Marina Storm

Her face lit with concern. She slipped from his side, her skirts whispering as she hurried toward the bushes.

Alastor’s eyes flicked to the dark hedge, his grin sharpening just slightly in the lamplight. He followed, his polished shoes crunching softly against the gravel.

Alastor clicked his tongue softly, that smooth, chastising rhythm he used when she darted ahead without him. “Darling, vraiment—don’t go sticking your hands in hedges after any noise you hear. Could be a rat, or worse.”

She only waved him off, skirts brushing damp leaves as she crouched. The hedge rustled faintly, and then—her soft gasp. “Alastor… look.”

Nestled in the dirt, a frail scrap of black fur lifted its head, blue eyes cloudy with hunger. A kitten. Far too young to be alone, its ribs pressed sharp beneath a thin layer of grime, tiny mouth opening in another hoarse mewl.

Alastor stilled behind her. His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Cats. They never did take to him. As a boy, every feline he’d dared reach for had rewarded him with teeth or claws, as if some instinct screamed predator when he drew near. He had no love for them, and less for the memory.

But his wife—her face softened instantly, a radiance that made Alastor’s throat tighten. Without hesitation, she scooped the kitten up into her gloved hands. It fit easily in her palms, a trembling little thing that burrowed weakly against her.

“Mon dieu…” Alastor muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. At least she’d worn gloves—thank the heavens for that small mercy.

She rose and turned to him, eyes shining as she held the mewling creature close to her chest. “He’s all alone, Alastor. Just look at him! He needs me.”

Alastor’s smile never faltered, though his tone carried that gentle persuasion he often used on witnesses he preferred silent. “Now, darling, perhaps it would be kinder to leave the little beast where we found it. Another couple may stumble across it—someone with… ah, more of a penchant for felines.”

Her head snapped toward him, lips pursed and eyes narrowing in that way that made even his carefully rehearsed charm falter. A glare sharp enough to slice.

The rest of their walk home was filled with the kitten’s feeble mewls and his wife’s whispered cooing, while Alastor maintained a patient, if strained, grin.

When they reached the house, she nearly flew through the doorway, skirts swishing, shoes clicking over polished floors as she made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Shoes, chère,” Alastor chided lightly as he followed, shutting the door behind them. “You’ll drag in every bit of dirt from the Quarter—”

But she wasn’t listening. Already she had set the kitten gently on the counter, bustling to the sink, twisting the taps until water hissed into the basin. Her hands moved with frantic tenderness, peeling off her gloves to stroke the bony little body.

He exhaled through his nose, resting a hand on the doorframe. “Mon dieu, you’re going to ruin that dress. At least allow me to—”

She turned suddenly, eyes wide, pleading, the sort of look that twisted his stomach into knots. “Alastor… could you fetch the fabric softener from the laundry room upstairs? Please? Just while I get the sink ready.”

He paused, lips curling faintly as though chewing on a protest. But faced with those eyes, he could only sigh, shoulders slackening in mock defeat.

“Yes, dear…”

The grin stretched wider as he turned toward the stairs.

By the time Alastor padded back down the stairs, fabric softener in hand, he found her already hovering over the sink, sleeves pushed past her elbows. The basin was filled, the water clouded to a foul, murky brown that made his nose wrinkle.

She had the kitten cupped gently in her palms, cooing in a soft, sing-song tone he had never once heard her use with anyone else. “Oh, poor baby… you’re safe now, hmm? Yes, you are, you darling thing…”

Alastor crossed the kitchen, setting the bottle down with a faint click. She took it without missing a beat, pouring a small measure into the water and working it through the kitten’s matted fur with slow, careful circles.

The little beast meowed again, thin but constant. Yet it made no move to claw her, no hiss, no trembling struggle. It leaned into her touch, tiny head nudging her wrist as though it belonged there.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He would have hurled the wretch back into the night if it so much as thought of nicking her skin. But no—there it sat, docile, soaking, utterly content to be adored.

He turned to the window above the sink, the moonlight shining through lace curtains. His grin stayed plastered on, but irritation simmered beneath. He knew this would happen. His wife was not going to let the creature go. The little stray had already sunk invisible claws into her heart, and by extension, into his home.

Then—sniffles.

He whipped his gaze back down at her. She was bent over the sink, still washing the kitten, tears sliding down her cheeks and darkening her lashes.

