It´s a comfortable Saturday afternoon at the Monroe´s home. Elsie has been packed off to dance class, and Angeline is in the kitchen, engaged in the homely occupation of making cookies. Woof, the household dog - a sort of terrier golden retriever beagle type thing - is perpetually under her feet, hoping to catch falling scraps of cookie dough. The household cats - Meow, Cat, and the recently acquired Primrose - are no where to be seen. Angie is not worried. They´re probably sleeping in the sun, or trying to kill each other, or whatever it is that cats do in their spare time.

Angie´s hair is tied back with a bit of black cloth, and she´s got flour all over herself. A cheery pink apron is doing its best to keep the cookie dough off of her clothes but Angie is detirmined to make a mess and her black jeans are powdered to a sort of grey colour. The vase of flowers on the kitchen counter is also lightly dusted with assorted dry ingredients. She is humming as she mixes the milk and eggs, snatches of hymns. At this particular moment she is humming Amazing Grace. She is making chocolate chip walnut cookies. On the wall a large clock is easing its way towards five. Elsie will be finished with dance soon, but Angie´s sure.. Well, fairly sure, that it´s Mrs Higgins day turn to do pick up, so she´s not all to worried about that.

Darn Angie is adorable, in the way only a grown woman you've had intimate relations with can be adorable, when she's all domestic. Tom is having a lovely stay in cat form, but all good things come to an end.

In right about an hour he'll be changing. He hasn't come up with his strategy for attire yet either. The cat, primrose, being absent, is easy, cats are of coarse fickle and mercurial beings.

Tom just thanks the gods Angie hasn't taken him to the spay clinic yet.

Time passes. Angie proceeds in cookie production, moving on to the Ode to Joy, feeding the dog scraps of cookie dough. She greases the cookie sheet, drops the dough onto it in perfectly spaced, perfectly sized balls. There´s something obsessive about it. Then she pops the tray in the oven, remembers to set a timer. She takes her apron off, hangs it on a hook, and goes into the living room to read poetry.

Dogs eating cookie dough, bleh. Tom wouldn't think so in human form though. He struts through the house thinking, letting his tail lash against random furniture. 'Primrose....?' He wonders how she came up with it.

The hour of raiding closets is nigh.

"Ah, hullo hunni..." Angeline reaches a slightly floury hand down to stroke the cat´s head as it walks past. She did not in fact come up with the name. Elsie named the cat after a favourite plant. Doubtless Angeline would be somewhat disturbed if she knew she´d given her lover as a birthday present to her daughter, but this hasn´t come up yet.

Tom would only nonchalantly assure her that cat's don't belong to people. The fact that he happened to be a cat to be given as a present wouldn't really be what he focused on, it's bad for his ego.

He gives a rumbley purr, but then sneezes and shakes off the bit of flour he's just been inadvertantly garnished with.

Angeline sets her book of poetry - something by some Irish woman, very domestic and heartbroken - down and scoops the cat up in her arms. "Who´s a good kitty?" She demands, nuzzling the top of the cat´s head with her chin. She´d doubtless be mortified if she knew it was in fact Tom.

Tom ought to be mortified too, but she gives out good scraps and is so much nicer than kitty lock up. He purrs louder and headbutts her. This could be very awkward if she played with him for very long.

Luckily for Tom and the awkward, a timer goes off the kitchen. "Oops, fuck, cookies," Angie mutters, remembering suddenly that she was in the middle of doing something. "Down you go." She scoots Tom onto the floor and hurries off to check on her baking.

Tom has made it to the upstairs closet lickety split. He really does need to work on keeping some things here. His hair stands on end, it's normal proceeding his transformation. If only he can stay out of sight and out of mind now. He hides in the closet, it seems he'll have to magic himself some clothes.

Angie is downstairs, oblivious to any strange proceedings that may be taking place in her guest room. She´s laying out perfectly golden brown cookies on a wire rack and humming again, now to the radio. "All you need is love..."

Clothes are in place, and Tom is transformed, a few minor incantations and he even color coordinates. Then it's a matter of getting downstairs and outside. Which he manages just in time for cookies by the smell of things.

The doorbell ringing suprises Angie. She sets down the cookie sheet and heads off to answer the door. She´s still got a floral oven mitt on one hand, and flour all over her face, along with a worried expression. She´s sure it´s not time for Elsie to be home yet, and like the mother she is she´s thinking of all the bad things that could have happened. A frown purses her forehead, deepening lines that are already there from age. It disappears, however, when she sees Tom, and is rapidly replaced by a smile - first clearly delighted, and then more appropriately guarded.

