Bandom fic: That Feline Beat

[fannyt]

Doing the WIP meme made me realise I have a finished fic sitting around that I just haven't posted yet. So here's the Aristrocats AU!

Characters: Jon/Spencer preslash (Background vague Brendon/Ryan, cameos by Cobras, TAI and FOB. Also Zack.)
Rating: PG
Word count: 10 000
Summary: “My name,” the strange cat said grandiosely, “is Jonathan Jacob Walker, the Prince of the Highways. But you can call me JWalk.” (Aristocats AU)


Spencer, Ryan and Brendon are sitting in a wicker basket by the side of the road, fifteen miles from home.

It's a strange thing to happen to any cat, to be sure, and the circumstances that led up to this moment are thus not without their peculiarities. But for the purpose of the story, the only really important thing is that one fact-three cats, fifteen miles from home.

It might be of interest, of course, to know that these cats are formerly of Rue d'Adélaïde, where their human Zack Hall has for many years and many generations of cats kept Maine Coons-like Spencer-and Chantilly-Tiffanies-like Ryan-and that he recently decided to invest in a Bombay-Brendon. It's possibly also worth mentioning that the heir-less Zack loves his cats so dearly that he has decided to leave his entire estate to them and any potential offspring. And it's certainly not without importance to this tale that Zack's butler Edgar, upon learning this and realising he would not be receiving a franc of Zack's considerable fortune-that he was, in fact, only mentioned in the will as a caretaker, a glorified servant to three immensely rich cats-was so enraged that he immediately began planning how to get rid of his master's darlings.

But for the moment you don't need to concern yourself with how Edgar spiked the afternoon cream with sleeping pills, how he bundled the cats into his motorbike and drove fifteen miles out of Paris. You don't need to know that he was planning to drown them in their sleep, but that the distant lights of a police vehicle caused him to lose his nerve and chuck the basket to the side of the road before he reached the river. No, the only thing that's important for you to know right now is this: Spencer, Ryan and Brendon are sitting in a wicker basket by the side of the road, fifteen miles from home.

They're not happy about it.

“What. The. Fuck,” Ryan said in his driest monotone, the one he usually reserved for especially stupid cats and people who misplayed Tchaikovsky.

“There's not a single house in sight here!” Brendon said.

“Does anyone remember what happened?” Spencer asked, feeling that as the oldest it was up to him to keep things on a constructive level.

“The last thing I really remember is Ryan missing that note in piano practise,” Brendon said.

“That's weird,” Ryan said stiffly, “because I can't remember that at all. Are you sure it wasn't a dream?”

“Oh, no, don't you remember it? You said there was probably something wrong with the two-line octave G, and I offered to look into the piano, and you said-”

“Anyway,” Ryan said, raising his voice and drowning out the rest of Brendon's explanation, “I can recall having afternoon cream, but after that I don't know what happened.”

“I remember that, too,” Spencer said. “But it must only be about noon now, so that must have been yesterday at the earliest. Did we really sleep for almost an entire day?”

“And how did we even get here?” Ryan asked, rolling his eyes. “I don't think this wicker basket catnapped us for kicks.”

“That part is obvious at least,” Spencer said, with more conviction than he actually felt. He was worried. There were several points about this that felt very strange indeed. Since he didn't want to worry his younger friends, however, he continued firmly, “We must have gone to sleep in this basket-there are always baskets in the kitchens-and someone must have mistaken it for a basket that was to be taken out of Paris. And then it must just have fallen off during the ride. From a motor vehicle or something-they're so shaky-you know how Zack's told us he would never exchange our carriage for a motor vehicle.”

Both Ryan and Brendon looked somewhat sceptical, but appeared to at least accept the explanation as plausible. (Which was nice, because Spencer certainly didn't.)

“How are we going to get home, then?” Ryan demanded. “Should we walk?”

“Don't be stupid,” Spencer snapped. “We'll have to find someone local who can-what's that noise?”

There was a humming coming from somewhere. They looked around themselves, then up, and Spencer shut his eyes briefly in horror. The noise was coming from a cat who was walking along quite happily in the tops of the trees lining the road, following one branch until it became too narrow, then jumping lightly to one in the next tree. Spencer tried not to look too closely. He didn't mind heights as such, but he hated trees.

“Maybe we could try asking him?” Brendon suggested, and Spencer came back to himself.

“Right, right,” he said quickly, and jumping lightly out of the basket, called out, “Hello! Um. Excuse me?”

The strange cat stopped humming, looked down and laughed.

“Whoa,” he said, jumping easily down out of the tree to Spencer's simultaneous fright and relief. “You are not from here. Who are you?”

“Spencer,” said Spencer, shocked. “Although according to common etiquette, you should really give your own name before asking for mine,” he added, pointedly.

The strange cat grinned at him and sat down, waving a paw in the air in front of him. “My name,” he said grandiosely, “is Jonathan Jacob Walker, the Prince of the Highways. But you can call me JWalk.”

Spencer stared at him. “How incredibly uncouth,” he said.

“Or Jon,” said Jonathan Jacob Walker, Prince of the Highways. “That works, too.”

“Do you live close to here?”

“My home is every barn or outhouse,” Jon said. “My bed is in the grass and the hay, in the old clothes on the back of a van. I live close to here, and far from here, and everywhere there's an open door and a bit of warmth.” And then, as Spencer was rolling his eyes, he added, “But mostly I crash in Paris.”

Paris. Spencer breathed in deeply, thanking their luck. If he lived in Paris, he had to know how to get back. He opened his mouth to ask.

“Are you always this fucking annoying?” he heard Ryan ask behind him, and he shut his mouth again. Oh well. There went that chance of striking up some sort of advantageous relationship with the strange cat.

Jon stared at Ryan and then, to Spencer's immense surprise, began to laugh. “Your kitten has a mouth on him,” he said.

“He's not my kitten,” Spencer said, turning to glare at Ryan and Brendon, who had both jumped out of the basket and walked up to them.

“I'm not a kitten,” Ryan snapped.

“Me neither,” Brendon said, as if anyone had even mentioned him.