“Ma chère?” His voice slipped, urgency cracking the smoothness. He crouched slightly, scanning her face for signs of pain. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, breath hitching as she stroked the kitten’s frail body. “It’s just—it’s so inhuman to leave a kitty like this. No kitty deserves this, Alastor. No creature deserves to be so unloved.”

Alastor froze. For a moment, his chest constricted. Then, against his better judgment, laughter bubbled hot at the back of his throat. Not mocking, but at the sheer drama of it—his wife, weeping over a dirty stray as though she’d stumbled upon some grand tragedy.

He pressed a hand to his lips to smother it, shoulders shaking faintly. “Ah, mon amour… only you could cry for a flea-ridden alley cat.”

The last of the filthy water gurgled down the drain, leaving a faint brown ring in the porcelain. She lifted the dripping kitten from the basin and swaddled him in a soft hand towel, wrapping it like a babe. The towel dwarfed the tiny thing, folds hanging loose around his shivering body.

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. “And what, pray tell, are we to do with her now?”

His wife blinked, brows furrowing. She shifted the bundle in her hands, gently unwrapping the towel to peek at the frail body beneath. With a soft little smile, she tucked him back in snug. “Him, Alastor. He’s a boy.”

Alastor’s grin twitched at the edges, his eyes narrowing faintly. “A beast by any name or gender is still a beast, chère. He belongs in a shelter, not under our roof.”

She turned slowly, chin tilted down but eyes lifted up at him—wide, glistening, pleading.

He groaned, already lifting a hand in protest. “Non, non, cut that out at once—don’t look at me like that. You know I cannot—”

He spun on his heel, facing away, speaking to the lace curtains instead of her gaze. His hands swept outward as he listed the faults. “They scratch the furniture, they shed on the carpets, they leave hair in one’s clothes, they stink, they demand—”

But when he risked a glance back, his words withered.

She stood cradling the kitten against her chest, rocking him as he dozed in her arms, a faint, content purr rattling his tiny ribs. Her eyes were still fixed on Alastor, shining and pitiful, her lower lip trembling just so.

The breath left him in a long, dramatic sigh. His shoulders dropped, his grin flattening into a helpless line before it curved back, wry and defeated.

Her squeal pierced the kitchen as she bolted into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, kitten squished between them. “Oh, Alastor! I knew you’d understand!”

He chuckled low in his throat, patting her back as though he’d planned this surrender all along. “Oui, yes… of course, darling. I understand all too well.”

She lifted the bundle up toward her face, pressing a kiss to the kitten’s damp pink nose. Alastor’s smile twitched sharply, and he nearly gagged.

“Darling,” he warned, voice as tight as his clenched jaw. “You’ll catch something unspeakable—fleas, at the very least.”

Her eyes went round, lips parting in a little gasp. “Oh! I nearly forgot…” She lowered the kitten, still swaddled, then unwrapped the towel to reveal its scrawny body. The damp fur clung to its skin in clumps, its ribs faintly visible beneath. She stroked him gently, then looked up at Alastor with that hopeful spark again.

“Would you check him for fleas?”

His brow arched high. “Me?” His tone carried pure disbelief, though the grin never left his face. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

She tilted her head, utterly unfazed. “Do you remember when Janet next door had lice, and her husband refused to go near her? You picked through her hair for her because she was crying.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I recall.”

“It’s the same basic principle.” She shrugged as if it were obvious, offering the kitten out to him like a peace treaty.

His lips pressed into a thin, flat line. The faintest twitch of his cheek betrayed his inner disgust. To touch the beast. With his bare hands.

He sighed heavily, a long-suffering martyr, and reached out. Swallowing his pride, he began parting the kitten’s fur with careful, precise fingers, his expression somewhere between resignation and revulsion. The creature, for its part, purred.

Seconds ticked by—ten, twenty, forty. Then Alastor stilled. His grin softened just slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through the mask.

“Well,” he murmured at last, blinking down at the fragile body in his hands. “It seems this wretch is very… fortunate. No bugs. No ticks. No fleas.”

Her squeal rang out, bright as a trumpet note. The kitten’s eyes fluttered open at the sound—blue, cloudy but vivid—and tilted up toward her face. She gasped softly, lips parting, locking into that tiny gaze as if the two of them had spoken some wordless vow.

