Melly and Tent.

Lucius Finnigan was not an ordinary cat. The immensely fluffy creature had never been particularly concerned with, well, anything really. The life he led was a simple one where the majority of his time was spent sleeping or hunting down creatures far smaller than his bulky stature; which was basically anything that resembled a rodent or a creature of flight. He had not so much as lifted a paw during his life if he didn’t have to. However now he had received a task, a project that was depending on him.

As he trotted leisurely across a brick wall that encased the garden of a resident he did not know, Lucius contemplated his task, giving it much more thought than any ordinary cat would have done. He was incredibly proud of his Kneazle genes and was quick to remind all of the other cats during his time at Hogwarts and he was forever boasting of his impressive lifespan. Any other cat would have died by now - his mistress, Melly, (because kitties, even Kneazle kitties, can’t quite pronounce their I’s) had had him forever and a day. He’d lived a life of relative comfort, without a goal. Now, he had one, and he found his self brooding far more often than he ever had; and worryingly still, he found his self genuinely caring for Melly’s welfare.

Hopping off of the wall, Lucius trudged through Mrs. Wythinghall’s flower bed, making sure to stamp firmly on the little shoots that were springing up, pressing them back into the earth, causing another year of crooked tulips. He then scaled the fence and jumped down into the front garden of his mistress’ home. He hopped up onto the windowsill of her bedroom and slipped in through the window that was ajar. Settling himself down on the windowsill inside the room, Lucius peered at the creature whose tossing and turning throughout the night had left her cocooned in the sheets. Lucius tipped his head to the side as he looked at her and glanced down at the gap between the windowsill and the bed, weighing up his options only momentarily before springing from one and landing heavily on the other.

The creature, he noted, did not move. Lucius pawed at covers and nudged his head against her bare shoulder, a hopeful look crossing his face when she rolled over but his habitual scowl soon returned when he realised that she had no intention of getting out of bed. Lucius first tried getting suffocatingly close to her in the hope his presence would wake her up -- no success. Lucius sat back on his bum and huffed in aggravation, openly scowling at his mistress. She did not seem to be in any mood to move just yet and he did not want to resort to the typical feline tactic of getting their master or mistress up out of the pit in which they slept. He didn’t understand the draw of it, personally, but it was quite comfortable in the winter when outside wasn’t nearly as practical to sleep in. Still, his mistress liked it and even though he didn’t so much he’d found himself sleeping next to her for the past couple of weeks, much to his dismay. So, Lucius settled down, figuring he’d lay siege to Fort Melly instead of trying to disrupt the sleeping dragon. Later, perhaps, if she refused to rise.

Eventually Melly woke and Lucius stirred as she did, jumping to attention and trotting after the young woman as she wandered sleepily from her bedroom to her en suite bathroom. Lucius faithfully padded along behind her, deciding to ignore the looks of confusion she sent his way over her shoulder every minute or so.

He only just managed to stifle the desire to recoil when she began to strip her clothes away from her body. Respectfully, Lucius lifted his tail and put it over his closed eyes. When she emerged from the shower and wrapped herself up again in the fluffy towels he enjoyed clawing at so much, only then did Lucius dare to steal a look at his mistress. He sat up a little straighter, poking his head towards her in the hope he’d be patted for his chivalry but no such affection was given and the blonde wandered past him.

Grumbling to himself, Lucius followed Melly part way back into the bedroom. Upon emerging, he found that she was stood before the mirror, the towel around her ankles. Lucius made a face but paused in that before stepping forward to take a closer look in the mirror at what had gained much of Melly’s attention also: her stomach. The girl reached down for the towel after a moment and Lucius noted how she kept her hand on her stomach. So she knew then. The cat puffed his chest out a little bit in pride and hopped up onto the bed, waiting patiently for Melly to be done with dressing herself for the day - which really consisted on finding the baggiest, and oldest, of all of her t-shirts and a pair of jogging bottoms - hold the underwear. Though Lucius wasn’t particularly pleased with the way she completely bypassed the drawer filled with unmentionables that many took delight in seeing on her, he didn’t really understand the point of them anyway and so he hopped back down onto the floor and followed her into the kitchen, putting the absence of perhaps the most important article of clothing to the back of his mind. He didn't understand pants anyway, why should he bother?

