Because I love cats. It's really that simple.

The Present

…

There's silence. Almost. The kind of blissful quiet of having just-woken-up-but-still-kind-of-dozing-in-peace under the heavy warmth of the thick quilt. Breathing slowly, Grace gently stretches her legs and then curls up again, snuggling into the sweet comfort of her pillow and the cocoon of body heat and blankets.

Distantly she can hear Boyd pottering about, getting ready for the day. He's talking to himself, as he is wont to do when shaving and going through his morning grooming regime. At first she found it odd, now it's reassuring. His words aren't actually distinguishable with a couple of walls and a closed door between them, but she can just about pick out the hum of words as he mutters away. He doesn't know he does it, and that's actually quite endearing. Makes her smile even as her eyes remain closed and she becomes intent of falling back to sleep.

She aches. All over and in a heavy-limbed, tired-eyed kind of way. The feeling won't leave her throughout the day, but if she can catch an hour or two's extra rest the hours won't tick by quite so slowly until he comes home from the office and distracts her with his dark humour and cheeky grins. Just a few more weeks, she reminds herself, yawning. In just a few weeks it will all – hopefully – be over and she can concentrate on recovery, on building herself up and recovering her strength.

From the hall there is the sound of footsteps, momentarily getting louder, then dissipating as he heads down the stairs. The muttering turns into crooning and talking as he reaches the kitchen and begins his customary conversation with Freyja, who is meowing her displeasure that breakfast has yet to be served.

Another smile, this time for the completely unaffected way he loves – both her and their cat. The free easiness and total openness that she finds so impossibly heart-warming and reassuring. She could get up and go down to them both, Grace muses, but she'd be interrupting their morning routine, and she really does need that extra rest. It takes very little effort to slip back into a heavy doze, to drift among blurred images and shapeless, obscure colours that seem to mean everything, and yet nothing at all. It's pleasant, just as the kiss Boyd bestows on her cheek when he returns to the bedroom after brushing his teeth.

He tells her he loves her, and she mumbles the words back. Is barely aware of doing so. Boyd knows, and she can feel that he smiles anyway, happy to see her comfortable and relaxed. His fingers linger on her forehead, ghost across the stubble of her hair. There's adoration in his touch, and a longing to re-join her. On some level Grace knows that, but she's heading for deeply asleep and so doesn't really respond. And for Boyd that's good, she knows. It means she's truly resting. It means she might have a chance at a good day when she wakes.

The footsteps retreat, and in her dreamy state Grace does and doesn't notice. She's wrapped in a fog where everything and nothing makes sense. It's quiet, it's peaceful, and she's wonderfully warm and comfortable. She has very little to care about in that moment.

Sadly, her peace is about to come to an abrupt end.

It's a roar, that's the only way she can describe it. Deep from within the chest and full of horror and disgust, the deafening sound races up the stairs, bouncing off walls and echoing through the hallway, startling Grace out of her dreams and into sudden, shocked wakefulness. Heart pounding, she sits up quickly, wincing at the pull of stiff, sore muscles. The sound reverberates, pressing in on her and she feels her breath catch in her chest as she fumbles with the bedclothes, suddenly inexplicably trapped beneath them. She's heard Boyd angry before, but never once has he made anything like that level of noise at home. Only at work, and only when he's very, very angry. At home he's quiet, calm. Respectful of and comfortable with the sense of calm serenity she's deliberately created in her house.

As her feet finally find the floor Grace hears the bellowing change to a litany of swear words, and if she's not mistaken it sounds like he's threatening all kinds of hell on the cat. What on earth, she wonders as she staggers for the door, swaying with the cloudiness of thick slumber, could Freyja possibly have done to warrant such fury? She has her daddy firmly wrapped around her furry little paws, and if she misbehaves in any way all she ever has to do is turn that whiskery face up to his and start purring. He is truly besotted with her. Absolutely adores her.

The stairs are tricky in her sleepy state, but Grace clutches the rail in a death grip and totters down them as quickly as she can. Boyd is below her, still bellowing curses into the air as he stands by the front door, hopping on one foot.

"What on earth is going on?" asks Grace, stopping on the second step and leaning heavily on the bottom post of the bannister.

Her lover is incensed. Or maybe just appalled. The look of sheer disgust on his face as he turns to her is something to behold, and she's instantly taken with the urge to laugh, particularly given the bewildered way he gesticulates at his shoes, which, as ever, are place neatly beside the door and the already overflowing shoe rack that is haphazardly littered with her own footwear.

Despite his explosion of profanity, it seems that when it comes to telling her what has actually gone wrong, he's surprisingly inarticulate.

"Peter?"

He gapes at her, his mouth opening but no sound coming out, then finally he coughs and splutters, and points at the kitchen doorway where a small, emerald-eyed face is peering around the frame at them. "Ask her," he finally chokes out.

Bemused, Grace clicks her tongue and calls out, "Frey' Frey'."

Clearly startled, the cat stays where she is, not responding when she would usually come bounding forwards for a cuddle.

Looking up at her man, puzzled, Grace raises an eyebrow. "And what is she supposed to have done that merits such an uproar?" she asks, mildly.