The creature purred again, a shaky, uneven rumble. She smiled so fiercely her eyes glistened, nearly spilling with happy tears. “Ohhh, look at him, Alastor… he knows I’m his mama already!”

Alastor tilted his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose as though the heavens themselves mocked him.

Then she let out another surprised little noise, hand pressing to her mouth. “He must be starving!”

Before Alastor could intervene, she tucked the kitten gently into his arms. He stiffened instantly, mouth twisting, but she was already bustling off to the pantry.

“Darling—!” His protest warbled in his throat, drowned beneath her frantic rummaging. The kitten squirmed against his waistcoat, damp fur clinging to his sleeve. He held it away from his chest like one might a soiled rag, glaring down at it as though daring it to scratch.

She reemerged triumphantly with a dusty can. “Tuna!”

Alastor blinked. “We don’t even eat tuna.”

“I don’t know why we have it, but thank heaven we do!” she chirped, plucking the kitten from his reluctant hold. He let it go with a dramatic shudder, wiping his damp hands down the length of his trousers, muttering darkly in French about curses and vermin.

She knelt on the floor, pried the can open, and set it down. The kitten wobbled, paws slipping slightly on the tile, but the moment the smell hit its nose, it lunged forward with shocking vigor.

It buried its face in the fish, devouring greedily, its tiny ribs shuddering with every bite.

Alastor stood above the scene, arms folded, eyes narrowed into slits—watching his pristine kitchen invaded by this ravenous scrap of fur.

And yet, his wife was positively glowing.

She crouched low beside the tiny beast, stroking its still-damp fur as it ate, cooing every time it let out a happy little mewl between bites. The sounds were weak, pitiful, but to her they might as well have been a symphony. Each one made her squeal softly in delight, her smile growing impossibly wider.

Alastor leaned back against the counter, arms folded, his head tipped slightly to one side as he regarded the picture: his wife on the tiled floor, skirts pooled around her, glowing as though she’d just discovered treasure.

He exhaled, long and slow, before breaking the silence. “Am I to assume,” he drawled, “that I must go into town tomorrow and purchase… supplies for our new tenant?”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, shining like a child’s at Christmas. “Oh, Alastor!” she breathed, smile stretching so hard it nearly trembled. “Thank you! I promise, you won’t regret this. I can just feel it—he’s a good boy.”

Alastor rolled his eyes heavenward, muttering, “If by good you mean sent straight from hell, then yes, mon amour, he is exemplary.”

She pouted at him, lips pushing forward in that way that made him want to laugh despite himself. But she smoothed the kitten’s damp fur, letting it nuzzle into her hand before glancing back up.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” she said brightly. “When you go into work tomorrow, I’ll stop in town. I can fetch a dish, some milk, maybe a little blanket.”

The kitten mewed again, tiny mouth still pressed into the emptying tin, and she cooed at him once more. Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed like a man already defeated.

She rose gracefully from the floor, abandoning the kitten’s side for the moment, and looped her arms around Alastor’s neck. Before he could question it, she pulled him into a deep kiss—warm, insistent, full of gratitude.

His eyes widened at first, startled by her suddenness, but instinct took over quickly. His long arms slid around her waist, drawing her flush against him. When she finally pulled back, she kissed the tip of his nose, grinning.

“He’ll be like our baby,” she whispered, voice tinged with excitement.

Alastor rolled his eyes so hard it was nearly audible. “Mon dieu…”

She only giggled at his theatrics, pressing her cheek against his chest. His chin came to rest atop her head with a resigned sigh, though his arms remained snug around her. “Spoiled,” he muttered, his grin curling against her hair. “You’re utterly, irredeemably spoiled.”

Her laugh vibrated against him, light and teasing. “It’s not my fault you say yes so easily.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but a faint bump against his leg stopped him. He glanced down—and froze.

The kitten had wobbled away from the empty can and was now butting its tiny head against his ankle.

A disgusted sound escaped him, sharp and immediate. He jerked his leg back, stepping away as though scorched. “Ugh! Non, non, non!”

The kitten, undeterred, blinked up at him once before turning its attention to his wife. It wobbled toward her and bumped its head gently against her skirts, purring.

She bent down, scooping it up with a delighted squeal, beaming at the little black scrap in her arms. “See? He loves us already.”

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose once more, muttering darkly under his breath.

