The next one wasn't even a kitten.
It was a weasel.
A large, scruffy, dirty weasel.
Charles woke to the sound of scratching on the doorsteps. This was becoming an all-too frequent occurrence.
He cautiously stuck his head out the rip in the screen door. Hello?
The weasel got up from it's spot on the stairs. Beside it was a small, bedraggled lump of fur that had apparently been carried in the mouth of the weasel, if that was even possible. Don't they suck blood, or something?
You're Chuck, right? Erik told me about you.
Charles Charles said coldly. Charles Francis Xavier. He tried to leave out his middle names- they were embarrassing, even for a kitten.
Right, Chuck. Erik sent me. Said you ran a home for wayward kittens, or something? The weasel scratched itself absentmindedly.
No I don't! Charles protested. This is just my home!
The weasel looked pointedly behind Charles, where a red kitten was 'stealthily' attempting to stalk Charles.
Without looking back, he shot out a paw and kicked him in the head.
The weasel then looked to Charles' right, where a large blue kitten and a smaller blue kitten were playfully... er... 'wrestling', yes that's it, they must be wrestling. Whew.
I suppose I can see how one might arrive at that... erroneous... conclusion, Charles said at last, But what are you doing here? You're a weasel, as far as I can tell.
The weasel snorted. Ain't here for me, bub, though if you could see your way clear to providing some grub, I wouldn't say no. This one's Erik's. She needs a home.
They always do.
What fresh hell? Charles spat. Isn't that man supposed to be on a mad and tragic quest for vengeance? How does he even have time to producethis many kittens?
Oh, they're not always his, the weasel pointed out. I mean, this one is, and the green one, and that one you caught him leaving- but the rest are just kittens he comes across, far as I can tell.
There are other places for them to go! Orphanages, or- or shelters, or something!
The weasel shrugged. Inasmuch as a weasel is capable of shrugging. You're asking the wrong guy, Chuck. Got any food?
In the front hall, Charles said wearily. He was getting a migraine.