“I'm sorry,” Spencer said quickly, turning back to Jon and trying to make up for Ryan's manners, “but we're all a bit unnerved. We need to get back home to Paris, but we have no idea of how. We were left here by some kind of mistake-we've never even left the city before.”

Jon looked thoughtful. “Where do you live?” he asked.

“In Paris,” Ryan said sarcastically, before Spencer had time to respond. Spencer turned to glare at him again, trying to convey how very not-recommended it is to continually insult the cat on whose goodwill you depend to get back home.

“I meant where in Paris,” Jon said, still looking calculating. “I need to know if we should catch the Bayard or the Defleur.”

There was a drawn-out silence.

“I have no idea of what you just said,” Spencer finally admitted.

“Huh?” Jon blinked, then looked apologetic. “Oh, right, sorry. Bayard delivers dairy and eggs to restaurants in central Paris, and Defleur sells meat. He has contracts in the outskirts, so I'm guessing it's probably better to catch Bayard, right? Unless you live in Les Lilas.”

“No, Rue d'Adélaïde,” Spencer replied, “but-”

“In that case we should get going,” Jon interrupted, starting to walk down the road. “Bayard's afternoon run goes past the main road and if we walk quickly we should get there in time.”

“We?” Spencer asked, falling into step. Jon flicked his tail casually.

“Yeah, I was heading back anyway.”

“You were heading in the wrong direction,” Brendon pointed out helpfully.

For the first time since this weird encounter, Spencer saw Jon look slightly disconcerted, but the sunny grin was soon in place again.

“Heading back by the scenic route, of course. Observant, these kittens of yours.”

“Not kittens,” Ryan said.

“Right.”

“A motor vehicle,” Ryan said, scepticism dripping off every syllable.

“Come on, just get on,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes.

“You remember that a motor vehicle was what got us into this fucking mess from the start, right?”

“We're awake this time. Get on.”

Jon was watching them with interest. “I'm sure there's a great story in this,” he said, “but I'm going to wait to ask to hear it. Bayard is going to be back with those eggs any minute, so you'd better get on board quickly if you want to make it back to Paris today.”

The door of the farm house Bayard had parked outside slammed close, and Ryan seemed to make up his mind. He jumped onto the back of the truck, closely followed by Brendon, who had been sitting loyally by his side.

“Come on, back a bit,” Jon said and led the way quickly behind some crates. A moment later they heard the steps of-presumably-Bayard as he placed something in the back of the truck and locked up. There was another pause, then the whole vehicle shuddered and growled, sending the three Rue d'Adélaïde cats sprawling.

“What the hell was that?” Spencer exclaimed, while Ryan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like told you. Jon laughed.

“It was just the truck starting up,” he said. “So you really haven't ridden in a lot of motor vehicles, then.”

“We have a carriage,” Spencer said haughtily. “It works perfectly fine, is a very smooth way to travel and,” he winced as the truck emitted a loud coughing noise, “hardly ever does that.”

“So how did you get out here in the first place?” Jon asked, lying down with his head on his front paws and looking for all the world like he was stretched out in front of a nice fire. “I heard something about being asleep...”

“We don't know how we got here,” Spencer said, trying to dig his claws into the truck's floor. It was all he could do to stay upright. He glanced at Brendon and Ryan, who had retreated to a corner and seemed to be trying to wedge themselves into place there. “We went to sleep yesterday afternoon and woke up by the side of the road, where you met us.”

“So did you annoy your human or what?” Jon asked, yawning.

“What? No!” Spencer exclaimed. “Zack is great. No, there was some kind of mistake. Someone picked up the basket we were sleeping in, thinking it was something else.”

“And then threw it to the side of the road.”

“Obviously it fell off,” Spencer said between gritted teeth.

“Obviously.”

Spencer breathed in deeply. “Look,” he said, glancing at Brendon and Ryan again to make sure they weren't listening, “I'm not really happy about this, but I don't want to worry them. So if you could-”

“Try not to point out the flaws in that explanation? Sure.” Jon flicked his tail, smiling at him, and Spencer felt his hackles settling down a little.

“So what were you doing this far from Paris, anyway?” he asked. “You said you crash mainly in Paris, which I take to be some kind of slang for live.”

Jon grinned. “Right,” he said. “I like to travel though, see places. And it gives me a chance to hear,” there was the merest hesitation before he continued, “news. And stuff. You've never travelled at all?”

“Why would we have?” Spencer asked, annoyed at how-somehow rustic he suddenly felt (and this while in conversation with a cat who referred to himself as “JWalk”...).

“Oh man, you mean you've never seen Nantes?” Jon sighed wistfully. “You've been missing out.”

“Yeah?” Spencer grinned despite himself. One of the cats next door had mentioned Nantes once or twice. “What's it like?”

“It could be even better than Paris,” Jon said, smiling. “L'île Feydau has the most amazing buildings, it's gorgeous. And then of course if you follow the Loire River you've only got started on the pretty. There's castles all through the Loire Valley, and many of them don't mind a passing cat, either. Château de Sully-sur-Loire is probably my favourite, but Château de Valençay has the best gardens...”

Trying to relax, Spencer stretched out as best he could on the uneven floor of the truck and listened to stories from places he'd never seen but always wished he could go.

With hindsight, it would probably have been better to make sure that the truck's driver didn't have any hindsight before they helped themselves to his milk. The minute Bayard looked in his back mirror and saw them climbing into the milk churns, he slammed on the brakes so hard that the cats were all flung into the wall of the truck, shock making the impact feel even harder than it actually was.

When they were in safety again, Ryan initially attempted some sarcasm on the subject of Jon's ability to find safe transport-but realised quickly that he didn't have a leg to stand on because firstly, it had been Ryan's pointed comments about the long time between meals that had led them to investigate the milk churns and secondly, Jon had been invaluable in getting them off the truck quickly and finding them cover from the assorted metal articles the enraged Bayard flung after them as they ran.

“So where are we?” Spencer eventually said, once the noise of the truck had died away along with Bayard's cursing.

“In the outskirts of Paris,” Jon said, sniffing a trash can. “Don't worry, I know where we are. But it's a long trek back to your side of town. We'll take the roof route, and that'll be quicker than ground level, but we still won't get there tonight.”