-----------------------

The pipes rattled low, water rushing into the porcelain tub as steam curled upward, fogging the mirror. Alastor stood behind her, his hands already sliding along her waist, chin grazing her shoulder, lips brushing the damp curve of her neck. He let out a pleased hum, fingers toying with the ties of her robe as his other hand drifted lower, slow and deliberate.

She giggled softly, tilting her head to give him more room. “Alastor…”

But before he could press further— scritch scritch scritch —a desperate, pitiful mrrrowww! sounded against the bathroom door. The knob rattled slightly, tiny claws dragging against the wood.

Alastor’s smile froze, his brow twitching. “...No.”

The sound came again, louder this time, followed by another plaintive cry. His wife immediately gasped, trying to peel away from his arms. “The baby!”

“The what?” His tone dripped venom, but she was already hurrying to the door. He scowled as she swung it open, revealing the tiny black menace, tail held high, eyes gleaming with pathetic need.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, scooping him up. “Did you think we abandoned you?”

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something foul under his breath as the cat purred—purring!—and immediately nestled into her chest like it had been planned. She kissed the kitten’s head, rubbing behind its ears, while Alastor stared, aghast.

The tub behind him gurgled, filling higher, his plans for the evening trickling away like the water slipping down the drain. His wife plopped onto the edge of the tub, kitten in her lap, humming as she tested the water with her fingers.

“You wanna watch Mama's bath? Make sure she doesn't drown?” she said sweetly to the creature.

Alastor’s jaw fell open. “You cannot be serious.”

She glanced up at him, doe-eyed, petting the furball who was kneading at her robe like he owned the place. “Oh, don’t pout. You’ll get your turn tomorrow.”

Alastor pressed his hand to his chest like he’d been shot. Tomorrow. The audacity. He let out a frustrated groan, dragging his palm down his face, his brow twitching with irritation. “I refuse to perform while being… observed by a beast.”

She just laughed, slipping into the bath with a sigh, the cat curling on the bath mat with a pleased trill. Alastor sulked in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring at the little intruder like it had just stolen the greatest prize in the world.

The door creaked open at last, and Alastor nearly snapped his neck toward it, eyes narrowed, ready to deliver a long-winded speech about how utterly ridiculous it was to share marital space with vermin.

Instead, what he got was his wife—naked, fresh from the bath, hair damp and sticking to her shoulders as she toweled it dry.

For a fleeting moment, his frustration wavered. His lips parted, his hand flexed against the coverlet. And then—

Meow!

The cat darted forward, weaving between her bare legs, tail flicking up like a banner of victory. She didn’t even notice her husband’s smoldering stare—her laugh bubbled out as she walked to her dresser, the kitten looping around her ankles with worshipful devotion.

Alastor’s temple twitched. He could not recall a time in his life when he had felt so utterly… usurped.

She bent to rummage through her drawers, the lamplight spilling golden across her back, her hips, her thighs—Alastor had to clench his jaw so tightly it ached. And then, insult of all insults, she plucked out a soft little nightgown, held it before the cat, and giggled as the beast sniffed it, padding in circles like he was approving her wardrobe.

“Oh, he likes this one!” she chirped, delighted.

Alastor’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. He leaned back against the headboard with a long, theatrical groan, his voice sharp as a blade:

“Wonderful. Truly splendid. Perhaps next, you’ll consult the rat about our dinner menu? Or shall we ask his opinion on curtains as well?”

She only glanced over her shoulder with a playful grin, unbothered by his venom, slipping the nightgown over her head like she hadn’t just stabbed his pride through the heart.

The cat, of course, sat primly at her feet, eyes shining like he’d just won himself a kingdom.

Alastor stared. And for the first time in years, he felt… second best.

Alastor lay sprawled dramatically on his back, one arm slung over his eyes as though the very weight of the world had been cast upon his shoulders. It was, in truth, nothing more than his version of a tantrum—a sulk that his wife had long since learned to recognize. The faintest curl of a smirk tugged at her lips as she set the cat aside and crawled from the foot of the bed, sliding over the quilt until she was perched astride his hips.

He stiffened at first, huffing when her hands pressed flat to his chest. “Oh, so now you remember I exist?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, though the twitch of his jaw betrayed how much he liked having her attention back. “I’ve been replaced, dearest. Already cast aside for a flea-ridden fiend with whiskers.”