“Right, Lucy...” Lucius gave a mew of protest as he was heaved up into Melly’s arms and he made yet another face at the blonde. “We had better get you something to eat, hmm? Tuna sound good? Then I’ll get Trent over here. You’ll have someone to talk to that way.”

Lucius brightened at the mention of Tent* and food but his pleasure didn’t linger for long. Melly placed him down on the counter and he watched her with thinly-veiled curiosity as she took things from various cupboards and turned on the stove so as the start breakfast. Lucius wasn’t particularly pleased with Tent at this moment in time. The state of his mistress was enough to make the cat incredibly displeased with the man-child whom he’d adored during their time at Hogwarts. Melly was going to have a litter! Lucius never imagined that would happen! And the fact that Tent had caused it made him both pleased and upset. Melly was supposed to look after him! Not have another kitten so he was neglected! Needless to say, Lucius was not impressed, even if the new kitten was Tent's.

“Okay, Mr. Lucius. Tuna just for you,” Melly announced, placing a plate of tuna down on the counter beside the cat. Melly wrinkled her nose at the smell and Lucius lifted his head, watching as his mistress went a Bat-Bogey green colour before rushing from the room. Lucius closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears to the sound of the contents of her stomach being heaved up out from inside of her. The sounds that followed were that of spells being cast and the running of water and the brushing of teeth. Lucius decided to be quick about eating his meal, knowing how sensitive Melly’s nose had become. He wasn't completely selfish, after all it seemed.

While Melly cleaned up, Lucius hopped across the counters and picked up the parchment she’s scrawled her breakfast invitation on. As he passed the cooker he flicked his tail up and turned it down, thereby preventing the sizzling bacon from burning, and crossed the room to where Godric was perched nibbling on some oats. Lucius dropped the letter in front of the bird and the owl picked it up, nodding to the cat before taking off out of the window, off to wake up the one and only Tenton Thomas.

What a successful morning, Lucius thought to himself, not quite able to resist rolling his eyes. It was a disaster already and he was sure it was about to get much, much worse - for Melly at least anyway. Surely by now, Tent would know about the kitten...or at least, maybe Melly would tell him. Lucius hoped so, anyway.

*(because kitties, even Kneazle kitties, can’t quite pronounce their R’s)

Trent awoke with shouts of pain. A hard smack against his face, however, was what it took for him to pry his eyes open. Through heavily lidded eyes, he spied a fluttering of wings. Typically, owl or not, the next move would be a hard fall back into bed, and immediately back to slumberland. However, the remnants of pain lingered. Begrudgingly, Trent groped around for the letter that had landed at the foot of his bed, a result of the impact against his face. Letter in hand, the man-child let himself fall back into bed. With the comfort of the pillows beneath his head, he brought the letter up closer to his face and sniffed, as if he could recognise it and understand the urgency of the owl that had hurt him to wake him up with a rude start. He did, though. And no, it wasn’t some sort of magical talent. It was her scent after all; or rather, the scent of the hand that colonised his dreams. And that was enough determination to open his eyes to face the world. Face the world, he did not. Instead, Godric made sure to let Trent acknowledge the displeasure on its face. The man eyed the owl, bewildered and alarmed, as if aware that the owl was close to hurting him again, but unaware that it was for the slaps of the hand that Trent had issued earlier to fend it away in his sleep.

