The drive over to Sam’s is… *interesting* to say the least.  Chris either begins to feel ill again, or engaging the idiot in conversation had a worse impact on him than I thought, as in my esteemed opinion, he drives like a lunatic.

Apparently, seeing as *he’s* on the road, no-one else should be…  The poor, uninformed contingent that dare get in his way are dutifully informed of their wrong doings in *exceptionally* descriptive terms.  Some are even privileged enough to have their short-comings punctuated with a burst of the horn or a carefully extended finger.

Quite frankly, I find it all rather exciting.  From my position on the passenger seat, I stand with my front paws on the window and watch the sights of London fly by.  To my utter delight, we pull up at a red light alongside a car that has a canine of some sort in it.  Said Fido notices me looking at him and proceeds to lose whatever plot it had.  The way it carries on makes the entire car rock.  I could happily watch this amusing performance for hours, but unfortunately the lights change and Chris takes off.

// Farewell Fido!  It was fun. //

By the time we reach Sam’s, Chris is well and truly re-entrenched in feeling sorry for himself and virtually shuffles up to the intercom.  He’s barely hit the button when he’s overcome with a coughing fit and can’t speak.

Sam’s voice wafts eerily through the small box.  "Curtis."

Seeing as Chris *can’t* answer, I miaow a reply.

// Hello Sam!  Let us in. //

Stunned silence momentarily follows this and I can just picture the look of confusion on Sam’s face.

"Mishy?"

// Nah.  It’s Garfield.  Who do you fucking think it is? //

"Chris?  Are you there?"

"Hack, cough," goes Chris.

// No.  He’s not here.  I came over myself because I missed you and am now levitating in order to be able to speak into this box thing. //

Sheesh.  Sam’s asking for trouble and I haven’t even seen him yet.

*Eventually*, after Chris has nearly passed out from lack of breath, Sam finally comes to the door and lets us in.  Looking from Chris to where I’ve immediately been placed on the floor, I can’t tell who he’s less impressed to see.

"You look like shit."

// Strike *one*. //

Chris looks at him dully whilst I note with malicious interest that Sam isn’t wearing any shoes.

"I… Ah…  The Fat Cows were having a party and I would gone postal if I’d stayed there…"  Chris puts his keys on the hallstand and coughs again.

"So you decided to come here and spread your germs?  Malone will do his nut if I get sick too."

// Fuck Malone.  By the way, Sam, strike *two*. //

There is a nuance of humour in Sam’s tone, but he really should be able to see from Chris’ stance that it is neither being understood nor appreciated.

Chris doesn’t respond, so Sam backs himself a little further into a corner and continues.  "You know I hate being sick and didn’t want to see you until you were better."

// Strike *three* and you are well and truly *out*! //

It’s obvious the Chris feels the same way because, suddenly, he turns on his heels and storms out the door.

// Now you’ve done it. //

The only silver (or *aluminium*) lining I can see in this mess is that at least Sam has the decency to look mortified, and noticing Chris’ keys, he looks positively ill.

// Well? What are you waiting for?  Go after him! //

"Don’t *you* start."

Sam glares at me before starting to make promising looking movements.  I trail around behind him and keep up a constant lament.

// Get out there and find him!  He’s sick, it’s cold and if you don’t bring him back here, then in the name of the Goddess you are not going to like the consequences! //

I have no idea as to what exactly I might do, but can still guarantee he won’t like it.

Sam quickly puts on socks and shoes, and grabs a jacket as he goes towards the front door.  As he opens it, I try and escape between his legs, but a well placed foot stops me and I retreat with a hiss.

"Get over it.  I’m already in enough trouble with Chris without losing you as well…," he mutters and disappears out the door.

// Trouble?  You don’t know the half of it. //

I am *beyond* pissed off with Sam - how *dare* he upset Chris in his obviously delicate state? - and stalk around his apartment in search of items to commit revenge on.

First to die for the cause are two incredibly ugly cushions and I derive a massive amount of pleasure out of shredding them.  Next I turn my attention to a neat pile of paper and throw myself at it.  Paper flies everywhere and I use some of it to glide over the polished wood floor.  My claws suddenly need sharpening again and the leather sofa supplies the perfect tool to rectify this.  I’ve just managed to switch off his lap-top (‘save changes’? No.  I don’t think so…) when I hear the front door open.

Bolting around the corner, I arrive just in time to see Sam half-carry Chris into the hallway.  The night air obviously didn’t agree with Chris as he looks dreadful and is still coughing.  I lightly bound up onto the hallstand and glare at Sam.