She only laughed softly, leaning down until her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. “You’re so dramatic,” she whispered against his skin, her kiss teasing, light, enough to make his chest rumble with a low sound that wasn’t quite a growl but wasn’t far from it either.

And then—

“Mrrrow.”

Alastor froze. His eyes cracked open beneath his arm to find the wretched beast crawling its way up the coverlet, paws determined, tail swishing. Before he could stop himself, a strangled groan tore from his throat. With the speed of a man who’d been inconvenienced one too many times, he reached out and plucked the kitten from the bedspread, dangling it in one hand like it was some offending rodent he’d found in the pantry.

“Do you see this?” His tone was incredulous, his expression a study in pure distaste as the tiny creature wiggled in his grasp. “It’s already on my pillow! First it stole your bath, now my bed, and next—” he sniffed with exaggerated offense, “—it will be demanding my radio slot.”

His wife giggled so hard she nearly toppled against his chest, the sound bright and bubbling as she carefully pried the kitten from his fingers. “Oh, stop,” she chided gently, settling the damp little bundle against her chest, where it purred immediately, content as could be. “He just wants to be close.”

“Close,” Alastor repeated, rolling the word on his tongue like it was a curse. He flopped his arm back across his eyes with a dramatic groan, muttering, “I knew this would happen. Usurped in my own home, by a stray.”

Ignoring his theatrics entirely, she stroked the kitten’s tiny head, her expression softening in that way that always undid him. “We need to give him a name,” she said suddenly, glancing up at him with bright eyes, her tone bubbling with excitement.

Alastor tilted his head just enough to peek at her through his lashes, unimpressed. “A name? I can think of a few: Pest. Nuisance. Menace.”

She snorted at him, rocking forward slightly on his lap so he had no choice but to meet her gaze. “Don’t be cruel. He deserves something proper.”

Alastor’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, though his sulky air remained intact. “Proper? My dear, the only proper thing would be to deposit it at the nearest shelter before it soils our sheets.”

But as he spoke, the kitten pressed its tiny face into her nightgown, kneading with paws no bigger than coins, purring like a motor. The sight of her melting into another fond smile—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, laughter spilling from her like sunlight—made Alastor’s chest tighten in that irritating way he could never quite admit aloud.

He sighed. Long, heavy, resigned. “...Very well,” he muttered, drumming his fingers idly against her thigh. “Name the beast, then. But don’t expect me to call it anything other than ‘vermin.’”

Her answering squeal of joy made him almost regret relenting—almost.

She was glowing with excitement, still perched on his lap, her damp hair tumbling down her shoulders and the little kitten bundled to her chest like a prize. “Oh! What about Charlie?” she gasped suddenly, her eyes lighting up as though she’d struck gold. She pressed her cheek against the kitten’s head, her voice pitched high with delight. “Doesn’t he look like a Charlie? Oh, but wait—no, no, perhaps Buster!” She giggled at her own suggestion, the sound bubbling from her like champagne, then shook her head rapidly. “Oh, heavens, no—Archie! That’s it! Archie! Isn’t it just perfect?”

Alastor had slowly lifted his head from the pillow, his face a picture of utter disbelief. He blinked at her as though she’d grown two heads. “Charlie? Buster? Archie?” His voice cut sharp as a razor, dripping with sarcasm. “Darling, those names are the very dregs of the barrel. I’d sooner call him Pickle Jar or Dustbin than saddle a creature with such dreadful monikers.” He gave an incredulous huff and collapsed back against the mattress, tossing his arm over his brow in theatrical agony. “Archie, she says! Lord preserve me.”

She ignored him entirely, the same way one might ignore a spoiled child mid-tantrum. Her attention was fully on the kitten, who had at last dried and was now a soft, warm bundle against her chest. “Archie,” she whispered again, softer this time, nuzzling her nose into the tiny tuft of fur atop his head. The kitten responded with a small, contented mewl before purring so loudly it rattled in his little body. That sealed it. Her smile was so wide her cheeks ached, and she kissed the kitten’s nose with such fondness it nearly made Alastor gag.

With a triumphant flourish, she released the kitten from her arms, setting him down gently on the quilt. To Alastor’s dismay, the beast chose the one spot most offensive to him—his own stomach. Archie plopped down squarely on Alastor’s waistcoat, kneading with his minuscule paws and purring like a well-oiled motor.

