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summer_of_giles2006-07-25 12:03 am
elizabuffy.livejournal.com) wrote in summer_of_giles2006-07-25 12:03 am
FIC: The Nightmare On Oakpark Street (Gen) G
Title: The Nightmare On Oakpark Street
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elizabuffy
Pairing: Gen (Giles, Miss Kitty Fantastico)
Rating: G
Summary: A charming study of the human/cat relationship.
Notes: This is bordering on (and probably firmly in the territory of) bad!fic. The premise started because a lot of fics with Giles mention his terrible scars. This is my completely whimsical, supposedly funny, way of explaining how he got them.
Thanks: Tokatekat1010. Dude, you seriously rock my socks. Not only did you have the arduous task of betaing this...twice, you also talked me through the whole posting bit. :) Anything that is coherent is purely her fault. Also huge thanks to my beloved best friend, phendog for betaing the first, nearly unreadable, draft. *snuggles you*
“Giles?” Tara’s question seemed so innocent when he’d heard it. There was no way for him to know what nefarious plans the shy, sweet woman had for him.
“Would you take care of Miss Kitty Fantastico? We’re going to be gone tonight, and she gets lonely.” Of course Giles had agreed to house Miss Kitty while they were gone. The little, fluffy cat reminded him of his childhood, when he had a kitten, Snowball, who’d mysteriously disappeared shortly before his 10th birthday. His parents told him she had “gone to a nice, big farm,” but he suspected it had more to do with his father’s beliefs that a kitten was too childish for a young Watcher. Still, though, he remembered how soft her fur was, and how pleasant and relaxing it was to just pet her as she melodiously vocalised her contentment.
The first day of care-taking wasn’t so bad. He’d gone to Willow and Tara’s Friday night to pick up their kitten. Miss Kitty had been perfectly behaved. She’d even gone so far as to nuzzle her kitty nose against his leg and purr affectionately. She made nary a fuss when Willow tearfully placed her in her kitty carrier. There wasn’t so much as a mew on the way over to Giles’ house.
However, that was the end of sweet Miss Kitty Fantastico. In her stead, Miss Kitty: Spawn of Satan was incarnated.
In typical cat-like fashion, she explored the whole of Giles’ apartment, which really, was to be expected. What was, however, not expected—or appreciated—was that she immediately went to the bathroom…not 5 inches from the spot where Giles had oh-so-carefully placed her litter tray. She even made sure to hit the bathroom rug!
Giles could have sworn that her yellow-green eyes were laughing at him as he tended to her mess. She could have looked at least mildly chagrined for her behaviour, instead of smirking at him with her permanent cat-smile.
Mess taken care of, rug in the wash, Giles started preparations for a late-night snack. He knew there were some Wheetabix left from when Spike was there, and the milk wasn’t that old. Demon activity had been heavy for the past fortnight, and he’d been lax on the housekeeping. Consequently, there were no clean dishes. Oh well, he thought, he could always use the dishes he’d inherited from his grandmother. The soup bowls were deep and perfect for a large bowl of stale Wheetabix with not-quite-sour milk.
Unfortunately, Miss Kitty chose the moment he precariously balanced the bowl in one hand and closed the cupboard in the other to run under his feet. His grandmother’s precious soup bowl fell. Thank god he was able to catch it just in time. Unfortunately, he ended up knocking a bottle of Knob Creek off the counter. It shattered to bits, spraying whisky everywhere.
Miss Kitty, Giles noted, was sitting not a foot away, looking as though she had nothing to do with all the awful noise he was creating. With the slightest smirk, she raised her forepaw and delicately groomed herself, taunting him with her laissez-faire attitude when she had purposefully made him shatter a perfectly good bottle of whisky and nearly destroy a priceless heirloom.
“Goddamn cat!” Giles muttered.
Kicking at the cat’s shadow, he grabbed a dishtowel and bent down to clean up yet another mess. He’d just picked up the first piece of broken bottle when he found himself flat on his front, sharp pains stabbing at his cheek, his stomach and his hand.
“Fucking cat!” This time, it was declared out loud, instead of quietly under his breath. He rushed to the bathroom to see the damage. There were only a few shallow scrapes on his cheek, but there was a large gash on his chest, just above his left nipple, that would probably need stitches. His left hand, the one that had been holding the remains of the broken bottle, was the worst off. The jagged edge had gone clear through and felt as though it had cut tendon.
“Fuck,” Giles swore softly, bleeding and pained, what was becoming his new mantra, “Goddamn cat!” He left the apartment as it was, and carefully drove himself to the ER, very glad he now had an automatic car.
Two of the chest wounds required stitches, as did one on his cheek, which, strictly speaking, he didn’t think was absolutely necessary. He’d not only severed the tendon in his middle finger, he’d also dislocated his index finger--that was a bitch to fix—and, therefore, his left had was a mess of splints. He didn’t even want to think of his battered pride as he tried to explain to politely not-smiling nurses and doctors what had occurred.
