Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 6/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG Overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

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Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants until he stumbles across a kitten whose resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads him to conceive of a plan. He heads to the 'Fish Tank' where he has a confrontation with Ph'ulup'thhButt, a demon he had never met before. After examining the kitten Mr. Clem agrees to contact a group of cat-worshipping demons, who had previously expressed interest in Miss Kitty and to tell them that he has one of Miss Kitty's kittens.

CHAPTER 6

Mr. Spike could not be said to sleep. It was his usual routine to retire shortly after night had succumbed to day, and fall into a state of unconsciousness so profound it might be considered hibernation were it not of such short duration. Usually he would not keep to this condition long – perhaps two or three hours – and then he would wake. Should his deepest slumber be disturbed, should he not be allowed to descend into its fullest depths to stay until his own internal clock called him forth, why then, think to yourself of any child who has been awakened early from his nap and you have the very picture of a cranky, disgruntled Mr. Spike.

On this day his slumberous routine had been disturbed at both beginning and end. Once he had returned to his crypt and desirous of his repose, Mr. Spike had placed the kitten in the box that once held canned goods from 'The Wild Bill Hickory-Ox Café' having replaced the cans with a blanket that was too tattered for even his taste. He crawled beneath his own covers and plumped his head against the pillow and shrugged his shoulders to push it about until the pillow was perfectly positioned. He closed his eyes and began his descent into slumber.

Thump!

Tiny feet pattered up his recumbent form and a warm furry body plumped itself upon his neck, soft, furry paws thrusting against his chin to push it into perfect pillow position. With a sigh, Mr. Spike rose and placed the kitten in her own box giving her a gruff admonition to stay in her own bed because 'Big Bads' did not sleep with kittens. He once more settled himself comfortably and closed his eyes.

Thump!

Tiny feet pattered up his recumbent form but were this time met halfway by the now irate Mr. Spike. With a snarl he once again placed the errant kitten into her bed and snapped out a stern admonition.

"Stay there you miserable little fuzzball or I'll be pickin' your fur outta my teeth!"

He crawled into his bed taking somewhat more time to find that perfect position, his nerves being now more disturbed. And even having found that right position, that one position best suited to avoid crimping the neck or cramping the arm, best suited to support the back, yet best suited to allow swift reaction in case of attack – should one awake to avoid it – even then Mr. Spike could not sleep for anticipation of a 'thump'. Long, long and long minutes he lay awake waiting for a 'thump'. He knew there would be one. The kitten was a kitten and she was a female and would surely not give in so easily. So he waited for a thump. And waited. But the 'thump' never came and eventually his eyes closed and eventually he slept that slumberous, deep sleep that was so natural to him.

Thump!

Tiny feet waited to see if there would be protest, sighs, snarls or signs of movement. When there were none, the kitten pattered up Mr. Spike's recumbent form, and settled into that crook betwixt the chin and chest and twirled there like a ringlet twisted over his shoulder and she slept.

All too soon though, the kitten was awake. She was young and life was good and she was hungry. What reason then for Mr. Spike to sleep when she did not? First she attempted to wake him with soft, soft pitty-pats to his chin. When he still slept she attempted to wake him with soft, soft pitty-pats to his nose. When he still slept she attempted to wake him with a soft, soft bite to his nose and her tiny teeth tickled and he woke with a start and a sneeze.

Mr. Spike was uncertain as to what exactly had awakened him, not remembering the pitty-pats or the bite, but he had his suspicions. Whatever the reason, he knew he would sleep no further that day so even though it was but a few hours since dawn, he rose and he fed the kitten and he showered.

When Mr. Spike stretched out his hand for his towel and brought it closer to him, he was struck at its sudden weight. Upon examining the towel he found a crazed kitten clinging and laddering her way up, twisting and tearing at the towel-monster with terrible kitten ferocity.

"Wonderful. Get to dry off with a towel covered in kitten spit."

When Mr. Spike placed his foot into the top of his trousers and slid it in until the tips of his toes peeked saucily out the end of his trousers, those toes were seized in a bite so savage that he cried out in pain.

"Ow! You little git! Leave off!"

And when Mr. Spike went to find his comb, he found it as he had left it - full of filthy, feline fur.

Now Mr. Spike was speechless. Sleep-deprived and speechless. He stared and he glared at the kitten wishing all manner of murder and mayhem to fall most suddenly upon her poor little kitten head. He glared a great glare as she flew at his feet and pounced on his toes. His glare grew ever more heated as he made an effort to turn the kitten to toast with the mere power of his eyes. The poor mite continued to bounce and pounce upon his toes, unaware and unconcerned that she was supposed to be a puddle of molten dead.