“Good heavens above!” Alastor snapped, craning his neck to glare down at the animal now making itself at home atop him. “This is the final indignity. I am not a chaise lounge for strays! Do you hear me?” His hand flapped at the kitten uselessly, though he dared not shove it too hard for fear his wife would scold him. “Archie, indeed. A ridiculous name for a ridiculous creature, and now it’s sitting on my person like it owns me!”

She only laughed, bending forward until her nose brushed his cheek, her grin positively wicked. “He likes you, darling,” she teased, her voice sing-song and smug. “See how comfortable he is? He already knows you’re his papa.”

Alastor sputtered, his face turning red beneath the faint lamplight. “Papa—?!” His voice cracked as though she’d suggested he take up tap-dancing in the street. “Absolutely not! I will not be father to a flea hotel with whiskers! I am a respectable man, not— not—” He faltered as the kitten pawed at his vest buttons, purring louder still.

His wife only kissed him quick and mischievous on the lips before leaning back, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Too late, my love. Archie’s claimed you.”

Alastor groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow with all the misery of a man condemned. “Oh, I’ll never live this down.”

--------------

Morning came far too soon. The light streaming through the thin curtains was soft and golden, but to Alastor it felt like an interrogation lamp. He lay flat on his back, dark circles smudging beneath his eyes, one arm stretched lazily around his wife’s waist. She was nestled against him, her breathing even, her expression serene—as though she hadn’t spent the night under siege.

The siege, of course, had been the cat.

Archie had been a veritable demon once the lamps were out. Alastor could still hear it—the scurrying thump-thump-thump of paws racing across hardwood, followed by a yowl so guttural you’d think the house was haunted. Then silence. Then another set of rapid steps. Then another yowl.

And his darling wife had slept through it all. Sound as the grave.

Alastor had told himself he didn’t mind. In fact, he rather preferred her staying nestled against him instead of curling around the damn beast. It was the one small mercy of the evening—that she’d chosen his warmth and not the cat’s. But still, the racket gnawed at his patience until it was paper-thin.

At one point, sometime near the dead of night, the bed had shifted beneath a new weight. Alastor opened his eyes to find two glinting eyes staring back at him from the darkness. Archie. The creature crouched at the end of the bed, tail twitching, gaze fixed like a hunter’s.

Alastor shifted his legs under the blanket—just slightly. A mistake.

Archie lunged. Tiny claws snagged fabric, a triumphant little war-cry yowled into the silence. Alastor’s temper finally broke. He sat up with a hiss, snatched the kitten by the nape with all the disdain of a man handling raw sewage, and deposited it outside their bedroom door.

Peace lasted approximately thirty-seven seconds.

The scratching began. Then the pitiful mewling. A crescendo of pathetic sounds that grated against Alastor’s nerves until he was compelled to rise again, dragging himself to the door. He opened it just enough, glaring down at the wide-eyed offender. Archie slipped back in, tail high, looking smug as sin before tearing off into the parlor for another midnight sprint.

By dawn, Alastor had given up entirely.

Now, with the soft sound of his wife breathing against his chest, he stared at the ceiling and muttered through clenched teeth, “One day in this house and he’s already plotting my demise.”

She stirred against him with a soft little hum, then stretched like a cat herself, arms rising above her head as she sighed happily. Her lashes fluttered open, and a smile tugged at her lips—she looked as fresh and rested as though she’d spent the night at a countryside spa rather than in a house that had been turned into a racetrack.

As if summoned by her very breath, Archie came flying into the room. His tiny paws hit the mattress with a bounce, and in an instant, he was crawling up toward her face. He let out a loud, demanding meow! before nudging his damp nose right against hers.

She broke into a sleepy giggle, her hand instinctively rising to cradle the little creature. “Good morning, Archie,” she cooed, voice still husky with sleep.

Alastor, however, had had enough. With a guttural groan, he sat up and seized the kitten by the scruff, plucking it from her grasp like one might dispose of a rat. He held it at arm’s length, his expression one of long-suffering disgust.

“Non, non, non! Absolutely not! You’ve no notion what torment this fiend has wrought upon me while you slumbered like an angel.” His voice was sharp, clipped, every syllable dripping with annoyance as he deposited Archie unceremoniously off the side of the bed. “All night, it was! Galloping about like a cavalry charge, yowling like a banshee, and—yes, don’t you smirk at me—attacking my legs beneath the blanket as though they were fresh quarry!”