Fortunately, Godric decided that it wasn’t worth its while. Fortunately, too, that Godric had left; a glance down south was enough to provoke a groan of embarrassment. Thankful for the privacy, Trent attempted to dismiss it as he shifted and turned, before he finally removed himself from the bed. It was rather like one of those awkward moments. It was an awkward moment, alright. There he was, holding onto a scribbled invitation for breakfast from the woman he was having a smutty dream about moments ago. The man shook his head, shaking the mental images from his mind, and walked to the tiny excuse of a bathroom a few steps away from the bed. Given his recent transfer to the Magpies, there was really no reason why he couldn’t start to afford some place more comfortable. Well, no other reason, bar laziness. He couldn’t be bothered. Besides, it wasn’t as if more space was needed. He was always alone, almost.

Trent ruffled his hair pointlessly, as if the effort was synonymous to using a comb to make it decent. He didn’t own a comb anyway; there was never a need for it, not since his mother stopped fussing over him. Thankfully, his embarrassment had eased itself, which made wearing his pair of navy blue jeans a lot easier to deal with. The light-grey t-shirt that he pulled over his head was evidence that the man didn’t own an iron, or that he didn’t bother. It was both, actually, though more of the latter. Still, at least the man was clean. In disarray, but usually washed. That was an accomplishment, perhaps, for someone like Trent. His movements were quicker than usual. There was something in the tone of Millie’s writing that implied that he was needed at hers, and without delay.

With a crack, he vanished from his bedroom. Trent had wondered how accurate the Apparation was going to be. It was not that he lacked skills in that department. No, not at all. After all, the extent of his magical talent really only extended to flying and Apparation, and perhaps a couple of other spells. No, he was hardly an accomplished Wizard. It was sufficient, though, to him. At least he wasn’t the worst in his year. Trent eased himself even as the pressure got to him, concentrating more on getting to the right place. After all, the last time that he visited was the only time that he did. And she was with him. The man mused about the day. It was odd, everything. Still, at least he had his friend back. He still didn’t have the courage nor the assurance that could prompt him to man up and press for something more with the girl. Trent hated it. Above all, he hated it when Millie came up in the guys’ conversations in the Magpies Changing Rooms. Stewart would go on and on with details that Trent could really do without, and the other guys did nothing but encourage him, if only for juicy stories of intimate encounters. Trent hated it. Immensely. That was his problem, really. He was an extremely jealous man. There was a certain desire for possession, but never the will to express that desire.

A crack, and Trent landed on his bum. Dusting the sand from the back of his jeans, the man strained against the light of the sun as he let his eyes reconcile with memory, before positioning himself at the right place. There was no sign of Millie. None of Lucius too. Pressing his lips together, Trent tried to look into the house. The sunlight that was reflected put his efforts to waste. And then, assuming it was okay, he tried the sliding doors that demarcated the boundary between the living room and the veranda. A moment of silence. And then, a fluffly Lucius appeared. Trent reached for the cat with glee. Well, at least the man knew to express his affections to somebody, even if it was a cat. Trent wrapped Lucius in a hearty hug. It was only when he positioned the cat in front of him to look at it did Trent realise the look on the feline’s face. The scowl, typically directed at everything and everyone else except to him. First the owl, now the cat, and then there was that letter of urgency. Frowning in confusion, Trent lowered the feline and let it rest on the ground. Lucius, however, began to rub its body against the man’s calves. Puzzled, Trent ruffled his hair absent-mindedly before settling into the sofa.

The decision to shower for the second time was not one Millie made consciously but soon enough she found herself, her hands lathered with soap, under the hot jets that sprayed over her. The nausea did not subside; if anything it grew in prominence and force. She emerged feeling fresher and smelling faintly of rose - or so the label on the bottle of shower gel so proudly boasted. Millie deposited her clothes in the wicker hamper in the corner of the bathroom and left for her bedroom through the adjoining door. She spent a few minutes rifling through her drawers and wardrobe again before settling on a loose-fitting dress that was snug to her frame in places that did not draw attention to her stomach.