// Happy now? //

Instead of glaring back at me, he grins.  "It’s okay, he’s forgiven me… Haven’t you, Chris?"

"Mmm…  Hard to stay angry and too cold to stay outside…"  Chris grabs me off the hallstand as they pass.  "Mind you, I’ve also coughed my dastardly germs all over him…"

// Well done!  I’m proud of you. //

Not for the first time, I wonder if Chris was a cat in a former existence.

I start to purr in relief as Chris carries me towards Sam’s bedroom. Reaching it, I get placed on the bed (and subsequently glared at by Sam) just before Chris basically collapses on it.  He lies flat on his back and blinks at the ceiling.  "I feel *awful*," he moans and half propping himself up, looks at Sam for sympathy.

Sam, thankfully having learnt his lesson, responds dutifully.  Going to a drawer, he extracts a pair of pyjamas and throws them on the bed.  "Here, put these on.  I’ll just go and get you some cough medicine."

Chris peers at the pyjamas, but makes no move to put them.  Never one to miss an opportunity, I sidle over and start to knead them.  Not that I’m overly surprised, Sam appears to iron his pyjamas, and the crisp cotton feels most gratifying under my claws.

Reappearing with the medicine, a glass of water and some pills, Sam notices me on the pyjamas and sighs.

// I take it you haven’t passed through the living room yet, Sam? //

"Come on, take these."

"What are they?"

"Poison."

"Oh, in that case, give ‘em here."

"Nah, I’d want to make you suffer more first…  They’re only vitamin C and Nurofen."

"Works for me.  Hand ‘em over, Florence Nightingale."

Chris swallows the pills and then a mouthful of the cough medicine.  The latter causes a fascinating look of distaste to cross over his face.  "Ha! You are trying to kill me!"

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "You see, I want your cat…"

"Knew it."

Without so much as an ‘excuse me’, Sam wrenches the pyjamas out from under me and I nearly tumble off the edge of the bed.  Recovering my equilibrium, I walk up to the top of the bed, sit myself on the pillows and watch as Sam changes Chris.  He does this so gently that I  *almost* feel sorry for having half-destroyed his living room.  Doing the pyjama top up, Sam kisses Chris lightly on the neck and receives a tired smile in reply.  "Not tonight, dear.  I’ve got a headache…"

"I know, I know…  Come on, get into bed and you’ll feel better."

"Mmm…  Joining me?"  Chris crawls into bed and buries himself under the covers.  Getting off the pillows, I jump over Chris and curl up near his side.

"In a minute, just let me get rid of Mishy first."

// Excuse me?  There’s no need.  I’m happy where I am. //

Chris yawns.  "She’s used to sleeping with me…"

"Well, not here she doesn’t."  Quickly backing up his mean spirited words with actions, Sam grabs me off the bed, dumps me on the floor outside his room and shuts the door.

For a moment I don’t just see *mere* red, instead I see * blood* red …  I then realise, somewhat to my surprise, that I’m more upset than annoyed… and I’m tired.  I hadn’t wanted to do anything but curl up next to Chris and go to sleep.

I don’t want to be out here.  I want to be *in there*.  I want to be with Chris.  He was nice enough to save me from the Bovines and I want to be with him.

Feeling immensely maudlin, I slump down on the floor and decide to sing to myself.  To my utter horror, the only song to spring to mind is Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’.  I’m further disgusted to realise that I know most of the words and credit this disgrace to Mrs Fat Cow.  The silly woman delights in playing the song when half-drunk and wails along to it like a banshee.

// Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the heart will go on… //

Suddenly the bedroom door flies open and Sam appears.  "Will you shut up?" he hisses at me and, bending down, tries to pick me up.

Quickly offering a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for this opportunity, I dive between his legs and am on the bed before he’s even realised I’ve moved.  Lightly hopping over Chris’ sleeping form, I settle myself down in my favoured spot near his side and prepare to fight.  Flattening my ears and extending my claws, I wait for Sam to try and move me.

Reaching me, he hesitates, sighs and whispers,  "Okay.  Fine.  You win.  If sleeping there is the only thing that will shut you up, then be my guest, knock yourself out… I don’t care anymore."

// Thank you.  Perhaps you’re not so stupid after all… //

Sam sighs again as he returns to bed and turns the bedside lamp off.  Once the room is dark, I sense him pull Chris tight and curl up around him.  This pleases me and, again, I feel that sometimes I may be too harsh on Sam…

Soon the room is silent save for the sound of their breathing and my purring.  Pleased that everything seems to have worked out for the best, I stretch out alongside Chris, slip into a deep sleep and dream of Mrs Fat Cow going down with Titanic…