Ryan opened his mouth, then seemed to think better and closed it again. Spencer was impressed.

The truck had transported them very quickly-Spencer conceded that the things seemed to have something to recommend them, at least-but the sun was still starting to dip below the highest roof tops. “We're not going to have to sleep on the street or something tonight, are we?” he muttered to Jon, who grinned.

“Don't worry, I have a couple of places I usually stay at when I'm in Paris.”

Spencer was still grateful over being saved from an angry milk man armed with a wrench, and so did not point out that he doubted if Jon's choice of living space would be a very high step up from the street itself.

The sun had sunk completely and the moon had appeared to take its place when Jon finally stopped them and pointed a paw towards the next building. There was a skylight in the roof with broken window panes.

“That's one of my crash pads, the attic apartment,” Jon said, then froze, staring at the skylight. “Um. Oh, and there's another one a couple of streets away-”

“No way,” Ryan interrupted. “We've been walking for ages already. No way are we walking further than we need to.”

“It's just that this one's a little-”

“No. Way.”

“Jon, is there a light on in your pad?” Brendon broke in.

“Ah.” Jon looked uncomfortable. “You might just have hit on the problem with this place.”

“Pete. You ass. You fucking ass.”

“You said that su casa is mi casa!” the scrawny black cat sprawled in Jon's sofa exclaimed. Jon sighed.

“No, Pete. You said that.”

“Aw, JWalk. Give a brother a roof, there's a friend.”

“You're not just one brother!”

The sight that had greeted them when they entered through the skylight had been no less than nine cats of varying size and colour, sprawled over every avaliable surface. Several were extremely scarred, and one was bald in patches. The cats from Rue d'Adélaïde stared, appalled, although Brendon seemed to be eyeing some of the scars with interest.

“Who are all these people?” Spencer muttered.

“JWalk, come here and let us meet your friends!” one of the cats close by the black cat Pete called.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said and set off across the floor. Spencer followed, looking around him with mingled interest and trepidation. The apartment was filled with aged and sagging furniture-the sofa, several armchairs, a moulding pouffe and a low table with one leg off. It also looked like a used instruments shop. There were two violins, several guitars, something that looked a bit like a cello and a simple accordion. Next to the sofa there was a piano, and one sandy cat was sitting on the piano stool while the very thin cat who had called out to Jon last was stretched out over the piano's top.

“Some advance notice would really be nice before you barge in,” Jon told Pete, halting in front of the sofa and giving each cat a nod of greeting. “You can't just keep crashing here and expecting it to work out.”

“Why not?” Pete asked. “It always does.”

“You can't stay here, Pete.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well, we can see you have company,” the thin cat said, grinning at Spencer. “Hi. Enjoying a bit of the common touch?”

Spencer blinked. “What?”

“Bill,” Jon groaned, putting a paw over his eyes.

“And I see you brought your kittens with you,” the cat continued, waving his tail lazily. “How nice! A family outing.”

“They're not my kittens,” Spencer said, then looked around to see what had happened with the other two, anyway. Ryan was trying to inspect the cello-like instrument while still looking disdainful rather than intrigued, and Brendon had sidled up to the balding cat.

“Have you been in lots of fights?” Spencer heard him ask.

“Oh, yeah,” the bald cat replied. “And if you think I look bad, you should see the others.”

“Don't brag, Butcher,” the thin cat called at him. “Half of those are from when you were high on catnip.”

“Are you really called Butcher?” Brendon asked immediately, and when the cat nodded continued, “Why?”

“Because I once butchered a couple of Mastiffs with these two paws,” Butcher said, displaying his two front paws and grinning at Brendon's obvious awe.

“That's a lie, Butcher, stop baiting the kittens,” the thin cat shouted, rolling his eyes and making the sandy cat grin.

“So why is he called Butcher?” Spencer asked.

There was a bit of a pause.

“I notice you haven't introduced yourselves,” the thin cat said brightly. “It's OK, though, we haven't either. I'm William Beckett, but my friends call me Bill. And any friend of JWalk is a friend of mine.” He grinned. Or, well, leered.

“I'm Spencer James Smith V,” Spencer said, almost on autopilot, “and the Chantilly-Tiffany is George Ryan Ross III. The guy talking to Butcher is Brendon,” he finished. The others looked at him.

“Brendon?” Bill asked.

“He's new,” Spencer said, fur prickling awkwardly. Somehow, discussing blood lines with these cats felt weird.

“And I,” said Pete, breaking the moment, “am Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, King of the Back Alleys and Sultan of the Slums.”

There was another bit of a pause, then the sandy cat laughed. “Why don't you just admit you've simply collected all the names any human has ever called you?” he said.

“Oh, you're one to talk, Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump,” Pete said quickly. Patrick responded with a lazy flick of his tail and a grin, but didn't reply to the implied accusation. Spencer frowned, though, confused. He recognised the name Stump from somewhere.

“What are you doing in this part of town, anyway, Spencer?” Bill asked. “I'm assuming you're not local.”

“We're trying to get back home,” Spencer replied. “We ended up outside Paris by some mistake and now we're just trying to find our way back. Jon is helping us.”

“How nice of Jon.” Bill grinned at them. “Where do you live, then?”

“Rue d'Adelaïde,” Spencer said, and saw both Pete's and Patrick's heads jerk slightly. He opened his mouth to ask why, but was interrupted by Bill's hum of awe.

“You're not setting your sights low, JWalk,” he said.

“What?”

“Shut up, Bill,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. “Seriously. Just shut up.”

“I'm just saying...”

“You're not shutting up.”

“So do you all live here?” Spencer asked, trying to change the subject.

“Yes,” Pete said, at the same time as Jon said, “No.”

“We like to hang out here,” Bill compromised. “JWalk's place has got good gear.”

“The best piano,” Patrick interjected.

“And the flat underneath is deserted, too, so there's less chance of someone complaining when we play than in many of the other places we hang out at.”

“You play music?” Spencer asked, surprised.

“No,” Pete said, “we live music.”

Bill laughed. Patrick rolled his eyes, but smiled.

