Demeter let out a particularly loud huff and rolled over noisily, snuggling tightly into the large, faded gray pillow in the back of the den.
From a few feet away, hanging up tinsel on the various pieces of junk forming the back "wall" of the den, Munkustrap glanced back over his shoulder. The black and gold queen was sound asleep, her cheek squashed into the pillow in a rather adorable manner. He smiled and unwound another strand of tinsel, draping it gently over the gilded frame of the cracked but ornate mirror he had found dumpster-diving around his human's house. It was small for a human, but perfect for a cat; and the burnished gold, aged and rich, reminded him of Demeter's coat.
He never told her the reason he spotted it in the first place was that his eyes were unaccountably attracted to that color gold.
Munkustrap smiled to himself and untangled another strand of tinsel. Decorating for the holiday season was a pleasure to him; a joy that brought him back to his kittenhood: bowls of warm cream with bit of eggnog, his mother singing every Christmas carol until Old Deuteronomy himself begged her to stop, and the wonderful spicy smells of cinnamon and pine. Dressing up the Great Tire and all the junkyard beams with spare Christmas lights smuggled from boxes and holly-red bows. And the tinsel!
Munk fingered the slippery silver stuff, which blended a little too well with his fur. One time his brother, the Rum Tum Tugger, had taken advantage of an afternoon nap and braided hundreds of the tiny strands into his fur.
Munkustrap had been as sparkly as a disco ball. It took him ages to unwind it all and he had to endure hearty gales of laughter.
He got revenge on Tugger by spiking his cream with cough syrup. It had been very satisfying.
So Munk held no grudge against tinsel. He finished hanging it all and wiped his paws together, mentally going over his next task.
He checked on Demeter. Now she was lying on her back, arm thrown behind her head, beautiful face serene and content.
Back to task. Munk skipped over to the northern corner of the den, where a pile of various Christmas-themed items gathered in the last few weeks awaited him. A tightly-wrapped package caught his eye. Munk frowned, ticking through the orderly list of items in his mind. He pulled it over and unwound the cheesecloth wrap, finding, to his utter delight, a pristine stick of cinnamon.
Munk inhaled deeply. The spicy scent washed over him, and memories burst awake in his mind. His mother caroling. A newborn Victoria, a Christmas kitten, with a bright red bow around her neck. He and Alonzo trying to catch the first snowfall of winter.
He sighed happily. Then, an idea came to him. He slipped over to where Demeter lay sleeping, and held the cinnamon up to her nose.
She breathed in, and her lips parted. A smile grew on her sleeping face. She breathed out warmly, and said,
"Mac." Her voice was full of love, of brightness-of contentment.
Munkustrap reeled back. He came down hard on his knees, accidentally crushing his tail. But the pain there was nothing compared to the horrible sensation trickling into his heart.
Last Christmas Demeter had spent with Macavity. As his mate.
Things were different now.
Munkustrap clenched the cinnamon stick tightly in his paw. He had sometimes wondered-whether she wished-whether she preferred-
Mac...
Demeter's brow furrowed and she twisted away from him, facing the wall of the den. Her sides moved gently, untroubled.
Munkustrap heard it again in his mind, clear as a bell: Mac...
The rich, spicy smell of cinnamon? Of course, the holidays would make her think of her former mate. She had, after all, spent the time with him. They probably had a good time; she probably had fond memories of it.
Mac...
It was the way she said it. Like a claw, it tore into him; the soft intimacy in her tone.
Munkustrap hurled himself away. He stood, and sought refuge in the doorway of the den. He stared at the crisp night sky, and felt the winter chill down to his bones.
Still, it didn't ease the pain in his heart.
Demeter screamed.
The sound woke him, and he raced back inside. Demeter was trembling on the pillow, eyes darting around until they fixated on the solid form of the gray striped tomcat, who stood in front of her anxiously.
"Munk!" Demeter choked, stumbling to her feet and into his arms. She buried her face in his chest fur, heart beating against his at an impossible pace. "I had a horrible nightmare."
He couldn't speak. Words fizzled and dissolved on his tongue. All he could do was hold her, as tightly as he dared, keeping her heart pounding against his.
"I dreamed it wasn't you," Demeter whispered, her green eyes gazing up at his own gray ones. "I dreamed it was...him." The horror in her tone was evident. She shivered visibly and her claws dug into his back. "Promise me it's you, and only you."
"Always," he choked out. He nuzzled her, protectively, feeling tension slowly drain from her body.
"Munk," she said, urgent and fervent and trusting. "Munk," she said softly, full of love and desire.
It wouldn't destroy the heartache. But it was helping. He ran a paw down her back. She smiled, and shook her head. "I'm sorry about this. I don't know what came over me."
Munk saw the stick of cinnamon out of the corner of his eye. He resolved to give it new, more pleasant associations for Demeter. This would be her best Christmas yet.