Chapter Text
"George, what in God's name are you up to now?" Claire looked up from her book and turned in her seat, trying not to slop the tea from her mug all over her sweater. The fluffy ginger ball of chaos looked up from where he was remodelling the bottom of the front door with his claws. His eyes, currently narrowed slits of amber mischief, glared at her defiantly in silent reproach. If she'd been doing her job he reckoned, he wouldn't have to be opening the door himself, would he now. With a resigned sigh, she shook her head,
"Georgie....I just let you in... wait...don't tell me... it's four thirty...." She glanced across at the clock. Yep four thirty on the dot; this was becoming a habit. Huffing out a frustrated sigh, she twisted back, set the book and the mug on the side table and uncurled her legs from underneath her. "I should have known, I'm so sorry Your Exalted Furriness. How remiss of me to get all comfy without permission... you cheeky little boogerbum" She added under her breath. There was no malice in her words, just resigned acceptance, born of many years of feline ownership. Being owned by a feline, that was, there was never any question of the alternative. Talking out loud was just one side effect of a relationship built on years of not-quite-begrudged cuddles -and scooping poop from a tray. Crazy Cat Lady? Nah, just brow beaten servant...
Shuffling her bare feet into her slippers, Claire made her way across their little living room to the front door of the flat George allowed her to own and serve him from. Jumping to his feet in a single fluid move that would have defied any decent parkour addict, he wound himself around her legs. Popping up onto his back paws, his large and noisy head bumped her knee. Satisfied he'd left a suitably annoying trail of ginger fur on her jeans, her purred with surprisingly loud self-satisfaction. Leaning down, she scruffled his ears and he closed his eyes in an all too brief show of thanks. Sometimes he just had to give in to the urge to be grateful.... not too often mind....
"Oh George, you are a monster you know that? Just as well I love you...." He sat down and, in a rare show of devotion, slow-blinked her twice. "My my, we are feeling affectionate today!" She laughed, "Two blinks and a whole pawful of fur? With this you're surely spoiling me... I'm honoured... now if your Highness would like to step this way...."
She cracked the door open as George gazed up at her with his amber eyes, now returned to their usual disdainful slits. A perfunctory meow of frustration reminding her of her disgraceful slowness, he slunk off into the early evening sunshine, tail waving like a bushy ginger flag of victory. For a moment, as peace descended again, she leaned against the doorpost and just watched him. He was, to say the least, a cat of distinction. Arriving in her life as a ball of chaos at only ten weeks old, he'd reached the grand old age of eleven - about sixty in human years - firmly cemented as her Boss. George aka Your Highness; aka Boogerbum; was a mature and slightly portly gentleman, who knew what he liked, and what he liked was routine.
First, he would pace slowly along the little path towards the gate, then pause and deign to sit at the corner where Mrs Jenkins of 3A on the ground floor usually left breadcrumbs for the birds. Being a block of flats with a gated garden had it's benefits. For humans and their feline overlords. Next, when he was satisfied no birds were about to throw themselves at him for sacrifice, he would lick his paw in casual acceptance, then saunter to the high wall surrounding the garden of their block of flats. Scaling it like a mountaineer with a rabid Yeti chasing him, he would proceed to sit atop and wash proudly - and without shame - for the next ten minutes. Washed and preened, George would then disappear into the mele of the local area for untold adventure and in all likelihood a snack, after all a magnificent figure like his took serious work. And several handfuls of cat treats no doubt. He would return, usually after dark and usually looking, quite literally, like the cat that got the cream. He was never cold, never wet, and never ever grubby. It had almost made her wonder if.... no, he was just a cat with a knack for self preservation.
Shaking her head and smiling, Claire closed the door and returned to her seat. Yes, George Jennings, Cat About Town, was living his best, if routine life. Or he had been. Until last week. Last week George had done something completely out of character.
He'd come home late and dirty. Arriving with the proverbial if not literal milkman, he was not just grubby, not just a little dusty, but absolutely filthy. The resulting row for being a 'dirty stop out' and the subsequent bath had been a humiliation neither of them wished to revisit any time soon. It culminated in his house arrest for two days and then, under strict instructions that if he came home like that again she'd shave him like a lion, he'd been allowed back out.
That was when it started. Always a sucker for his routine, it took on a new level of compulsion. It became simply a matter of clock watching.
From that day on, she could set her watch by George. Every single day, exactly on the stroke of four thirty, he left. Every single evening, precisely on the stroke of ten, he came back. Always prompt, always clean, always looking like he had secrets to tell. Now she really was curious, did he have another life? Did they even know she existed?
It was time to find out. As George sailed off into another sunset, Claire made up her mind. Tomorrow, she would follow him. Tomorrow she would out him as the charlatan and the fraud he was. Living two lives?
She had absolutely no idea just how true, and surprising, that would turn out to be.....