“That's my crew,” Bill said, pointing to three of the other cats, two of which were currently bickering over one of the guitars. “Mike, Mike and Adam-we're trying to convince him to conform to name norms, but he's not cooperating... Anyway, Butcher plays the drums for us. Well, I say plays.”

“Joe and Andy,” Pete said, pointing out the remaining two cats. “We're a bit more rock than Bill and his guys. We're a lot more awesome, of course.”

“Of course,” Bill said, rolling his eyes.

“But you know, we can talk about our music all night and not actually explain what it's about,” Pete barrelled on, then shouted suddenly. “Hey! Guys! JWalk and his friends just said they'd love to hear some music.”

“Pete,” Jon said, with an exasperation that seemed to border on amusement, but whatever he'd been about to say next was drowned out by the collective noise of all the other cats agreeing to the suggestion and starting to move around the room.

“Nice of you to be so hospitable,” Pete said and jumped down from the sofa.

Two of the worst scarred cats-Butcher and the one Pete had referred to as Andy-took up position behind one set each of old saucepans, tins and plates, and the other cats as well as Pete claimed one string instrument each. Patrick and Bill stayed by the piano, and Patrick began to press a few keys in a lazy way, picking out a little melody. The rest of the cats all tested their instruments, too, glancing from time to time at Pete. If he made some signal, Spencer didn't catch it-but suddenly, all the cats started playing, and the music came to life in a crash of chords.

It was loud and crazy and had a beat so strong Spencer could feel it vibrating in his paws, and the cats all played their instruments as if it was a game of rough-and-tumble, a fight to stay on top. And, OK, so Spencer had been raised on a diet of Tchaikovsky and Mozart, and there was a part of him that was saying that what this was, was nothing more than an awful racket. But another part, growing larger by the second as he watched Butcher and Andy beat the shit out of their percussion instruments, was saying “I want to do that, too.”

“Patrick!” Pete shouted. “Patrick, sing!”

Patrick rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I'm not a performing monkey, Pete,” he said. “I'm happy here, thanks.”

Bill looked down at him, then back at Pete. “You'll have to make do with me, then,” he said, sat up straighter on the piano and began to sing.

Spencer was used to songs of love. He had a particular liking for Cherubino's first aria from The Marriage of Figaro, in fact. But Bill sang about love as if it was something wild and strange and sweaty, raw and unpolished. And while he didn't have Dario Valente's rich vibrato or the beautifully modulated tones of Andrea Viello, there was still something vaguely captivating about his voice.

Spencer glanced at his younger friends. Brendon was listening with apparent fascination and Ryan wore that look of too-obvious indifference that meant he was interested despite himself. Only Jon seemed entirely unmoved, shaking his head sceptically.

“It's all going south in a minute,” he said, just as the bottle sailed through one of the broken windows, shattering against a wall and spraying the furball introduced as Joe with shards of glass.

“Oh, fuck,” he said in a voice of tired resignation, as the music crashed to an end. “Not again.”

“Right!” Jon exclaimed, taking advantage of the silence and waving his front paws in the air. “That's it-get out of here, all of you.”

“Aw, JWalk!” Pete exclaimed, but it seemed more for form's sake than anything else.

“We need some sleep before we make the last journey tomorrow,” Jon persisted, “and if you're here making noise all night we're not going to get it.”

“I mean it gets everywhere and the splinters are fucking impossible to get out...”

“And Joe might not survive another bottle anyway,” Jon added. “Out.”

Pete still made token noises of protest, but the rest of the cats accepted the dismissal with quite good grace and, apparently, no hard feelings.

“Good luck getting home,” Patrick said as he passed them, with a surprisingly courteous wave of his tail.

“Bye, JWalk,” Bill said next and, giving Spencer another leer, added, “So very nice to meet your friends.”

The rest of the cats followed them, each with a nod or some words of goodbye.

“Always a pleasure, JWalk.”

“If I had a casa, it would be su.”

(“Suyo,” Ryan corrected absently.)

“Nice jam, Jon, thanks for inviting us.”

“Third fucking time this fucking week, you'd think they could at least switch the bottles for tomatoes every once in a while.”

Butcher was the last cat out, and stopped by Brendon with a grin. “If you're ever in the neighbourhood again,” he said, “I know a guy who specialises in decorative scarring.”

“Out!” Jon snapped, just as Bill shouted “Butcher, what the actual fuck?” from somewhere halfway down the stairs. Butcher grinned again, winked at Brendon and left.

Jon kicked the door shut behind him and made an apologetic noise.

“They're ass holes,” he said, apparently by way of explanation.

“Friends of yours, I conclude,” Ryan said, and moved his paw out of the way just before Spencer trod on it.

“Right,” Jon said, ignoring the comment, “I guess we should actually get to bed. We can't count on any more motor transport tomorrow, so we'll have to walk all the way. I'll wake you up a little after sunrise; best to be on the safe side. Anyway, you can sleep anywhere takes your fancy,” he added, indicating the room with a generous sweep of his paw. Ryan gave him an extremely sceptical look, then walked over to the closest armchair and sniffed it.

“This smells,” he said. He sniffed the next armchair. “This smells.” The sofa. “This smells.” The pouffe. “This smells.”

Jon watched helplessly as Ryan continued his tour of the room, pointedly repeating “This smells” after each careful sniff. “I thought this was supposed to be the point where they would have no choice but to be charmed by the bohemian rusticity of the place?” he said. Spencer rolled his eyes at him.

“Don't expect too much.”

There was a muffled but delighted “whoop!” as Brendon jumped onto the pouffe and it promptly split open, spilling stuffing in all directions.

“Don't expect too much of Ryan,” Spencer amended.

Some while later, Brendon and Ryan were asleep, bedded down together in the exploded pouffe-which Ryan after Brendon's persistent pleading had proclaimed less smelly post-demolition. Spencer was sitting in one of the armchairs, watching them carefully. They looked peaceful now, but Brendon had been even more fidgety than usual before dozing off, and Ryan's face had only just lost the concerned wrinkle it had held even into sleep. He hoped they would sleep well. It had been a strange day, and he was worried delayed shock might hit them at some point.