It was easy enough to press herself into it, finding that it still, much to her immediate glee, ghosted around her ankles in the same way she remembered it doing when she first bought it. She also donned a cream coloured cardigan and threw her hair up into a loose bun before slipping some sandals onto her feet and drifting out into the main area of the house again, rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan as she reached the kitchen. This was a look that flattered Millie much more than the previous clothes had. Though there was one thing she had overlooked. Subtly, to the point where it was subtle enough that even she did not notice, the dress and cardigan did draw attention to the little protrusion in Millie’s abdomen. Though, even if she had been aware it was unlikely to have phased her. It wasn’t, after all, as if there was much to see anyway.

The sound of the sliding doors opening made Millie turn and she watched with mirth in her eyes as a copper coloured tail disappeared behind the closing door, no doubt to meet his master. Millie put the breakfast on low so as to make sure it didn’t char-grill or anything equally horrifying, and wrapped her cardigan around her before stepping out into the corridor. A bit of magic on her part made the utensils in the kitchen begin to do the breakfast for her though she promised to come back for it in a moment or too.

Tentatively, Millie made her way into the living room and poked her head around the wall to see Lucius sat with Trent. Oddly, the cat seemed much more awake and alert than usual - as if he were after a bird in the garden or something. Millie smiled at the cat and watched as the cat nodded his head as if in acknowledgement of her. He then jumped up from where he was sat, trotted over Trent’s lap and came to sit on the arm of the chair. Millie reached out and tickled Lucius behind his ears before looking over and smiling brightly at Trent.

“Good morning Mr. Sleepy Head!” She chirped contentedly, leaning over to press a brief kiss of greeting against his cheek. “Tea, coffee or orange juice; take your pick? Did you have a good snooze?"

The softness of the sofa allowed him to sink in too easily into a lull. Trent felt his eyes shutting before it hit him. The beginnings of worrisome thoughts began to stir in his head. Did something happen to Millie? Was she in danger? Was that why Godric and Lucius were behaving so strangely? And there he was, sitting so calmly, drifting off really, not doing anything. What if Millie was in grave danger? Trent bit the bottom of his lip in his sudden panic. But, before he could consult the cat, the familiar scent wafted into the room. Trent turned his head, in time to receive Millie’s greeting, involuntarily but hardly unwillingly. He smiled. Well, at least she looked intact.

“G’morning, Mophead.” He grinned in return. “Urm …” He couldn’t decide. Morning breakfast typically meant a spliff, and then off to training. And those were the days that he had Quidditch trainings with the Magpies. Other days, there were no breakfasts to speak of. “It was …” And then he stopped himself. The dream that he had flashed in his mind as vividly as … as the body that stood near him. Trent stole a look, before turning away guiltily. He didn’t know if it was okay. Well, really, of course it was okay. He wasn’t being rude anyway. Not really. Still, he was caught between amusement and an awkward moment in his head.

“Tea …” And then quickly, “please.” He could feel a pair of eyes bearing into the back of his head. Trent turned to see Lucius staring intently at him, and he couldn’t decide the thoughts or intention. Bewildered, he turned his attention back to Millie. “You? Good sleep? Urm … I don’t mind breakfast …” An utter lie. “Just … what … well, any occasion?” He grinned, to make light of it. Trent considered talking about Godric’s attack on him, but a little rub at the sore part of cheek, and he dropped it. It was just an owl.

The light was not yet bright and golden but hesitantly making its way through the clouds. The breeze was warm as the day began to shake off the chill of the night before and Lucius hopped off of the back of the couch, trotting across the carpet from his landing point to the French doors which he promptly nudged open with his head. He mewed and sat back on his haunches, pleased with himself, and looked over at his mistress, eyeing the just-visible bump with rampant curiosity. He’d slept on it once, not that she’d noticed mind you. It was an odd little thing. It liked cats. Well, more specifically it liked him. Lucius feared it would be another Millie, besotted with him but him loathing her. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the small, vulnerable creature within his mistress. In fact, he felt quite a bit of affection towards it and could not squash the need to protect both of them. He didn’t think, though, that either of them would need much protecting. If the magic that crackled around Millie and her little one was any indication - they would both be fine, better than fine, if it came to a duel.