Boyd growls, and flaps his hand at his shoes as if they have suddenly just become the most offending thing in the world.

"Okaaay," drawls Grace, still none the wiser.

"I put my foot..." he splutters, "and..."

"Yes?" coaxes Grace, feeling the urge to laugh begin to build inside her chest.

"It's was warm," he whispers, looking as though he's going to vomit. Looking, in fact, as appalled as she ever seen him.

"Warm?" Perplexed, Grace looks over at the shoes. Impeccably shined as usual, they are sitting exactly where he always leaves them, the laces tucked inside to avoid curious claws. The right shoe is slightly askew, the heel not quite aligned with its mate, but nothing else appears out of the ordinary.

"Yes," he nods, and she could swear he shivers as he says it. "Warm, and... squishy."

"Warm and squishy?" She knows her tone is flat, but Grace can't help it. This reaction from him, whatever it is, is so out of character that she's at a bit of a loss. The look she gets in response can only be described as utterly, entirely revolted.

Slightly exasperated, quite curious, and still a little befuddled with the heaviness of slumber, Grace climbs carefully down to the level ground and makes her way over to the offending shoes. One hand on the wall to steady herself, she leans down and picks up the toe of the right shoe and tilts it up, watching in curiosity as a small, furry object slides into the heel.

For a moment she stares, until comprehension dawns and then she begins to laugh. Deep, full-bellied giggles that work their way up and explode out of her as she stumbles backwards and subsides into a sitting position on the stairs. Looking up at him she can't fail to see the outraged, aggrieved look he's directing her way.

Grace can't help it; the laughter only gets worse and, tears streaming down her face, she leans forwards and clutches her knees, her shoulders shaking with the force of the amusement that is gripping her.

"Grace..."

It's bad, she knows, but as wounded as Boyd sounds only makes it worse. In a moment he will begin to lose his patience and growl at her, but unless she can pull herself together in time – and just at the moment she seriously doubts that she can – there's not a lot that she can do about it.

She's right, and in typical fashion his bewildered look becomes a glare, and then suddenly he finds his voice again, the menacing hint in his tone as he utters her name in a low, thoroughly displeased manner only serving to make her laugh even harder.

"It's NOT funny, Grace," he suddenly bellows, the sound hellishly loud in the small space of the hallway.

Reaching out and clutching the sturdy bannister post, Grace attempts to reassert some control. She tries, she really does, but then her eyes meet Freyja's quizzical look as the feline ventures a few steps out into the hallway, head tilted to the side as she looks up at Boyd and then turns her eyes towards Grace, clearly wondering what all the fuss is all about, and that's it for her self-control.

"You," yells Boyd suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at the cat. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

Freyja stops where she is and yawns, lifting a paw to her mouth and licking it before beginning to wash behind her ears.

"Don't shout at her," gasps Grace, her ribs aching as she struggles to get herself under control.

"Grace," splutters Boyd, "she... she…"

"Yes," agrees Grace, inhaling deeply and holding it for a few seconds to try and calm herself before she speaks again. "She has, but I think the question you need to ask yourself is how did she get the opportunity? And if you follow that line of thought, I think you'll have to admit to breaking the rules, don't you..?"

The emphasis is deliberate, and it has the desired effect. His mouth opens but no sound comes out. Grace knows why. They still have the firm rule in place that Freyja does not go outside. Not yet. She's still got that slightly wild streak to her that seems to be a remnant of being a stray, and for the moment they are still prioritising her safety, still concerned about their ability to get her back if she decides to wander off again. Or climb to heights from which she can't get down.

Suddenly, Boyd looks appropriately guilty as he glares down at the cat.

"She begged me," he mutters, and though he doesn't actually scuff one foot along the floor he does twist it on his toes a little like a naughty child. Grace hides a smirk, instead treats him to a reproving glare.

"I see," she nods, tone deliberately cool. "And what, pray tell, would you have done if she didn't want to come back inside?"

"Oh, she would," he replies hurriedly, clearly certain of himself. "We have an arrangement."

Grace lets the silence between them stretch for a moment. Then, injecting a little danger into her voice, she adds, "You have an arrangement, do you?"

Straight away Boyd knows he's caught. Exceptionally guilty but also inclined to try and deny his way out of serious trouble by admitting to some lesser misdemeanour, he opens his mouth but it's a few seconds before his brain catches up and words are forthcoming.

"Oh, all right," he admits, "when I make breakfast in the morning I open the door and let her have a little wander in the garden, and then she comes back in for her own food."

"And how long has this been going on?" Grace tries to keep her voice light, but there's a hint of trouble in it and she can't help but think that he deserves it. That had an agreement, after all.

She can see in his eyes that he's debating how honest to be with her, then he sighs and confesses what she is sure is the truth. "About three weeks."

"Peter," gasps Grace, aghast. "What if she'd run off? You'd have had to go to work and we wouldn't have known where she was or if she was okay!"

"I…" He looks appropriately abashed, and seems to be trying hard to say the right thing. Until he turns his gaze onto the shoe she's placed beside her on the step and sees Freyja, stood in Grace's lap and leaning down to delicately prod the item causing such discontent. The fuse reignites, his temper flaring straight back up again.

