Summary: Everyone thinks that Reid is a genius. Reid's cat thinks he's an idiot. Follow the adventures of Schrödie the cat as he attempts to cat-train his human. Remember, the best laid plans of cats and men often go awry... Domestic fic.
Genre: Family
Setting: Early Season 9
Musical Inspiration: 'To Build a Home,' The Cinematic Orchestra
Schrödie was pretty sure he had a defective human.
Granted, his experience with humans had been limited to the Master, Mistress, and Grabby-handed Girl Child. They had taken him from his mother in the spring, had him declawed and abandoned him by the first snowfall. Not a splendid experience overall.
But even with all their faults, his old humans had been cat-trained. They could guess what he wanted when he scratched and meowed; they made gooey-human noises and squishy faces in his direction. They took him to see Cold Hands when he threw up on the carpet and gave him treats arbitrarily.
By comparison, the Reid human was pretty stupid.
To his credit, Reid human never tried to grab him off the ground or pull on his tail. Reid didn't seem to care if he climbed on the bookshelves, didn't make {{Disgust, Outrage}} sounds at his mangy fur. Reid didn't own one of those picture boxes that made loud noises, and he didn't have visitors banging down the door day and night. His long fingers were perfect for reaching all of Schrödie's itchy places at the same time.
He did, however, have a most annoying habit of taking a bag and rushing out a moment's notice, leaving him with the neighbor lady next door (and she was a grabber).
On his first day in the apartment, Reid human committed the unforgivable sin: he gave Schrödie a bath. If that wasn't humiliation enough, Reid followed up by making him take medicine. The indignant fury clung to him hours after the smell of the shampoo faded.
It was only the next morning that Schrodie realized that in his fury he had forgotten about his soreness.
Further down on Reid's list of sins were his attempts to sneak increasing amounts of weird food into the dry mix Schrödie had grown accustomed to at the shelter. Admittedly, the weird food made him feel a bit fuller than the kibble alone - but it was weird!
Schrödie tried to show him the error of his ways by vomiting the hated food on the carpet. While that provided a bit of amusement in watching Reid hunt around the apartment to find his malodorous gifts, the weird food continued to invade his bowl. Finally, Schrödie conceded the win as he noticed his mangy patches becoming less bothersome as time passed.
Oddly enough, the Reid human didn't talk to him. In those first few disorienting days at the apartment, Reid occasionally made happy noises and chattered in his direction. Then one day, he had been in the midst of a sentence and stopped abruptly, causing the feline to turn and face his direction. The blood drained from Reid's face so quickly that Schrödie was afraid he might collapse. Reid left the room.
He came back shortly thereafter, but he didn't make noises to Schrödie after that.
He did, however, spend a lot of time sleeping.
He made noises then.
Schrödie could have attributed the food deception and the torturous bath to malice, but after some observation he realized that the poor human didn't know how to take care of himself.
Left to his own devices, Reid tended to bury his pointy nose in a stack of books and forgot about everything - sleeping, grooming, and the crucial obligation to feed the kitty. Hours ticked by and Reid remained statuesque, moving only to flip pages and exchange one book for yet another. Schrödie started to understand why this human was so scrawny.
After failing to open the cupboard on his own, the tabby smoothed his fur and wiggled his way under Reid's elbow, pushing his way into the human's line of sight and glaring pointedly.
Reid blinked his stupid brown eyes, looking from the clock on the wall to the moon outside the window before making a {{Stress, Embarrassment}} laugh, rubbing the back of his neck and heading to the kitchen to make lunch.
Following that incident, the Reid human made more of an effort to remember proper mealtimes. He even began picking up his own things to nibble on while coming back from the kitchen. In a few short weeks, the human started to lose his starving-waif appearance.
Schrödie, of course, took all the (well-deserved) credit.
The feline commenced a cunning plan to cat-train his human. To demonstrate proper hunting technique and ensure he was contributing to the household food supply, Schrödie neatly left a headless mouse or two on Reid's pillow.
If Reid started to get too lost in his books and neglected his pet-the-kitty breaks, Schrödie helpfully reminded by batting at his ankles or knocking things over until the human paid attention.
Schrödie took naps by the front door in the evening and made sure to lavish the tall man with praise for coming home at a decent hour, purring and rubbing against Reid's legs to remind him about dinnertime.
It was hardly his fault when, late one night, while Schrödie meowed and wove a figure eight around his human's shins, Reid tripped and smashed his head against the corner of an end table.
The cat sat back on his haunches, blinking owlishly. His tail flicked.
Um... whoops.
So much for that plan.
I'm really not a cat person, but I love Schrödie. I wanted to experiment with telling a story from an extremely limited perspective - no discernible dialogue and one setting. The nature of Criminal Minds is episodic and case-driven, but we never get to see these gentle domestic moments.
I love the opportunities this offers to tell stories about Reid's character without examining his words, thoughts, or even his actions in a typical 'casefic' setting. I have an Evernote doc full of one-shot ideas for this specific cat. Guys. You don't even know.
Shoot me a review if you'd like to see what happens after the Reid human hits his head. Or if you have other Schrödie/Henry prompt ideas, or if you think there should be random Reid sidebars or introduce a particular character to the terrible tabby.
As always,
Don't write the story. Live the story.