Millie’s centre of gravity had long since shifted from Trent, now centred within her, around her child. Lucius was proud of her, knowing that the change within her was prompting an overdue growth of personality. She was truly beginning to become a responsible young woman. Lucius had noticed it immediately. Obviously years of ‘baby-talk’ from her friends had taught her all she needed to know. As soon as the Healer had confirmed it - though Lucius had known for weeks prior - the girl stopped drinking, refused to smoke a single cigarette and now had a thing about all things strawberry flavoured. Lucius had taken his role very seriously and the pair were watching intently as the little creature flourished within her. Lucius and Millie were both ignorantly still quite sceptical of it but the attachment was there and Millie was sickeningly becoming more and more mumsie as the days wore on.

Lucius pushed off from where he was sat and ambled over to his mistress, rubbing himself against her legs. Her hands came around his middle and the cat blinked as he was heaved up into her arms, his tail now in line with her child. Lucius lightly tapped his tail against her stomach, the reflective crackle of magic being the only response the child could give at this point in time. The cat mewed and he pressed his head into Millie’s waiting palm, encouraging the girl to pet him, which she did without question.

“Tea?” The sound of Millie’s voice, repeating Trent’s words, made Lucius turn his head to look at the man in question. He tipped his head to the side and mewed again before lumbering out of Millie’s arms and hopping onto the couch once more. He licked Trent’s wrist and nibbled on it before springing away to follow Millie into the kitchen, his tail high in the air, his bum rolling from side to side in an over-exaggerated fashion.

Lucius jumped up onto the counter once in the kitchen and watched warily as the breakfast made itself. Millie busied herself with the tea, though not before removing her cardigan which, as far as Lucius was concerned, was the kiss of death. Trent either had to be blind or stupid or a fatal combination of the two not to see the bump the dress made little effort to try and hide.

“You still take sugar?” Millie inquired gently, her voice raised slightly so it carried into the front room. She flicked the kettle and reached for a cup in a high cupboard, something Lucius didn’t all together approve of. She should’ve been sat down or something - with the weight off of her feet. “Yeah, I slept okay. Um...occasion? Oh, nothing. I just thought we could have breakfast.” Lucius rolled his eyes. He genuinely wondered why she didn’t just come out and tell Trent. Still, there was nothing he could do. He was only a cat after all.

He couldn’t shake off the oddly present instinct that seemed to insist that something was not quite right. Trent was supposed to be an oblivious man-child. Perhaps, then, he had been maligned. His senses prodded at him, and his mind was sent running frantically; the runners were competing to reach the end of the most horrible and most pessimistic of conclusions. Was she dying?! Did she not want to see him anymore?! The Ministry didn’t require his service anymore?! Was Lucius dying?! No, that, he didn’t think so. He hoped not. Nope, she was dying. Trent swallowed hard. The lump at his throat had made itself felt with immediacy upon that thought. It had to be the most disastrous of conclusions that was right. Yes, that was the only logical reason he could believe.

In a sudden fog of dismay, Trent turned slowly to Millie. He nodded to her question at the same speed; certainly not really aware of the content of it. And then, in alarm, he jumped out of his stupor and up from the sofa. Quickly enough, he found himself in the kitchen, staring at the back of the girl as he listened to her words without being able to comprehend them. Lucius was now eyeing the man, watching for the next move. Trent took no notice. Now that Millie was going to die, the cat was hardly an issue. It was a good thing that Lucius was watching. There was going to be an interesting show. At least, it would be extremely so if one should consider the character of the man.

