarded with needles in his neck. He grunted and gave up. He sat down in his favourite chair and picked up a book. He was sure the cat would get bored and leave.

Jacob sat on the arm and began stroking the kitten, whose purr elevated to ratchet level again – right into Vincent’s ear, making it impossible for him to concentrate. He sighed and put the book down, just as Catherine came in. She took one look at the tableau in the den and burst out laughing.

Vincent looked at her and grimaced. "Catherine, it isn’t funny."

"Well Vincent, pirates have parrots, so why can’t you have a kitten on your shoulder?"

Jacob jumped on that immediately. "That’s what we’ll call him … Pirate."

Vincent looked even more annoyed. "Whatever he’s called, I can’t concentrate with him purring in my …." He stopped and a distant expression came into his eyes. Catherine felt a sudden frisson of delight through their bond. Jacob felt it too and giggled. She got closer to see what was happening under Vincent’s hair. Then she giggled too. Pirate seemed fascinated by Vincent’s soft, fuzzy ear. She could understand that. She was rather fond of it, and its mate, herself.

"Vincent, it seems that Pirate has discovered one of your …um … ‘e’ zones."

She sat down on Vincent’s lap, stroking his chest. She planted a kiss on his lips and he focused on her. He was purring now too, and the result was an a capella of delight.

"Gosh Jacob," Catherine remarked after a few moments. "You and I are being left out of this mutual admiration society, just because we can’t purr."

She gathered her son to her lap and Vincent put his arms around them both, their bonds once again making a circle of love. The kitten, perhaps sensing it had been pre-empted, jumped into Jacob’s lap. It quickly curled up and went to sleep.

Vincent looked down at the ginger ball of fur and sighed.

"Catherine, this cat is far too clever – and at such a young age. We will never be able to part with him now."

"True Vincent, but that’s all right. He’s lovely. We’ll just have to make sure no catnip gets in the house. Did you hear that, Jacob?"

"Yes Mom. What’s catnip?"

"Its something they stuff cat toys with. Your father is allergic to it. Okay?"

Vincent was shaking now and suddenly roared with laughter. His eyes burned into his wife’s over Jacob’s head.

"Catherine, you’ll never let me forget that, will you?"

"Vincent, I never want to forget it myself. If I hadn’t tossed that toy into the fireplace, who knows what would have happened? We might be there yet." (**)

"Did Daddy get sick," Jacob asked, sensing something between his parents he could not understand.

"Not really sick, Jacob, just … um … dazed. Your father has a very sensitive nose."

Catherine got a grip on herself and quickly gathered up Jacob, who grabbed the kitten in his lap.

"Don’t you have some homework, Jacob? Let’s put Pirate back to bed. He’s had a busy day."

"I just have a report to write," Jacob admitted, then smiled as he put the kitten back into its box. "I think I can put Pirate in it."

"When you’re finished your homework, you get into your pajamas. Okay?"

"Okay Mom." Jacob ran upstairs to his room.

Catherine returned to straddle Vincent’s lap. They carefully used their private bond as they indulged in some face-to-face time. Catherine reached her hands down Vincent’s sweat pants to cup that soft and furry part of his anatomy. His automatic growl lit her with passion, as it always did. He put his hands under her shirt and cupped her breasts. Their kisses became deeper. They gloried in the sensation of being able to feel each other’s touch and emotions - as if they were truly one. It was an unexpected side effect of their private bond and they indulged it whenever they could. They were both gasping by the time their lips separated. Vincent hugged her to him. Suddenly, she stiffened.

"Yikes," she yelped. Pirate was climbing up her back and didn’t stop until he reached her shoulder and could jump onto Vincent. He immediately snuggled under his hair – purring into his left ear this time. Vincent began to softly stroke the kitten.

Seen side by side, Vincent’s face no more resembled a cat’s than her own resembled a chimpanzee’s, Catherine thought. And he certainly did not have a cat’s eyes. His were bright blue pools she lost herself in. She smiled.

"Well, I think you’ve made a friend, Vincent. No wonder. If you had saved me, fed me, and stroked me like that, I’d love you too. Come to think of it, you have - and I do.

"Nice of him to wait until we had finished, though," she whispered.

Vincent gazed down at her, love and passion beaming from his eyes.

"Catherine, no cat could ever compete with you. However, if Pirate insists on using me as a ladder, I’m not going to be able to wear those tank tops you like so much - or shorts either."

"Disaster," moaned Catherine. "However, it’s almost winter, so by the time you want to wear them again outside, this cat will be much older and have outgrown all that - I hope. And you can still model the tanks in our bedroom."

"True ..." Vincent got a glazed expression again and Catherine realized the kitten was licking his ear.

"No fair," she whispered as she bent over to work on the other one. Vincent’s purr began to escalate in volume, making her wish they were upstairs in bed with nothing but skin separating them. What came from his side of the bond was sheer delight. She nuzzled the delectable ear and he shuddered.

"Catherine," he mumbled. "I can’t resist both of you. Maybe not even one of you."

"Oh definitely not either of us," she giggled into his soft ear. "But I get finder’s rights."

Vincent moved to put his arms around her, forgetting the kitten, which yowled and slid down his back, sprang off the chair into the air and landed on the floor with its tail twitching in indignation. It emitted that plaintive squeak as it regarded Vincent. Catherine craned around to look at it, then laughed until she cried. Vincent laughed with her. The kitten sat down and began to wash itself.

"Oh Vincent, he’s irresistible, in more ways than one. But I think he’ll be a challenge."

"A special one," conceded Vincent.

"Not as special as you, my love," Catherine whispered.

By mutual agreement, Catherine gave up her perch and Vincent rose and picked up Pirate, placing him in the shoebox. He stroked the kitten, and recited in dulcet tones to its purr.

"Creep into thy narrow bed.
Creep and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans and swans are geese,
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired; best be still."

"Ah, Matthew Arnold," sighed Catherine. "’He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears’.

"Now let us to the ‘land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new’."

She grabbed Vincent from behind, reaching around to lay claim to her favourite parts, felt him rumble in his automatic growl. She sighed.

"Let’s go and see if Jacob has finished his homework and can be put to bed," Catherine whispered. "We’d better shut Pirate in here. I don’t want him cuddling up to that precious part of your anatomy. He might never want to leave - and extracting him would be excruciating.

Vincent winced at the thought. "I agree, Catherine. Maybe he’ll develop a taste for literature."

"Puss-in-Boots?" she asked.

"I think he’s already found his place in life. More likely, The Cat in the Hat," Vincent chuckled.

END

(* See "Lost in the Dark)

(** See "The Scent of Love")