He let out a swear. It was early, he hadn't had his coffee, yet, and the damn cat had circled around his ankles and tripped him. It was always doing that, and he couldn't figure out for the life of him why she had insisted that they adopt it. He should have put his foot down, he should have said no, he should have… remembered the way she looked when she held the blasted cat up next to her face, their blue eyes matching, and he said yes, and so the damn cat came home with them, getting grey hair all over his black shirts, curling up on his chair like she owned the place, and getting underfoot in the mornings when he just needed to brush his teeth, dammit. He walked past it, looking down his nose at the small ball of fur staring at him expectantly, and pushed his way into the bathroom, gripping the sink as he stared at himself in the mirror. With a small meow, the cat jumped on the closed toilet, curling her tail around herself and seemingly judging his grungy look. He flipped the cat off and grabbed his toothbrush, running it under the tap as he grumbled about infernal animals and their need to be overly self-righteous when they're dependent on humans. The cat began to wash her face as he scrubbed at his teeth, a silent routine they both carried out every morning, though he was loathe to admit it. He wiped his mouth on a towel, throwing a look back at the cat before exiting the bathroom. "I hate you, you know that?" he told the grey ball of fur.
He made his way to the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to be awake. "G'morning," he muttered, leaning down to kiss her (hence the brushing of the teeth; she hated morning breath with a passion, and he liked to kiss her a lot, so this was their compromise), waking up just a bit more as she handed him his coffee. He took it gratefully, loving that she knew exactly how he liked it. After so long, it was no surprise that she did, but he appreciated it all the same. The little things added up to him, and it meant a lot to him that she cared enough to do the little things, like his odd coffee order (two and a half spoonfuls of sugar, count to three as you pour the creamer in, serve it in the biggest mug in the house to optimize caffeine intake). As he sat down to open the paper, the cat jumped in his lap, leaving a trail of grey hairs all over his boxers. He glared down at the creature in his lap, displeased by its current position across his thighs. He tried to shove it off, but she merely dug her claws into his thighs. "You know I hate it when she does this," he quipped, nose still buried in the paper. She laughed, much too cheerfully for so early in the morning, he thought, but god if it didn't make his body feel alive every time he heard it. "You've been saying that for the past six months, but I haven't seen you pick her up off your lap, yet." She smirked; he cursed himself for ever doing that around her in the first place, seeing as she'd picked it up to throw back in his face at every available moment, and he took a long drag of his coffee, trying to ignore the cat perched on his lap. As the paper was finished and his girlfriend had disappeared, he begrudgingly picked the cat up off his lap and placed her on the floor, away from him, and headed back into the bedroom.
She stood at the sink, running a curling iron over her hair as she stood in her underwear, trying to get ready for the day. He walked in the bathroom, wrapping his arms around her waist, and rested his head on her shoulder from behind. "You know, I can't get ready for work if you're acting like a baby koala on me, Eli." "If you're not ready for work, you can't go, and you can spend all day in bed with me," he murmured in her ear, tracing his tongue over the shell lightly. He trailed kisses behind her ear down to her jaw, locking eyes with her in the mirror, begging her to give in. He sucked gently on the spot beneath her jaw and she gave in, rolling her eyes as he practically raced back to the bed. He pinned her to the mattress, intending to have his way with her, when the cat jumped on the bed and nudged him with her nose. Clare giggled, reaching over to her phone. "You call in sick, and then please, for the love of God, take the cockblocking cat out of here and shut the door, please," he whined as he splayed his hand over her ribs. She shimmied out of his touch, hopping off the bed as she dialed in, faking a magnificent "sick" voice, if he did say so himself. Before she left the room, she scooped up the cat, who promptly reached up to lick her nose. Much to his chagrin, he had to admit he did love the sight in front of him. The cat was theirs—a living being dependent on the two of them, belonging to them both equally, and it was displaying love to Clare, who was, for all intents and purposes, its mommy. Which made him a daddy. The cat was like their child—something he hoped wasn't a far off possibility in reality. He contemplated the ring sitting in his sock drawer, and smiled. A few more years, maybe, but that cat was symbolizing something. They were ready for whatever they were going to face. Maybe he didn't hate the cat so much after all.