He was aware of a noise behind him and turned quickly. Peering around the back of the chair he saw Jon lugging a bottle of cream across the floor, holding it carefully in his front paws and scooting backwards on his hind legs.

He turned his head, perceived Spencer looking at him and grinned.

“Thought you might get hungry in the night,” he said in a low voice, glancing at the pouffe. “Wait.”

He righted the bottle and left it standing in the middle of the floor while he padded off into one of the other rooms. He returned with a bowl, unscrewed the bottle lid clumsily and then carefully tipped the bottle, letting cream pour into the bowl.

“Where did you get that?” Spencer asked curiously, jumping down from the chair and joining him on the floor.

“Stole it,” Jon said easily. Spencer tried to hide his disapproval-he did have some manners, after all, and you couldn't exactly turn up your nose at what your host was offering just because their means of getting it was slightly illegal. Well, entirely illegal, as a matter of fact, but there were after all several prominent families in Paris who had started out that way and no one would ever dream of holding that against them nowadays.

“Found a place you like yet?” Jon asked, inclining his head to indicate the pieces of furniture in the room. “It all smells about the same, sorry.”

Spencer flicked his tail-not important. “I'll find something.” He hesitated. “You know it's-it's really very kind of you, allowing us to stay with you. Thank you.”

Jon laughed softly, tipping the last of the cream into the bowl and allowing the bottle to roll away. “Ouch,” he said. “That one hurt, I can tell.”

Spencer's fur prickled in mingled anger and embarrassment. “I'm serious!”

“I know, I know.” Jon was still grinning rather widely. “I get it. It's cool. Look,” he glanced again at Brendon and Ryan, sleeping in the pouffe, “I'm going to sit out on the roof for a while. Join?”

Spencer felt that it would only be polite to accept.

There was a rather nice ledge just outside the skylight, and they perched on this, gazing out over the sleeping city. The moon was very bright, and Spencer could look far over the city, picking out several landmarks. It was strange-from above, even this part of Paris looked pretty.

He swished his tail awkwardly. “So have you always,” been an alley cat, “lived close to here?”

“I don't live here,” Jon said. “Told you.” But he smiled, and went on, “I was born over there somewhere.” He waved a paw in the direction of the Seine, just where a canal branched off to one side. “Or that's the earliest thing I remember, anyway. Me and some other kittens were in a cardboard box-I guess asking people to take us in. But as soon as me and Tom were strong enough, we heaved ourselves out of that box and set off down the nearest alley.”

“Your brother?”

Jon frowned. “I don't think so, but I wouldn't know for sure. There were a lot of us in that box. Some were probably from the same litter.”

“Where is Tom now?” Spencer asked, cursing himself silently the moment the question had left his mouth. With what little he knew or guessed about the lives of alley cats, it seemed as safe to assume that this Tom was dead as anything else.

But Jon only put his head to one side. “Don't know exactly. He ran with Bill's crowd for a while, but then he said he wanted to get out of the city. One day he just jumped on a train that was heading for Nantes.” He was silent for a while, then went on, “But I hear from him sometimes. When I'm out of Paris, travelling. Someone who's met someone who's met him... Things like that. He always sounds OK, so I guess that's good.”

The sat in silence for some time after that, watching the city. Somewhere way off, a single cat's voice rose in song.

“Oh, good. Sounds like Pete and the rest found another place to stay,” Jon said, squinting smiling into the moonlight.

“That's Patrick?” Spencer asked in surprise, then listened closer. “That's beautiful!”

“Mm.”

“Um. About Patrick,” Spencer began uncertainly, unsure of how to phrase the question.

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking. He looked-” Spencer hesitated. Healthier? Better fed? Although true, it didn't feel right to say it. “He looked different than the others,” he finally settled for.

“He was a house cat,” Jon said.

Some of Spencer's incredulity must have shown on his face, because Jon smiled faintly again. “Yeah, I know. A house cat actually choosing this? Not that it's not great,” he added hastily, “but it's hard to imagine someone who's been fed regularly being content with rummaging through waste bins for their dinner.”

Spencer's only meal that day had been the milk snatched in the truck. Yeah, that's not fucking likely, he thought.

“So why-” he began, but didn't know how to finish the sentence.

“Don't know,” Jon said. “Pete just showed up with him one day, about five months ago. Neither of them have exactly encouraged questions. They had to do a deal with one of the rats to get his collar off-that's really the only reason anyone even knows he had a home somewhere. We don't even know in what district, or what his humans were like at all.”

Rich, Spencer thought. Of course. The tale had jogged his memory, and he now recalled why the name Stump was familiar. It was a show name, one that was both well-known and successful. Zack had never been very into competitions or shows, but names still got around.

Spencer wondered what had made Patrick leave. By all accounts, the Stumps' humans were pleasant enough people-show cats had to be well looked-after, obviously, and cats talked. If anyone in the Stump home did not treat their cats with the respect they deserved, Spencer would have known about it.

Still. Sometimes things just happened. He wondered if-but there was something hard to define in the way Pete and Patrick had spoken to and looked at each other; not easy to confine to normal labels. He glanced at Jon, wondering if he should mention something about Patrick's origins, but Jon was smiling to himself, inclining his head in the direction of the song still rising through the air. So Spencer just closed his eyes and listened. The way Patrick sang was strangely haunting-not quite lonely, and not quite lost, but there was something of the beauty of both emotions without the pain. It made Spencer homesick and perfectly at peace with where he was at the same time, and he thought suddenly that he and Patrick might just have some things in common.

“Ah,” Jon said, breaking into his thoughts. “I've been waiting for that smile.”

Spencer's eyes slammed open. He felt his fur prickle all the way down his back, and hated it and hated Jon, who laughed.

“Oh well. Nice while it lasted,” he said.

“I'm going to bed,” Spencer snapped, turning away abruptly.

“It's a great smile, you know.”

“Good night!”

Brendon sighed wistfully, looking at Spencer's form jumping down out of the skylight again.

“Well,” he said. “We almost had a father.”

“What the fuck, dude?” Ryan muttered sleepily.