She covered her mouth, her laughter muffled but still spilling through her fingers. “Darling, you exaggerate—”

But her defense was cut short as Archie, undeterred, bounded back up onto the mattress in a single leap. With remarkable boldness, the kitten trotted straight back to his wife’s lap, tail curling proudly as he let out another triumphant mewl.

Alastor froze, eyes narrowing, lips pulling into a thin, furious line. “You see?” he snapped, pointing a finger as if delivering a guilty verdict. “The beast mocks me openly! In my own home!”

----------

The smell of butter and toast lingered through the kitchen, mingling with the faint crackle of the radio in the parlor. Morning sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, painting the linoleum floor in delicate squares. Their little home was alive with domestic warmth—the clatter of dishes, the rustle of newspaper, the rhythmic hum of a day beginning.

Alastor sat at the kitchen table, legs neatly crossed, the New Orleans paper spread before him. Every so often, his sharp voice cut the air with a scoff or a derisive hum. “Hah! Utter nonsense. Can you believe they actually printed this?” he muttered, clicking his tongue. He gave the paper a little snap before leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

At the sink, his wife stood in her simple morning frock, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands sunk in warm sudsy water as she scrubbed the last of the plates. Her hair was pinned back loosely, soft tendrils escaping to frame her face. Archie, the uninvited new lodger of the house, had plopped himself directly atop her shoes. His round little body was sprawled across her feet like a stubborn weight, tail flicking lazily, the faint rumble of his purring almost drowned by the clink of dishes.

“Archie,” she laughed gently, peering down at him as he butted his head against her ankle, “you’re going to make me trip, you little thing.”

Alastor lowered the paper just enough to glare at the animal on the floor, then returned his gaze to the columns. “Of course he is. Sabotage is his favorite pastime.”

She smiled at the sarcasm, shaking her head, and rinsed another plate. “I mean to go into town today,” she said conversationally, lifting the dish to drip dry before setting it on the rack. “Archie needs a few things. A litter box, proper food, a water and food dish. Perhaps a toy or two.”

Alastor peered over the top of his newspaper, his brow twitching. “A toy?”

“Well yes,” she said, her voice light and practical, “you don’t expect him to spend his days merely tormenting you, do you? He’ll need something to keep him occupied.”

He folded the paper halfway down, lips quirking into the sharp ghost of a smile. “I’d much prefer he occupied himself outside.”

Her hand paused in the soapy water, and she gave him a knowing look over her shoulder. “Alastor…”

“Mm?” he replied smoothly, snapping the paper upright again, though she could hear the amusement laced in his tone.

“You’re not tossing him out.”

He let out a little hum, the sound of a man conceding without actually saying it. Archie, oblivious to the tension his mere existence caused, stretched luxuriously across her feet and began grooming himself. She gave a soft giggle, wiping her hands on a towel before leaning down to stroke behind his ears.

“See? He’s happy here,” she said warmly, earning a loud, satisfied purr from the cat.

Alastor muttered something under his breath—something about coddling pests—but the sharpness in his voice was dulled. He lowered the paper again, this time to watch her as she smiled down at the cat, her whole face soft with affection.

I was really playing around with how to make staticapple begin to make sense without jumping straight to the fluff I've been drawing. So the divergence in this AU is:

Lucifer pays like 2% more attention to what's going on in Hell and notices what's going on with Vox amassing power a little earlier

Does not approach Vox publically at the rally (especially knowing he can't harm sinners it was just a rash decision??), but directly at his office instead

They strike an uneasy deal because Lucifer has NOT been doing public relations at all in Hell. He has been... he'd say busy, but we can get into that later

Vox sees the opportunity to basically manage the royal family's entire image (Lucifer doesn't really care, but sees it's a good way to get the man off of tearing apart Charlie's project) and receive a little power boost from the deal with Lucifer

It's a little slower as an option for a rise to power than exposing Lucifer and then using him as a weapon, but Lucifer is proving to act a little differently (more clever) than Vox expected

Some other funny notes:

Yes, Vox is stealing Lucifer's flow with the hat. As expected of him.

The hair flyaways are actually carefully curated. He's supposed to look approachable and devil may care, not depressed sad (you cannot tell me these old men have a healthy understanding of mental health)