In a rush, he had wrapped her in his arms, from the back. It would have been an awkward moment … but the thought of Millie dying pushed his emotions rather over the edge. The embrace, the speed of it at least, was undoubtedly out of character. It took awhile, but Trent recovered and removed his arms from around the girl. Staring at the ground, he bit his bottom lip. “M-.” His hand shot up to make a frustrated ruffle in his messy hair. “Mophead. I can’t …” He pressed his lips together. “You can’t …”

Lucius tipped his head to one side and glared at Trent. And yet, at a time when his thoughts should have been clarified, words failed him again. Had he known the misunderstanding this would cause, he would have used the same sort of adrenaline earlier for the words needed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t have known. And so, the man looked at Millie now, misery written all over his face.

Magic was something present within a child from its very conception. It was a common mistake to think that magic manifested within the first few years of life. No, magic was swollen, ready to burst within a child from the moment it took shape in the womb of its mother and the child of Melissa Finnigan was no exception. Though at first she had not been aware of the strong crackle of magic that protected the child, once it grew within her the magic became more obvious and she found herself at a state now where her magic was just beginning to get a little bit odd.

Her Healer had explained the occurrences to her, pleased with the progress the child had made, commenting that it was much stronger than many of the children that entered the ward. They were near-Squibs, the woman had told Millie, which was why she was so happy that the foetus within the blonde was as powerful as the readings suggested. It was about time, the woman had said. They needed some good, strong magic - good strong wizards and witches - instead of a generation of Hufflepuffs.

As Millie busied herself with her tea she was aware of the magic humming within her, bouncing around inside as the child amused itself with whatever it did; growing, she supposed. Millie’s hand strayed to her stomach and she tapped gently upon the surface, smiling at the nudges of magic that pressed against her fingers in response. A sigh left her lips and she returned her hand to the tea cups as she carefully spooned sugar into the cups. It was as she was replacing the lid to the sugar pot that arms wound around her and in her shock, Millie released the sugar pot, dropping it onto the worktop and sending sugar across it in a great score, blanketing the worktop in white granules.

Millie turned, her hands falling to her hips as she glared at Trent, dismay written across her face at the mess. Lucius snorted from his position on his favoured worktop, knowing that already Millie had turned into a neat freak - as was typical with mother’s who would come to loathe their child’s mess but adore the creature all the same. In this moment Trent was the child and Millie the unhappy mother. He looked the part too, his head ducked as if receiving a scolding, her eyes narrowed with obvious irritation. Lucius would’ve been impressed if it weren’t for the fact that he was privy to Trent’s thought patterns - and Millie’s.

Understandably, she jumped to a conclusion that was altogether as ridiculous as his though she had ever right to be more worried than he. Millie took a step back, her bum bumping against the cupboard, and her hands came to her stomach as she tried to process what he had said. She prayed to Merlin he hadn’t noticed, she’d wanted to explain it calmly to him herself, but obviously he had and he clearly was not taking it well; and in reflex, she was defensive -- too defensive perhaps.

“What do you mean?” Millie snapped, her eyebrows rising up towards her hairline. “You can’t what? I can’t what? N-no Trent. No. I’m...I’m keeping it. I...I’m sorry. I...I know this probably isn’t what you wanted. I mean... We’re... young. I guess. It was an accident, Trent, I swear it! I didn’t mean for it to happen! I wanted to be rid of it but when it came down to it I couldn’t bear it! The Healer...she said it would be fine either way...that I’d receive support. I’ve been going to see her for a couple of months. She’s been helping. I...I’m prepared. I think. Well, not really. I haven’t got any of the stuff yet and I need to make an extra room but I have pictures!” Millie turned around and reached for one of the drawers, producing from it a collection of pictures that were of her child; her favourite being of the shot of his or her little feet. Millie turned and held them out, her face falling at the realisation that that probably hadn’t been what he had been talking about. Millie brought the pictures back to her chest as an “Oh” escaped her lips, followed by a “sorry,” that she wasn't sure if she meant.