“It just felt like the right thing to say,” Brendon explained, but Ryan had already turned over and burrowed deeper into the pouffe. Brendon attempted another wistful sigh, then pressed his nose to Ryan's neck and fell asleep.

The next morning dawned wet and grey and depressing. Spencer, used to sleeping in Zack's huge feather-mattress bed or at least heavily padded cat baskets, had spent an incredibly uncomfortable night in what he suspected was the very hardest armchair. He had contemplated the sofa but, noticing a depression in one end of it, had drawn the conclusion that this was Jon's usual sleeping spot-and since he had not wanted to wake up and find himself sharing a sleeping surface with their host or, worse yet, find that Jon had given up his spot in some fit of gallantry, he had opted for prudence over comfort. Every bone in his body was currently regretting the decision. And since Jon had been gone when Spencer woke up, he didn't even know if his guess had been correct.

Put shortly, Spencer was grumpy, and the sight of the refreshed and pleased younger cats climbing out of the soft pouffe with every sign of contentment-despite all Ryan's earlier reservations-did not help in the slightest.

“Morning!” Jon's greeting was muffled by the paper bag he was carrying in his mouth, but as they turned towards the door he dropped it and continued, “I found us breakfast. There's some cream, too-oh yeah, you've found it. Great! Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very nice,” Brendon said. Ryan made a noise that could possibly be interpreted as a grudging yes as well, and Spencer kept a diplomatic silence. He caught Jon's look, though, and felt like a lot of his thoughts about sleeping surfaces, shared or not, had already been guessed at. He tried to look haughtily composed, and suspected he didn't do very well.

Ryan, meanwhile, had managed to get the bag open. “What the fuck is this?” he asked.

“Ryan!” Spencer said, appalled at the discourtesy, but Jon just laughed.

“The cafés some blocks away are very sympathetic to a cat in plight,” he said. “What you have there are sandwiches from some of the finest establishments the neighbourhood has to offer.”

“Sandwiches?” Ryan said in outrage, as if he hadn't already seen the breakfast Brendon-never picky about food-was now pulling out of the bag and lining up for them. “You would have us eat white bread? Do you know what that does to a cat's constitution?”

Jon grinned. “I thought it would be better than the croissants, at least,” he said.

“Wow, there's salmon in this,” Brendon said, interrupting the reply that Ryan had been about to make. “It looks good, too.” He tried a corner of the sandwich, shining up at the taste. “It's really good. Ryan, if you don't want yours I can take it.”

“I have to have some breakfast,” Ryan replied, his mouth full.

The sun had risen over the roof tops by the time they were on their way, but it was still rather early in the morning. Ryan and Brendon were walking together behind Jon and Spencer, looking around themselves in a kind of horrified wonder at the dirty windows and grubby façades of the houses they passed, while Jon instructed Spencer about the road they were taking.

“Right now we have the Seine to our left,” he said, “but we'll be turning right at the next crossing. If you walk straight on for five or six blocks, though, you get to this restaurant I'm sure your human goes to sometimes. L'oie d'or. It's really posh-there's a two-week waiting list for a spot in their trash cans. Anyway, we turn right here...”

“You don't have to explain where we're going,” Spencer said eventually. “I mean. It's OK. I trust you.”

The look of uncharacteristic discomfort Spencer had only seen briefly once or twice before passed over Jon's face again. “No, you know,” he said, swishing his tail back and forth quickly, “I just thought, if you ever, like if you forgot anything at my place or anything, it might be good to know how to get back. You know. Just in case.”

“Oh,” Spencer said, and an embarrassed silence fell until Brendon trotted up and asked Jon if the missing window panes he'd been noticing everywhere were part of some kind of ventilation system.

The neighbourhood changed slowly around them, until they were walking down streets lined with well-kept gardens and carefully wrought fences.

“Nice part of town,” Jon said, carefully casual. “I like the frilly things on the gates.”

“Gadroons,” Spencer said without thinking.

“Yeah, that.”

And then they turned a corner, and they were on Rue d'Adelaïde. A little way in front of them they could see the gates to Zack's mansion. They were closed, but the bars were wide enough apart that cats could always fit through easily.

“Bye, Jon,” Brendon said, eager to get back home, and Ryan added an only partly reluctant, “Thanks and everything.”

They shoved at each other and then set off, racing each other to the gates.

“Yeah, thanks for all your help with getting back,” Spencer said awkwardly, turning to Jon. “It was very-”

“No, don't go!” Jon shouted.

For a wild moment Spencer thought Jon was vocalising-unnecessarily loudly-some kind of separation angst, but then he turned back towards the gates and saw that on the other side of them, other shapes were speeding to meet Brendon and Ryan. Large shapes, with very large teeth.

“Stop!” he shouted.

Brendon and Ryan both skidded to a halt as three huge Mastiffs reached the gates and thrust their heads at the gates, teeth snapping and eyes glaring wildly. They were all barking; loud, deep bursts of pent-up anger.

“What the fuck?” Brendon gasped. Ryan seemed too shocked to even speak. Spencer and Jon ran up to the young cats, making sure they hadn't taken any actual hurt.

“Why would Zack get dogs while we were away?” Spencer said, bewildered.

“How are we going to get home?” Brendon asked.

“You're not going to get in that way, anyway.”

They all turned to the sound of the voice. The gorgeous Turkish Angora Victoria who lived next door was sitting on top of their garden wall, grinning at them.

“Wow,” Spencer heard Jon say behind him, and before he had really time to analyse the sudden hot anger flaring through him, Jon added, “Her fur is almost as nice as yours, Spencer.”

“What do you mean, Victoria?” Spencer asked, trying to ignore both his fur prickling and Victoria's curious glance. “Do you know anything about what's been happening here?”

“Yeah, your butler arrived this morning tugging those things.” She flicked her tail towards the slavering monsters, still trying to push their heads through the bars. “They've been creeping us out ever since.”

“You have a butler?” Jon asked, as Spencer said, “Fuck. Edgar. The bastard.”

It made a lot more sense than someone just putting them on a truck out of Paris by mistake, he had to admit. It just wasn't a much pleasanter prospect, since that meant their troubles were still far from over.