"Well?" he asks innocently. He hasn't been around as often as he'd like but he has sent flowers a couple times.

Angeline would deny to anyone that this relationship makes her nervous and uncertain. Makes her feel like she´s still in fucking highschool. But it´s so... odd. They slept together that once, and it was like casual sex, she´s barely seen him since, barely knows anything about him, but he keeps sending the lovliest flowers. There are some on the kitchen counter now.

"Don´t just stand there, then, you´re letting the heat in," she chides, opening the door a bit farther.

"Mmm, something smells nice." he says cheerfully. "How've you been?"

Angeline leans in to kiss his cheek, transferring some of the flour onto his face in the process. "It´s cookies, come through to the kitchen and I´ll give you some."

"Oh, cookies. How can I refuse." he follows. Flour is much less offensive to man than cat.

In the kitchen Angeline takes a butter yellow plate out of a cabinet and deposits some cookies onto it. "Milk with your cookies or something stronger?"

She´s making polite hostess chat.

"Milk's fine." He likes milk all the time, but in human form he doesn't have to drink it from a saucer as he sheds in it.

"Okay, then," Angeline says. She presses the plate of cookies in his general direction and goes to get the milk. She´s all the time feeding Tom milk, even if she doesn´t realise it. She pours it in a green flowered glass now, different from the little bowl he usaully gets it in.

If she'd given him the little bowl he'd probably die. He thanks her all charming smiles.

Angeline is now forced to think of something to do with her hands, and she starts moving things to the dishwasher. "So, long time no see..." Cause what does she know. "What have you been up to?"

"Prowling around the world of antiques among other things. I found some lovely Chipendale chairs that need a bit of restoration."

Chippendale chairs. She takes a sponge from the sink, starts wiping down the counters with quick nervous motions. "Are the cookies all right?" Not fishing for compliments or anything, but a genuine need for assurance. Especially given that antiques are apparently more interesting than she is.

"They're good yes. What're you doing later?" he asks giving her a knowing look.

Angeline considers. "Housekeeping, making dinner, walking the dog..." Searching for her missing cat, quite possibly. She gets worried about that kind of thing. "Why, something I should be doing?"

"Getting a sitter and going out with me. Let's just go do something, I'm never in town, and I suspect you're a shut in." he urges gently.

Guilt and desire are conflicting in Angie´s mind but it hardly shows in her face, which is set to a mask of polite. He´s pretty much right of course. But she shouldn´t leave Elsie. And she should work, she has so much work to do. And the dog doesn´t cope well with strangers. "Well," she says, twisting her mouth indecisively. She can´t say no. It´d be practically their first date after all. But still. Responsablity.

The dog really will cope. Tom knows, he knows the dog rather well. Elsie won't be too thrilled when she can't drag him to bed, but really it's wrong of the child to force him, especially in light of his relationship with her mother. Ugh.

There´s so much wrong going on under the surface here that serious questions should be arising. So far however what Angie doesn´t know isn´t hurting her.

"I suppose I could," Angie says, bravely. It´s a big step.

Tom would really rather not bring the wrongness to light, it's not purposely wrong, no one contrived to do it. Maybe he can break the stupid curse.

"You could. You could probably even have a good time." he suggests. He would like her to have a nice time. She works hard, he's seen it first hand as a pet cat.

"Sounds implausible but I suppose I´ll give it a shot," Angeline says, mock grudgingly. She´s already composing a list of things that Absolutely Must Get Done First. "Where are we going?"

"You like theatre? We could go see 'The Boyfriend' while they're doing it at the theatre here in the city."

Angeline supposes she likes theatre but she hasn´t been to much but the children´s ballet of late. "All right," she says, agreeably.

"Alright. This leaves us about an hour and a half to get ready." he says eating cookies still.

"And find a babysister. I should call Mrs Higgins. Give me a minute. You wanna use the bathroom or anything, go ahead." Because that sounded like the implication. "And help yourself to the cookies."

He does help himself. He also fusses with his appearance a bit in the bathroom after his cookies.

Angeline sorts out the dishwasher, the babysister, feeds the dog, searches in vain for her missing cat and goes to get dressed. She would deny any butterflies are present in her stomach, of course. She´s a cool collected tenured professor after all.

Tom can tell she's nervous, he can smell it actually, cat senses linger. He takes hold of her hand long enough to give it a soothing squeeze. "Relax." he murmurs.