See, the thing about Trent was that he was always late. But at the very end of it, he would always show up. He had firmly believed in, and could certainly convince one of, his seemingly inexhaustible capacity to be unreliable. Truth is, if the call was right, he would be there. And whenever and wherever Millie calls, the call was always right. All of his delayed responses of affection to Millie were only very temporarily and trivially redeemed by his impulse to embrace. But hey, death waited for no one, did it? He had to turn up somehow before there wasn't a chance left. With Millie's warmth still lingering on his skin, Trent kept still and soaked up the remaining bits of it, wishing he had not let her go that quickly on account of his foolish tendency to be overwhelmed by the detestable awkward moment again. He needed to remember her. It was then that he decided that he would just have to summon the courage that he was supposed to possess anyway to get one embrace that was sufficiently memorable for a lifetime. That was clearly impossible. But one could try, at least, to make it last for as long as it could.

The man blinked, with eyes fixed on the ground, and fought the contemplation of the great unknown that would be life without Millie. It would simply be a life without. Could it even be deemed life at all? Trent was confused and pained with what he could conjure as the biggest of betrayals that the universe was going to deal him with. Then again, he was never in cahoots with the universe. What did he expect? Sighing, he didn't know how to control the growing sense of ache in the space that was soon going to be empty - empty of Millie, empty of life. Surely, he could have avoided this stream of thoughts. He could have, if he had only listened to what the girl was really going to tell him.

Still, fortunately, he was suddenly suitably distracted by Millie's sudden tirade. Well, it wasn't really a tirade in the end, really. The raise in her voice had prompted him to assume it was coming for him. That is, until the pictures surfaced. His jaw fell to what felt was the floor, which again was another exaggeration. But it worked in his head, that. The sleepy eyes that were his had a rare moment of awakening. And then, they shot to the girl's face, searching for an answer out of the maze that their owner had caused himself. Trent brought his jaw up as it began to strain against the sides of his face. And then, it fell open again.

"Is that ... " He brought his hand up to his hair and gave it a frenzied ruffle. "Is that what I think it is?" He frowned as his lips assumed an oval-like figure, then froze as he couldn't find the words to continue. Bringing his hand back down to his side, Trent took a step backwards, as if the truth was too bright or sharp or hard to stomach that he had to, on impulse, back away from it.

"You're not dying?" His voice almost squeaking from the stress he was putting on himself. The frown continued. "You're ... who ... oh." And then, in a lame and dejected fashion, he finished his question. "You're having a baby with Stewart?" The dismay on his face was too present to hide. This he couldn't hide. Trent couldn't decide what was worse - Millie dying, or Millie having a baby with another man. Quickly enough, and with adequate sanity, he went for the former. Still, it didn't make the latter any more depressing. He was a man-child, alright. The once again misled information that his mind fed him was enough to propel him to tears. He held them back, but not before his face has scrunched up into some sort of pained misery, something which he needed time to fix to a poorly conjured look of composure again.

The words that she wanted to say, the way she had wanted to construct them to make him see, they no longer felt right. His inquiry left Millie cold, her hands falling to her stomach where she balled the material of her dress tight in her fists. She shrunk back, her bum hitting the knob of the cupboard door, and stared at Trent with wide, imploring eyes as her lips moved aimlessly, trying and failing to form the words she wanted to use. Millie released the dress, her eyes beginning to brim with fat, salty tears. He’d jumped to conclusions, again. Millie didn’t know whether he was trying to deny the truth, that it was his child blooming within her, or whether he had genuinely missed the hint. She supposed it was the latter, more likely than it would have been the former. She didn’t know how she was supposed to communicate it to him. She didn’t think she wanted to. All she knew was that she did not want to be in the room with him in that moment, and so she left.

Millie pushed past Trent, unable to dignify his question with a reply. She hurried out of the kitchen as fast as her feet would carry her and sailed through the living room to stand out on the decking where the winds were high and bitterly cold for that time of morning. Her arms wound around her torso and she ducked her head, braced both against the wind and to keep herself together. Her breathing had quickened, her tears leaking out to stain her cheeks. Her fingers jittered against her arms, her grasp tightening and falling loose with every sob that wracked her frame. It was irrational to cry, this she knew, but she could not help it – for Trent refused to see. He’d always refused to see. He preferred to isolate his self then berate himself for it, assuming that it was by some cruel trick of fate that he’d wound up alone when really it was his own doing. Finally, when her legs could take no more, Millie let herself drop into the wicker chair, bringing her legs up to her chest and allowing her head to fall against her knees not a moment after.