“I never liked him,” Ryan said. (Ryan didn't like anyone who failed to appreciate Tchaikovsky, but Spencer decided not to point this out right now.)

“Me neither,” Victoria agreed. “He shooed at me once.”

“People throw bricks at me,” Jon said sympathetically.

“Anyway,” Victoria continued, “I'm pretty sure I saw him nailing the cat flap shut before he went to get the beasts. So even if you get past them, you still won't get in. And you won't get past them, because they're psychotic. We tried to talk to them earlier and all they said was Fuck off. Repeatedly. Oh, and they said Fuck you a couple of times, too.”

“So how are we supposed to get in?” Brendon asked.

“Fuck Edgar,” Ryan said, with feeling.

“Hey, I'm not just here to gloat.” Victoria grinned at them. “Our gate's open, come on in and we can help you. Only,” she hesitated, “we might have to go through a little ceremony first.”

“Say the words,” Gabe demanded. Spencer glanced helplessly at Victoria, who gave him a complicated wave of her tail he correctly read as at least you don't have to do this once a week, just go ahead and say it. He sighed.

“We hail thee, mighty cobra,” he intoned.

The cobra in the terrarium they had all lined up in front of raised its head slowly and subjected them all to a rather sleepy stare. Eventually it nodded, waggled its head at Gabe and went back to sleep.

“You have all passed,” Gabe told them, nodding as though a critical moment had come and gone successfully. “You may now go wherever you wish in the house.”

“Thanks, Gabe.” Spencer grinned at the Havana Brown. Gabe might be mildly insane, but he was quite nice for all that and as long as you showed respect to the cobra, he was your friend. “Victoria mentioned something about a way for us to get home.”

“On the second floor,” Victoria said. “Come with me.”

“If you could get your human to get rid of those drooling things in your garden, that would be great,” Gabe called after them.

“They're creeping everyone out,” Victoria said as she led the way upstairs. “The cats three doors down swore they wouldn't go out of their garden until the Mastiffs were removed. Right, in here.”

There was a table close to one of the large windows in the room they entered, and Victoria motioned for them all to jump onto it, then gestured out the open window to a branch of the maple tree standing just on this side of the wall between her human's garden and Zack's.

“You can get on this branch here,” she said, “and then from that one on the other side it's only a short jump and you're home. It's as easy as anything.”

Spencer regarded the tree dubiously. “Somehow,” he said heavily, “I had this feeling it would come to this at some point.” He frowned. “Hey, how do you know how to get into our house, anyway? Have you ever got in this way?”

“No,” Victoria said, not looking at him. “What a stupid idea. Why would I want to get into your house?”

“I thought the fact that we have one of the best grand pianos in Paris might have had something to do with it.”

“You're weird,” Victoria said, then added quickly, “Come on, who's going first?”

There was a bit of a pause as Spencer, Ryan and Brendon looked at each other.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Ryan said and jumped onto the window sill.

Spencer bit back a shout of protest as Ryan stepped onto the branch of the tree gingerly and began to walk along it-quite steadily, but very obviously without looking down at the ground at all. He got to the trunk of the tree, hesitated for a bit and jumped up into the hollow where the trunk split into the main branches, then hopped down onto the branch leading to their window. Spencer actually shut his eyes as Ryan walked the last bit of the way, the branch now swaying underneath his feet, and then leapt across the open space to the window sill.

Once Ryan had made it safely into the house, Brendon followed, also making it across without trouble. And that left Spencer, sitting quite still and staring fixedly at the branch outside the window.

“Spencer,” said Victoria eventually and gently, “do you have a thing about heights?”

“He has a thing about trees!” Brendon called helpfully from the other window.

“I have a thing,” Spencer bit off, “about walking along a death trap like that. There's nothing strange about it. I can't help if you've all lost your self-preservation in some kind of accident, probably involving trees. I am the one who's actually being sensible here.”

“You walk along garden walls and railings and stuff like that all the time,” Victoria pointed out.

“They're flat. That thing is round. You can slip and fall off. And branches break.”

“Sure, fine,” Victoria said. “Take your chances with the monsters in your garden. I'm sure those odds are a lot better.”

“Hey,” Jon said, cutting off the waspish reply Spencer had been composing. “How about if I go first?”

“Oh, right, so it'll be both our weight on that branch,” Spencer said acidly. “Good plan.”

“Come on, Brendon and Ryan had no trouble.”

“Yeah, and they weigh about as much a sparrow. Combined.”

Jon sighed, then jumped directly onto the branch. He walked a few steps, then paused and turned. “Perfectly safe,” he said. “See?”

“No,” Spencer said, his eyes shut.

“Come on.” Victoria nudged him. “Just follow Whatever-his-name-is, go.”

Spencer sighed, opened his eyes and saw Jon sitting calmly on the branch just where it met the tree trunk, grinning at him.

“I hate all of you,” he muttered, but his heart wasn't really in it. He transported himself gingerly to the window sill and made the leap onto the branch, then clung on tightly.

“You're doing great,” Jon called to him, encouragingly. Spencer hissed.

“Don't fucking patronise me.”

“Sure. You look like shit. And if you're expecting this branch to get you home by itself, you're wrong.”

“Actually, just shut up,” Spencer bit out, but he slowly started to edge along the branch. If nothing else, he wanted to get close enough to Jon's grinning face to nut him.

“Wow, granny pace, now,” Jon said. “You're getting better at this.”

“Get out of the way,” Spencer said, in no mood even to bicker back. “Move.”

Jon obligingly hopped out of the way, then onto the branch on the other side of the tree. He walked along it, stopped now and then to turn around and call out what he probably perceived as helpful insults. (By now, Spencer really wanted to commit murder.) At last he jumped off and into the room where Ryan and Brendon were already waiting.

Spencer was left alone, with a few inches of empty air still separating him from safety. He drew a deep breath and took the plunge, realising in mid-air that he'd completely misjudged the distance to the windowsill and overshot the leap. He grazed the sill and landed in a sprawl on the floor, knocking the wind right out of his lungs.

The other three cats stared at him.

“Graceful,” Ryan said finally.

