To Start Again

Chapter 1, Window Sill

If anyone was asked the question of what he or she would be doing in three years' time the answer would probably be something generic like having a family, finding the love of his or her life, going to school, or the grand favorite of "I don't know." However, not a person on this list would probably admit that he or she would end up living back with his or her parents. Or, in Alfred's case, parent. His father, Arthur Kirkland, specifically. He had gone through all the trouble to leave the controlling man's house as soon as he could, and now he was back. And that was not even the real kicker: he was a fluffy, white fur ball of a cat. Who could predict that he or she would one day end up living back home as the family pet? Strictly inside only, to boot. Irony had nothing on Alfred. Or was it Hero now? Regardless, he was still a cat, living in his father's house, which did nothing but stare out the window for three whole years.

In fact, that was what he was doing right now. He was perched on his favorite window sill in the second story hallway that overlooked the bay and the city beyond that. It was the same scenery that he saw all day every day, with the same annoying birds that could not keep their mouths shut, merely at noon now, and yet his tail still twitched at the sight. It may have been his hunting instincts that started his tail twitching, but it was his annoyance that continued it, and before he could do much otherwise he sighed what was probably the deepest sigh he had in a long time. So this was life now?

Alfred had always been an active, outgoing, and outdoorsy person—pretty much the exact opposite of his father, a practically agoraphobic home author which was shier than he cared to admit. That had always led to more than a few disagreements between them, and now it resulted in what Alfred considered to be extreme mental decay. He was a cat for goodness sake. How was he supposed to keep his still very human mind from regressing without some sort of stimulation other than this forsaken window? If that was not enough, he wanted to go outside for some purely selfish reasons as well. For one, he had been born a feral cat and suddenly being trapped in a house full time two years later had been quite an adjustment. Another thing was that he wanted friends. Alfred was not sure if his father knew what those were anymore by the looks of his increasingly isolationist behavior, but he sure did, and the neighboring cats could fill that very empty void he had. Did he mention that he had not had an intelligent conversation in years? He was sick of being meowed at by humans who did not have a clue what he was saying to them. He had cussed a few people out that just continued to meow pathetically at him. That had been such a weird experience that he had almost went into hysterics.

Yet, none of this mattered very much in the current situation, seeing that he could not get out if he tried—and he had tried. Oh, how he had tried! His first whole year in this house had been about escaping it once again. He tried everything from running out the door when his father opened it, which was lessening more and more, to slipping out the windows, to pretending to be ill so he would have to be taken to the vet. None of these instances seemed to ever end very well, and all due to one very stubborn Arthur Kirkland. He seemed quite insistent that he would not lose yet another thing in his life and had always taken every precaution against Alfred's escapes, learning from his attempts, and always keeping a firm grip on him when he had to.

Once the second year began, Alfred began to scale back his escape attempts. Originally, the idea was to analyze the situation in order to develop the ultimate scheme, but in the process he started to realize something. Why on Earth was he here back in this very house? It was one heck of a coincidence, if you ask him. So that meant that he was bound to be here for a reason, right? He had been so shocked to be back in this house that he had not observed his father much the first year, he had to confess, but he quickly learned that the man had not gotten over the fact that Alfred had left. If anything, he was worsening by the day if his antisocial ways were anything to go by. So that led to Alfred's epiphany: he was put into this furry, little body to help his father move on with his life. Of course, knowing why he was there was only step one. He actually had to change the man, as a cat, that he could never get anywhere with when he could actually communicate properly. Fate was most certainly cruel.

One thing that could not be said was that Alfred did not try. He gave it a valiant effort throughout the whole second year. He did everything he could think of, even locking his father out once. He dialed random numbers, known enemies and friends of the man's alike, even the pizza boy every so often. Then he destroyed furniture, clothes, blankets, quickly learning that it was walls and flooring that got service employees there. He even desperately mauled the windows whenever people passed by, sometimes with either whipped cream or ketchup all over him just trying to get someone to be curious enough to ring the doorbell. It had all been in vain because his father just continued to progress on the path of a recluse. His editor was not much help in the matter, either. The woman seemed to rather like having her author where she always knew he would be. Worse yet, she was nearly all business and did not serve to socialize the man very much. Whenever Alfred could he would bite her heels in retaliation.

His third year in the house had been one of retrospection, and not just on his life as a cat. Every inch of the house was suddenly dripping with memories that he had blocked out so long ago, both good and bad. He found that his two years as a cat in that house matched hand in hand with his years as a human there. He had his years that all he wanted to do was help and be with his father, and then the years that all he wanted to do was leave. In both scenarios he would throw himself into whatever he was doing, living in the moment, and not once take a step back and look at where he had come from or where he was going. He supposed that was how he ended up in this predicament in the first place, but he still could not make himself regret his actions. He doubted he ever could.

Now that his fourth year was here, what exactly was he supposed to do? He tried to leaved, tried to fix his father's life, finally took that step back and analyzed his life, so what was left? He was still not any closer to any of his goals, seeing as he was still perched in the same window sill and his father was still cooped up in same study. So, really, what was left? That was the question that could do nothing but torment him as the birds continued to chatter as they did every day and he listened to the faint tap-tap-tapping of what had to be his father's laptop. It was going to be yet another boring day in his abnormal, but very boring now feline life. Hurrah.

Gruuuuuumble!