In the kitchen, Lucius sat next to the photographs, watching Trent with distaste. The cat meowed for his attention, shooting him a pointed look that communicated: ‘stay or else.’ The cat pressed his paw against the photograph of the smaller version of his mistress. Lucius tipped his head so he could look at it properly and then lifted it to stare at Trent, taking his paw away and shoving it in Trent’s direction. Lucius meowed. “Yours,” he tried to communicate, despite the fact that he was woefully lacking a proper grasp of the English language. “It’s yours.” Lucius then hopped over the pictures to the frying pan of bacon. He reached down and turned the knob, cutting the gas off. He then lowered his face into the pan and stole a piece of bacon before hopping off of the counter. He rubbed himself against Trent’s legs momentarily and mewed pointedly, flicking his tail in the direction of the pictures, before trotting out of the kitchen after Millie.

Trent was frustrated. Perhaps someone should remind him, there and then, that the years of too many spliffs have yet ago shown themselves up in his hardly admirable intellect. So, he was frustrated, but he wasn't mindful of the equivalent agitation that he had caused. Somehow, though, the man had expected some sort of comfort from Millie. If she was going to have a baby with Stewart, she could possibly offer some remnant of affection towards him before she buggered off to nurture a decent life for the child with another man. But no, Trent got none of the love he oddly expected. It was as if somehow he did believe that Millie loved, or should love, him. Yet, given his unbearable denial of it, one wouldn't have expected the innate sort of belief that he betrayed now. Whatever it is, the fashion that she left in surprised him, even if only a little. Trent followed her with his eyes, until she disappeared from the capacity of his vision.

Thankfully for him, the cat provided the distraction and possible resolution, out of the miserable puzzlement that he was facing. While he had been so lacking of sensitivity to Millie, Trent could ironically begin to understand what Lucius was trying to communicate to him. Without much hesitation, the man took the few steps needed to get a decent look of the photograph that was the target of the cat's attention. Not very much of alternating between the picture and the glare of the cat's was needed before what should have dawned on Trent began to take off. From the moment it did, Trent had his eyes fixed on the picture. Slowly shaking off the disbelief, he stepped closer so that his hip touched the solidity of the kitchen cupboard. He saw it, too. He saw the little feet, waiting to make its first step in the world. And in that moment, he didn't know how to respond to the fact that this was his. This was his and Millie's. They had made something. They had something together. With that, he turned, overwhelmed with emotion, and strode out of the kitchen, in search of Millie.

He found her where he thought he would. It was a good sign, really. After the years of separation, he still knew where to find her, sort of. The guilt welled up in him, filling his once hungry stomach with the fullness of the unpleasant feeling that she was crying because of him. He had hurt her. He hated himself, again. He knelt down, beside her. A hand rose to reach for a touch. It was, however, an uncertain hand. Trent looked helplessly between the crying figure of Millie and his limp hand. And then, with a deep breath, he pushed the hand towards the girl. The slightest of touch began his endeavour to respond better to the news that Millie had intended to share, and that he had reacted so badly to. He could multi-task this time. He could berate himself even as he would attempt to make it better. Trent had his hand pressed softly against Millie's back. And then, he leaned in and landed a light kiss on her left arm. It was a bold move for the man, really. A start. He swallowed hard. He knew the words that he wanted to say; the words that were needed, too, at this time.

"I love you." Once the words were out, it was actually a lot easier than he had expected. The mammoth confession was unlike any he remembered doing before. But the little feet, the one he had conjured with Millie ... the sight of it had sparked something in him.