Mr. Spike sighed, and it was a peevish sigh. He had learned to expect no less of life – that the females around him should flout his desires - and he now contented himself with comments concerning the kitten's ancestry. He made unmistakably clear that she was not a goddess, that she was not the reincarnation of a warrior and that possibly he was confused about the difference between a female cat and a female dog.

Mr. Spike plopped himself down in his chair to watch Very Important Television – not even bothering to put on his shirt - while the kitten continued her quest to catch whatever moved. Since the most active occupants in the crypt were the kitten herself and Mr. Spike, she thoughtfully divided her attacks. She attacked his toes, she attacked her own tail, she attacked the curls that curled at the top of the chair. Mr. Spike swore and he snarled and he attempted a smack, and he learned right away that his chip was intact. Finally, to keep the kitten distracted Mr. Spike sought out the catnip mouse that Mr. Clem had given him and there followed a rousing game of kitten catch the tail.

Eventually even this exciting pastime palled and the kitten curled up on Mr. Spike's lap. They discussed the itching of ears and the scratching of ears. At first Mr. Spike insisted it was nothing to him that ears itched at all. But the kitten was a clever cat and she nibbled and bumped and pushed at fingers until they couldn't help but busy themselves with the business of scratching and eventually even itchy ears were satisfied.

Vampire and kitten stayed thus for a while, both entranced with the tales of rousing adventure that scrolled across the television screen. The kitten - being of younger years and less developed mind - proved slightly more susceptible to the hypnotic flickering of images and the narcotic effect of catnip, and fell deeply into the arms of Morpheus whereas Mr. Spike merely lapsed into a stupor.

"Robin Hood!" exclaimed the Sheriff of Nottingham, as Richard Greene - resplendent in a 1950's version of Lincoln Green - swung in heroic Robin Hood fashion to bar the Sheriff access to the forest path. Swords were swiftly drawn, arrows were artfully notched and shouts were shouted. Then the fracas was done and the posturing began. Mr. Spike was incensed at this paltry effort and he cursed throughout the fray as he sniffed at the kitten's catnip mouse. "Thump him, Little John!" "You idiot! How could you miss a target that easy?" "DAWN could put up a better fight than those guards..."

As though speaking Miss Dawn's name was a conjuring, Mr. Spike realized with a thrill of the most awful horror that the door to his crypt had opened, and Miss Dawn was at his doorstep peering in.

"Spike, are you here?" Miss Dawn inquired, even as she entered his home.

Now you may wonder at Mr. Spike's horror, as we have mentioned many times the singular love he held for Miss Dawn. But Mr. Spike held an image of himself, an image at once most vampiric and most human, and in this image he was the Big Bad. And he held that all that was of value within himself was contained within this image. And he held that if any who loved him saw beyond the image they would love him less.

And now here he was, with that lopsided poodle poodling on his head, a kitten sitting on his shoulder, half-dressed in jeans that he realized were only half-buttoned and watching an episode of an old children's television show. He would rather be instantly transported back to the 'Fish Tank' in this very same condition then face Miss Dawn at this instant in time. At least at the Fish Tank he could kill somebody to relieve his frustration and there would be no one there that he cared should they love him less.

He froze. His mind wished to think of so many things at once and 'because' it wished to think of so many things at once, it could think of nothing.

What to do?

What could be done?

What to do first?

Mr. Spike had faced many disasters in his long unlife and so he was not long paralyzed.

First things first – he buttoned.

Then he repositioned the kitten from shoulder to hand - he had not meant for Miss Dawn to know about her - and he sought wildly for possible kitten hideaways. He recognized that even if he could keep the kitten unseen, Miss Dawn would notice the litterbox, the catnip mouse and the other assorted toys scattered about the crypt. Accepting that it would be fruitless to hide the kitten, he consoled himself with the thought that at least Miss Dawn was going to be enchanted.

He restrained himself from throwing his hand to his head in the hope that his curls could be smoothed out. He knew the futility of it. Miss Dawn would at last learn his most secret of secrets – his curly hair.

In despair, he jumped from the chair to the television and turned it off, hoping against hope that at least he would be spared this – that Miss Dawn had not yet overheard the Sheriff shouting "Robin Hood!"

Stupid Sheriff.

He turned to Miss Dawn, throwing upon her a gaze quite similar to that which he had earlier visited upon the hapless kitten. Miss Dawn was no further intimidated than the cat had been.

"Hey, Spike," she giggled, "What's with the curly hair? It's cute!"

TBC...