"She's not fucking going out again, though," he suddenly snaps.

"Oh for god's sake, Peter, enough with the histrionics. She's brought you a present. She probably thought you'd like a nice snack for work."

"It's a mouse," he bellows. "In my shoe. A dead mouse!"

Grace shrugs, gently strokes Freyja's back as the cat continues to paw at her prize. "You're the one that tried to sell her to me on the premise that she'd de-mouse my shed for me."

"This is not funny!"

"Oh, I rather think it is..."

He's on the verge of having a full blown temper tantrum, she can tell. "You don't understand," he snaps. "I put my foot in the shoe and…" he pauses, shivering, a look of utter revulsion passing across his face. "It was warm and furry and… squishy. Under my toes. That's… that's…"

She finally takes pity on him, though she's not sure he deserves it. "Unpleasant, I'm sure, but shouting won't help. She's a cat and she's just doing what cats do. I'm sure she thought you'd be happy with such a nice gift. Look," she points at the mouse, "she hasn't broken the skin, there's no blood or anything. It's all very neat and tidy."

"Neat and tidy…" The words come out as more of a strangled whisper than a shout, but the sheer level of disbelief on his face means she has to work very, very hard not to start laughing again. She's just about managing it when Freyja somehow hooks a claw into the fur of her catch and flicks it out of the shoe. Whether by accident or design, she couldn't have had better aim if she'd tried, muses Grace, as the mouse sails through the air before landing on top of Boyd's sock clad foot.

For a split second there is dead silence, and then the man of the house lets out a thunderous, animal roar of horror and kicks out, launching the corpse down the hallway and into the wall before storming away upstairs, snarling incomprehensible threats under his breath.

There aren't quite tears running down her face, but Grace is definitely shaking with mirth as she slowly gets to her feet, Freyja bouncing down the hallway ahead of her to pounce on the small rodent before smacking it along the floor with glee.

From upstairs there is the sound of furious hopping on one foot as Boyd removes his socks, and then running water in the bath as he presumably washes his feet. Shaking her head at his folly, Grace scoops up Freyja and carries her to the kitchen, then gently prises the dangling mouse from between those sharp, pointy teeth.

"I don't think he liked your present Frey'," she informs the cat gently, as she washes her hands after slinging the small body into the hedge. Freyja, sitting on the counter beside her box, paws neatly together, watches her with a forlorn look on her face. "I know," croons Grace, "It's not very nice of him, is it? He could at least have showed his appreciation for your efforts."

Hands dry, she folds and hangs the towel on the oven door, and then fetches the treat box, shaking a few little crunchies out and putting them in the small ceramic bowl beside the door. She's just finishing a glass of water and about to head back up to bed when the sound of laughter can be heard drifting down the stairs. Clearly he's finally let go of his ridiculous annoyance and seen the funny side. For such a strong, intelligent man, he can be stupidly irrational and unreasonable at times.

Light pressure on her thigh makes Grace look down. Standing up on her back legs, Freyja wants a cuddle. "Go on then," Grace tells her, holding out her arms. "Jump."

It's a move they have perfected in recent weeks due to dizziness often making it difficult for Grace to bend down. Freyja leaps lightly towards her chest, and Grace catches her and turns her upside down in her arms, burying her fingers in that soft, spotty belly fur. "I still love you," she soothes. "Clever girl." Her reward is a deep, hypnotic purr and a wriggle of silky body and long legs as the cat makes herself more comfortable, clearly intending to stay where she is.

As she enters the bedroom Grace finds Boyd sitting on the corner chair smirking to himself as he slips on a fresh pair of socks.

"Got your sense of humour back then?" she teases lightly, pausing to lean against the door frame.

He looks up, gives her an apologetic grin. "I blame the CPS. If it weren't for them I could have spent an extra hour cuddled up in bed with you."

"I see."

"That, and the fact that we've run out of coffee."

Grace gasps in mock horror. "Oh my God, what a catastrophe…"

"If I was you, I'd be feeling suitably sorry for the troops this morning."

Looking down at Freyja, who is still sprawling her arms enjoying having her belly tickled, Grace smiles. "I don't know about you, cat, but I'm glad I'm not going to be in the office today." In response Freyja yawns and rests a paw on her shoulder.

Boyd gets to his feet and crosses the room. He places a hand against Grace's cheek, tenderly stroking the skin there. "Go back to bed, my dear," he tells her, leaning down to kiss her lips, his hand moving slightly to cup her jaw as his mouth lingers on hers. "And take the ratbag with you – she'll keep you warm while I'm out."

He swaggers out the door, clearly well past the horror of his early morning shock. Rolling her eyes Grace heads for the bed, but not before she shouts a parting shot after him. "She's not a ratbag. She's exceptionally beautiful and clearly a gifted athlete whose talents and generosity aren't properly appreciated."

There's more laugher, a sound she adores, and then, as she settles under the covers, Freyja tucked against her chest, the front door closes and that wonderful silence returns, this time accompanied by the warm comfort of soft, gentle purring.