He refused pain medication beyond lidocaine, because—by damn—he was going to go home tonight and kill the cat…unless she managed to get him first. He did, however, agree to a prescription of hydrocodone, handily filled at the hospital pharmacy.
After only four attempts to place key to lock, he managed to unlock the door, only just realising that he’d not locked it in the first place. Turning the key once more, the door was officially unlocked.
The scene he found reminded Giles of a horror movie: the curtain fluttered ominously in front of the open window, the scent of blood and alcohol hung heavy in the air, and the perpetrator was nowhere to be found.
He didn’t even want to think about the cat at the moment. He just wanted to take his pills, go to sleep, and forget the night had ever happened. He made it to the kitchen, grabbed a glass off the counter that wasn’t visibly dirty, and turned on the tap. That’s when he noticed it: Grandmother’s soup bowl had joined the shattered remains of his Knob Creek…which had dried amazingly quickly.
With another curse at the goddamn cat, he filled his glass, popped a pill from the container into his hand, and headed upstairs.
The first thing he noticed was the blood-red stain on his pillow. He’d already dropped his drink, which had immediately covered the floor in an explosion of glass and water, before he realised that it was, in fact, actual blood on the pillow. Not only blood, but the blood of a perfectly flayed, half-alive mouse in what—he could only hope—appeared to be its death throes.
The other pillow contained a snoring cat who was drooling on her own pillow at an alarming rate.
Dry swallowing the pill, he carefully poked at the comatose cat, who smelt very strongly of his whisky. He decided that she was drunk, sleeping deeply, and with a little luck, she’d die of alcohol poisoning.
He took a spare blanket from the closet and trudged downstairs, the medicine now creating a light-headed, slightly queasy feeling.
The pain of his fingers woke him up early…no, late…in the morning. The first thing he noticed, obviously, was the pain. The second was, unexpectedly, a horrible stench. He was beginning to think the medication was giving him olfactory hallucinations when he slid open one eyelid to find a flatulent Miss Kitty, her arse pointed toward his nose.
He managed to move the cat and leave the sofa with only a scratch—the length of his forearm, but still, just one!
His Wheetabix, barely-sour milk, Vicodin® breakfast had never been more appealing. He’d just cleaned up the mess the evil little dervish had caused when Willow and Tara, looking terribly forlorn, had knocked on his door, explaining that they couldn’t wait any longer to see their precious baby.
The bitch-cat had purred at him as though she was so sorry to leave him. Tara had looked at his wounds critically and softly told him to be more careful on patrol next time.
THE END
~e!
Author:
elizabuffyPairing: Gen (Giles, Miss Kitty Fantastico)
Rating: G
Summary: A charming study of the human/cat relationship.
Notes: This is bordering on (and probably firmly in the territory of) bad!fic. The premise started because a lot of fics with Giles mention his terrible scars. This is my completely whimsical, supposedly funny, way of explaining how he got them.
Thanks: To
katekat1010. Dude, you seriously rock my socks. Not only did you have the arduous task of betaing this...twice, you also talked me through the whole posting bit. :) Anything that is coherent is purely her fault. Also huge thanks to my beloved best friend, phendog for betaing the first, nearly unreadable, draft. *snuggles you*“Giles?” Tara’s question seemed so innocent when he’d heard it. There was no way for him to know what nefarious plans the shy, sweet woman had for him.
“Would you take care of Miss Kitty Fantastico? We’re going to be gone tonight, and she gets lonely.” Of course Giles had agreed to house Miss Kitty while they were gone. The little, fluffy cat reminded him of his childhood, when he had a kitten, Snowball, who’d mysteriously disappeared shortly before his 10th birthday. His parents told him she had “gone to a nice, big farm,” but he suspected it had more to do with his father’s beliefs that a kitten was too childish for a young Watcher. Still, though, he remembered how soft her fur was, and how pleasant and relaxing it was to just pet her as she melodiously vocalised her contentment.
The first day of care-taking wasn’t so bad. He’d gone to Willow and Tara’s Friday night to pick up their kitten. Miss Kitty had been perfectly behaved. She’d even gone so far as to nuzzle her kitty nose against his leg and purr affectionately. She made nary a fuss when Willow tearfully placed her in her kitty carrier. There wasn’t so much as a mew on the way over to Giles’ house.
However, that was the end of sweet Miss Kitty Fantastico. In her stead, Miss Kitty: Spawn of Satan was incarnated.
In typical cat-like fashion, she explored the whole of Giles’ apartment, which really, was to be expected. What was, however, not expected—or appreciated—was that she immediately went to the bathroom…not 5 inches from the spot where Giles had oh-so-carefully placed her litter tray. She even made sure to hit the bathroom rug!
Giles could have sworn that her yellow-green eyes were laughing at him as he tended to her mess. She could have looked at least mildly chagrined for her behaviour, instead of smirking at him with her permanent cat-smile.
