A Stranger in Your Bed
Admiral Biscuit
You trudge home, head held low, after an overly-long day at work. As usual, the night shift had shirked their duties, and as usual, the boss had asked for volunteers to help get things squared away. As usual, you'd opened your big stupid mouth, gotten a friendly clap on the shoulder . . . and saddled yourself with enough work to keep you until after dark.
Your lunch break—sandwiches from home—is a long-distant memory by the time you finally clock out for the day. The only small blessing in an otherwise wearying day is that a number of restaurants are still open, and they offer take-away.
You finally make it home, with exactly four items left on your agenda: feed your cat, feed yourself, consider soaking in a hot bath, and go to bed.
You push open the door to your house and trudge wearily into the dining room. Missy, your cat, twines herself around your legs in grudging affection, and immediately begins meowing. She trails you to the cupboard, making sure that you know it is her meal time—in fact, it is long past her mealtime—and she is most displeased.
Your stomach growls at the smell of the cat food. It's not anything you'd ever want to eat, but you're bordering on starvation yourself. Okay, not really—and you could probably stand to lose a few pounds—but just like Missy, when you miss a scheduled meal-time, your body protests.
As soon as Missy falls to her bowl, you take out your dinner and set it on the table, chowing down without bothering to get a plate or silverware. A cold cider is just the thing to accompany the meal, and when you're done, you crumple up the paper wrappers and toss them in the wastebasket, rinse out the bottle so it can be recycled, and give Missy a few moments of affection.
She gives you a few pleasant purrs before turning her attention to an unwashed spot on her hind leg, and proceeds to lick it. You sigh and trudge towards the stairs. Cats have a funny way of showing love.
Each stair-step is a modified version of 'she loves me/she loves me not'—'take a bath/don't take a bath'? On the plus side, a nice hot bath is very relaxing—relaxing enough that falling asleep in the tub is a possibility. But it warms the whole body and relaxes the muscles. On the minus side, you're not a real fan of going to bed wet, and the inevitable chill after getting out of the bath is an important factor to consider, too.
The stairs share your reasoning; the final step is 'no bath,' and you accept this homey wisdom. Still, you need to go into the bathroom long enough to use the toilet and brush your teeth, and all the while the bathtub is tormenting you with its porcelain promises. You ignore it, spit out your toothpaste, and head for bed.
When you get into your bedroom, however, something is wrong. There's a huge lump in your bed, as if a huddled figure were covering itself with blankets. Close observation reveals that the covers are moving slowly up and down.
Your bed was empty when you left, of that you are certain. You would have remembered if it had been in any other state this morning. And while Missy has been known to crawl into bed with you—usually when she wants breakfast—or even play in it at night, the lump is far too big to be Missy.
Gingerly, you reach out and pull the cover back, staying alert lest you find yourself needing to evacuate quickly. You've heard rumors of burglars falling asleep while 'on the job,' so to speak, and while such a thing is highly unlikely here, it could happen.
There is nothing as mundane as a burglar in your bed. You whisk the covers off with a surety you don't feel, like you're revealing an artistic masterpiece to the world, and reveal a slumbering form which would be known to tens of thousands of fans the world over—Rachel Green, star of the hit television show My Little Human.
You'd never believed humans were real, and you'd never believed that even if they were you'd ever seen one. You'd hoped—you'd imagined scenes in your mind, and even written some of them down—but what would you do with an actual sleeping human?
You quickly throw the covers back over her before she wakes up and flutter your wings in agitation. Deep breaths, deep breaths, don't panic, you remind yourself as you catch yourself pacing around the room. From the quick glance you got, she's about as tall as the fans estimated, and—true to speculation—she hasn't got a coat at all. Not that you can see.
You turn as you hear a yawn from behind you. She's moving around under the covers, and you take a step back into the doorway, just in case. In the show, humans are generally friendly, unless cornered or provoked, so you're probably safe.
She stretches, and opens her eyes, looking directly at you. “Hi,” she says brightly.
“Hi?” You manage a brief bit of civility before your brain takes a brief unauthorized leave of absence. “Oh my gosh, you're Rachel Green from the TV show My Little Human. That's amazing!”
“Oh my God, you're a talking horse!”
“Why are you in my bed?” you ask, stepping back into the room.
“I just woke up here—I didn't know it was yours.” She lifted the covers, then primly tucked them back over herself. “We didn't—“
“No.” You flatten your ears. “I would have remembered that.”
“Me, too, I hope.” You'd had fantasies, sure, who hadn't? But unfortunately, those didn't count. Now that the possibility was staring you in the face—literally!—you aren't sure how to continue. Especially since you're exhausted. Physically and mentally, now. This is not the kind of situation which should be dealt with after a fourteen-hour day on cloud duty. “You're in my bed,” you say again. Hardly original, but you can't think of anything else.
“It's the only one in the house.”
“Yes. I should know. I bought all the furniture.”
“Is there a hotel?”
“I am not getting a hotel room for the night just because some random TV character showed up in my bed for no reason whatsoever.” You look over her shoulder and out the window just to make certain that there aren't any ballet buffalo or cotton-candy clouds. “It's my bed, and I'm going to sleep in it!”
“So no hotel, then?”
I shook my head.
“Well. . . .” Rachel looked around the room, deep in thought. You were beginning to wish you'd had a couch. You could go downstairs, flop out on the couch, and deal with this in the morning, after a good night's sleep. You tap your hoof in impatience, before finally coming to a decision.
“Shove over. I'm coming in.”