“Shut the fuck up,” Spencer said weakly.

He sat up, listening. The sound of Zack shouting angrily could be heard a little further down the hall, although the enraged effect was slightly spoiled by the frequent pauses to blow his nose.

“Sounds like he's on the telephone,” Spencer said. “Come on.”

They walked along to Zack's room. He was indeed talking to someone on the telephone, and by the sound of it, he wasn't happy with them.

“OK, this is where I head off,” Jon murmured, stopping a little way in front of the door. “I'll get back out over at Victoria's-don't really think your front entrance is a good idea right now.”

“Right,” Spencer said, swishing his tail awkwardly. “Well, you know, thanks again. Really.”

Jon grinned at him. “Don't mention it. Now, go in there and make your human happy. Sounds like he's missing you. At least, I hope he sounds like that because he misses you. If he shouts like that all the time he must be a pain to live with.”

Spencer grinned. “No, he doesn't,” he said. “OK. Right. Bye.”

“Bye.” Jon grinned at him again and turned, heading back towards the open window. Spencer followed Brendon and Ryan towards Zack's door and then paused, hesitating. But then he heard Brendon call out “Zack, we're home!” and Zack's answering shout of joy, and he ran the last few paces to the door and slunk inside quickly, not wanting to miss the expression on Zack's face.

It hadn't taken Zack very long to figure out who the culprit was in the case of his missing cats. His suspicions were first roused by the way Edgar seemed to be grinning as soon as Zack wasn't looking directly at him. And after Zack had been forced to retire to his bed, tired out by looking for his darlings, he had further confirmation of his belief that Edgar was not as torn up about the cats' possible kidnapping as he should be in the way the butler danced around the place, singing to himself and pilfering champagne from the wine cellar.

When several of Zack's cat-owning neighbours called in to complain about the sudden addition of three ferocious dogs to the neighbourhood, that was kind of the final hint. The person the cats had heard him shouting at when they finally arrived back home was a junior sergeant at the local police, who hadn't been there long enough to learn who owed whom favours. When the phone was handed over to a senior officer, however, it didn't take long until Edgar was safely under lock and key and awaiting trial with a cat-friendly judge.

The Mastiffs were quickly returned to their owner, who was subsequently persuaded that the dogs would probably feel a lot better living in a country home with large grounds, lots of running space and most importantly, a healthy distance to Paris.

For Spencer, Brendon and Ryan, life quickly settled back into its routine, although both the younger cats now tended to tackle their piano practise with rather more vigour and volume than had hitherto been the case. And they all looked around at their surroundings a lot more when they were out with the carriage, which was what enabled Spencer to see the cat strolling along the side of the street one day on their way home from an art exhibit. He pawed at Zack, who indulgently called the carriage to a halt.

“Jon!” Spencer shouted, jumping out of the carriage before it had even stopped properly. “Hey, Jon!”

Jon turned and smiled at him. “Hey,” he said. “Wow, I never thought I'd see you guys again.”

“Jon!” Brendon called, poking his head over the side of the carriage and grinning at them. Ryan poked his head up a moment later and gave Jon a nod of greeting. And after their two faces came Zack's, leaning out of the carriage and regarding Jon closely.

“This is Zack, our human,” Spencer said, waving a paw at him. “You want to meet him?”

Jon gave him a casual wave of his tail. “Sure, why not.” He walked with Spencer to the carriage and allowed himself to be picked up.

“Sorry,” Spencer said, jumping up after him. “He likes to get a close look at any cats we associate with.”

“It's cool,” Jon said, bowing his head obligingly as Zack stroked his fur.

“How have you been?” Spencer asked, giving Zack a doubtful look as the man rubbed some of Jon's fur between his fingers and peered closer at it. “And how are the rest of the guys? Been out of Paris anything lately?”

“Nah,” Jon said, allowing his head to be turned gently this way and that. “I've stuck to Paris for the past weeks. Checked out a couple of pads with Pete and the rest-they're looking for a good permanent place to jam. The place you stayed in has become too crowded; the humans opposite have really started to react badly. You'd think they'd like a bit of music now and then, but they probably just have shit taste. Is he always this thorough about checking out your company?” Zack was now trying to peer at Jon's teeth.

“You're kidding,” Zack said. “But-yes, that distinctive smiling face-it has to be-don't you think so?”

“Indeed, Mr Hall, I believe you're right,” the replacement butler, Edwin, said loyally.

“A Chartreux!” Zack exclaimed, and Edwin nodded wisely and uncomprehendingly. “I've never seen one this dark in colour before. It's amazing! Spencer, do you think your friend can be persuaded to follow us home?”

Spencer smiled at Jon, embarrassed. “I don't know why,” he said, “but I think it's really cute when they try to talk. Anyway, do you want to come back with us for a few days? I'm sure he won't protest. He seems to like you.”

Jon grinned. “Glad I passed the test,” he said. “Well, one or two days would probably be OK.”

A week later, he still hadn't left. Two weeks after that, Zack officially adopted Jon and included him in the revising of the will (in which Edwin was given a handsome legacy of his own in addition to his care-taking duties, Zack having by now learnt the lesson of what happens when you tell your servant that three cats stand between him and shitloads of money).

Zack's house was a little livelier after that, not least because Pete and Bill eventually found out where Jon was now staying and decided that to keep him from being completely assimilated to his new surroundings, they'd need to come and remind him of his roots from time to time. Zack's initial horror at his cats' new company was soothed by the discovery of a champion Burmese in the new crowd, and he eventually turned over one of his bottom floor rooms entirely to his cats and their friends. And even if Victoria initially swore terrible vengeance on Jon for ever introducing Gabe to Bill, the arrangement worked out to everyone's advantage. Jon, who had from the start had doubts as to whether he'd manage to actually stay in one place, found that he was perfectly happy with his new home as long as friends and news could come to him, and Brendon, Ryan and Spencer enjoyed the chance to switch the piano for guitar or percussion once in a while.

Neither Spencer, Jon, Ryan or Brendon ever had offspring to profit from the full extent of Zack's will-which is not to say that they didn't live out their days in perfect happiness.