Mess taken care of, rug in the wash, Giles started preparations for a late-night snack. He knew there were some Wheetabix left from when Spike was there, and the milk wasn’t that old. Demon activity had been heavy for the past fortnight, and he’d been lax on the housekeeping. Consequently, there were no clean dishes. Oh well, he thought, he could always use the dishes he’d inherited from his grandmother. The soup bowls were deep and perfect for a large bowl of stale Wheetabix with not-quite-sour milk.
Unfortunately, Miss Kitty chose the moment he precariously balanced the bowl in one hand and closed the cupboard in the other to run under his feet. His grandmother’s precious soup bowl fell. Thank god he was able to catch it just in time. Unfortunately, he ended up knocking a bottle of Knob Creek off the counter. It shattered to bits, spraying whisky everywhere.
Miss Kitty, Giles noted, was sitting not a foot away, looking as though she had nothing to do with all the awful noise he was creating. With the slightest smirk, she raised her forepaw and delicately groomed herself, taunting him with her laissez-faire attitude when she had purposefully made him shatter a perfectly good bottle of whisky and nearly destroy a priceless heirloom.
“Goddamn cat!” Giles muttered.
Kicking at the cat’s shadow, he grabbed a dishtowel and bent down to clean up yet another mess. He’d just picked up the first piece of broken bottle when he found himself flat on his front, sharp pains stabbing at his cheek, his stomach and his hand.
“Fucking cat!” This time, it was declared out loud, instead of quietly under his breath. He rushed to the bathroom to see the damage. There were only a few shallow scrapes on his cheek, but there was a large gash on his chest, just above his left nipple, that would probably need stitches. His left hand, the one that had been holding the remains of the broken bottle, was the worst off. The jagged edge had gone clear through and felt as though it had cut tendon.
“Fuck,” Giles swore softly, bleeding and pained, what was becoming his new mantra, “Goddamn cat!” He left the apartment as it was, and carefully drove himself to the ER, very glad he now had an automatic car.
Two of the chest wounds required stitches, as did one on his cheek, which, strictly speaking, he didn’t think was absolutely necessary. He’d not only severed the tendon in his middle finger, he’d also dislocated his index finger--that was a bitch to fix—and, therefore, his left had was a mess of splints. He didn’t even want to think of his battered pride as he tried to explain to politely not-smiling nurses and doctors what had occurred.
He refused pain medication beyond lidocaine, because—by damn—he was going to go home tonight and kill the cat…unless she managed to get him first. He did, however, agree to a prescription of hydrocodone, handily filled at the hospital pharmacy.
After only four attempts to place key to lock, he managed to unlock the door, only just realising that he’d not locked it in the first place. Turning the key once more, the door was officially unlocked.
The scene he found reminded Giles of a horror movie: the curtain fluttered ominously in front of the open window, the scent of blood and alcohol hung heavy in the air, and the perpetrator was nowhere to be found.
He didn’t even want to think about the cat at the moment. He just wanted to take his pills, go to sleep, and forget the night had ever happened. He made it to the kitchen, grabbed a glass off the counter that wasn’t visibly dirty, and turned on the tap. That’s when he noticed it: Grandmother’s soup bowl had joined the shattered remains of his Knob Creek…which had dried amazingly quickly.
With another curse at the goddamn cat, he filled his glass, popped a pill from the container into his hand, and headed upstairs.
The first thing he noticed was the blood-red stain on his pillow. He’d already dropped his drink, which had immediately covered the floor in an explosion of glass and water, before he realised that it was, in fact, actual blood on the pillow. Not only blood, but the blood of a perfectly flayed, half-alive mouse in what—he could only hope—appeared to be its death throes.
The other pillow contained a snoring cat who was drooling on her own pillow at an alarming rate.
Dry swallowing the pill, he carefully poked at the comatose cat, who smelt very strongly of his whisky. He decided that she was drunk, sleeping deeply, and with a little luck, she’d die of alcohol poisoning.
He took a spare blanket from the closet and trudged downstairs, the medicine now creating a light-headed, slightly queasy feeling.
The pain of his fingers woke him up early…no, late…in the morning. The first thing he noticed, obviously, was the pain. The second was, unexpectedly, a horrible stench. He was beginning to think the medication was giving him olfactory hallucinations when he slid open one eyelid to find a flatulent Miss Kitty, her arse pointed toward his nose.
He managed to move the cat and leave the sofa with only a scratch—the length of his forearm, but still, just one!
His Wheetabix, barely-sour milk, Vicodin® breakfast had never been more appealing. He’d just cleaned up the mess the evil little dervish had caused when Willow and Tara, looking terribly forlorn, had knocked on his door, explaining that they couldn’t wait any longer to see their precious baby.
The bitch-cat had purred at him as though she was so sorry to leave him. Tara had looked at his wounds critically and softly told him to be more careful on patrol next time.
THE END
~e!