Alfred huffed, listening to his stomach rumble. He had gotten so caught up in his misery that he had forgotten to go bother the man that was equally at fault in this for food. Normally he would not have to do this. If he waited long enough, his father would have enough sense to fill up his bowl with crunchy pellets, which were slowly killing Alfred's love of food, when he fixed his own breakfast. However, when he had been up all night with a stirring of inspiration or for a deadline, or if Alfred was just feeling sweet or especially hungry and chose to wake him up, he would lose track of the time and neglect his pet. He had at least been a little more on top of things when he knew it was his son depending on him. Apparently a pet was not nearly so important. Alfred snorted at that one its own. If he was not so important now he should have been let out to at least be able to catch a mouse or something, if that was just a beginning to describe how bad dry cat food was. Well, he guessed it could be worse. His father could still be trying to feed him his toxic creations. That was a plus, or would be if Arthur had not branched out into pet treats for certain occasions.

Seeing as his thoughts were getting him nowhere, Alfred banished them to the back of his mind. He could brood later, breakfast, or lunch in all actuality, now. He slipped down from the window sill with ease, landing with a soft thump on all four paws. From there he followed the railing which bordered the side of the hall overlooking the stairs and the front door below. Past the stairs he followed the sound of typing to the obscure room also on the second floor, his father's study. Alfred had a spell of luck when he came upon the room to find that the door was cracked. Using his paw skillfully, he was able to open it enough to slip inside without so much as a sound. Of course, even if he had been an elephant doing as much, he doubted that Arthur would notice. When he was writing the man would zone out to the point of not hearing whether or not a bomb went off. As a testament to that, unlike the rest of his house, Arthur's study had always looked like a warzone. The curse of creativity he always claimed. The result of that curse was that stacks of books, documents, and other nick-knacks, would often find themselves in natural landslides or avalanches depending, and more often the man would not notice a thing until he was finished. That meant that the odds were not in his favor for getting to eat that day.

Nevertheless, Alfred approached the blonde man cautiously. He could remember many a times that he had awoken the slumbering beast from his trance that had not ended so well for him. Still, it was this or go back to the window sill hungry, and he was not sure if he wanted to go back to the window sill even with a full stomach. As Alfred got closer and started crossing into the danger zone he took a moment to observe his father's condition. When he got into these spells he would neglect himself most of all, and that had not changed from when Alfred had been human. Neither did that fact that he wore glasses, only when he was working. The prescription lenses were real, so Alfred never understood why he did not wear them anywhere other than his study. It made him wonder if he would have had to get glasses one day. Once he looked Arthur over and then his surroundings, the detective work was done. Alfred's conclusion: he needed a hot shower, a nice meal, and some sleep, then repeat until it was like he was fresh off the shelf again. He doubted that would happen anytime soon, but he could at least remind the man to eat.

"Feed me!" Alfred commanded in his feline tongue, not at all surprised when the typing continued unperturbed, "Come on. It isn't that hard, you have been doing it for years. And eat something yourself for that matter. Aren't you supposed to be the adult here?"

Arthur did not so much as hesitate, and it was getting on Alfred's nerves, even if he had expected as much. He debated on sinking his teeth into one of the legs in his reach, betting that would get a reaction, but curbed his impulse. Contrary to popular belief, he did not hate his father, and though that was about as much as he was willing to admit to himself at the moment it meant that he took no pleasure in harming him unjustly.

"Hello!"

But some kind of painful retribution was beginning to seem more and more just by the minute.

"Fine then, don't look down." he huffed, starting to crouch.

After a moment of calculating the best angle and adjusting himself, he was airborne. His flight did not last more than a couple of seconds, but they would probably be the highlight of his day. He was still as much of an adrenaline junkie as always. His calculations were spot on, namely from practice, and he landed all four paws on Arthur's keyboard. That got the man's attention, especially as the whiskered beast sat back to cover all the keys and began to stare expectantly at him. If Arthur did not know any better he would think that his pet was trying to appear unamused. Well, neither was Arthur.

The man's emerald eyes narrowed on the offending animal, "Well good day to you, too, Hero. You want to try your hand at becoming an author, I see."

The cat snorted.

"But if you would, I am awfully busy. Go play or something—"

Growl!

Alfred's eyes lightened as Arthur started turning red. That had not been his furry stomach this round. Arthur, in his flustered state, began flail about a bit and in the process managed to catch sight of the time. Not only did his blush go away, but he paled.

"This late already? There is no way you could have eaten—I'm so sorry, Hero." Arthur rambled, quickly bolting from his seat.

Alfred could hear him running all the way downstairs and into the kitchen. Alfred sighed, before his lips curled into something of a feline smile. Although this had happened more than once, he could truly say that his father had been genuinely sorry each time, and each time he could not make himself stay mad. He supposed that old habits die hard.

Carefully, he removed himself from the keyboard as not to mess up whatever his father had been writing, and he followed him downstairs. By the time he had actually made it to the kitchen, his bowl was already full and Arthur was working on his own meal. The man immediately took notice of his appearance.

"What took you so long? You have to be hungry. Are you feeling ill?" he asked worriedly.

Alfred had one of those recurring moments where he wanted to laugh at the man for sounding like he expected an intelligent response, though he would have done just about anything do that very thing. However, Alfred merely meowed. This meow was not a "yes" or a "no" in his feline tongue, but merely a simple, unsymbolic vocalization that he had learned to perform from years of frustratingly one-sided conversations. Arthur had yet to catch on.

"I am glad that is not the case, but I will be watching you just in case. We can go to the vet whenever you need to." he assured, doing various kitchen activities that reminded Alfred more of alchemy than cooking.

Alfred shuddered, at both the words and actions, which only motivated him to eat so there would be no reason to visit the vet. The moment the first kibble crunched in his mouth he debated risking the visit, however. He had been eating the same dry food for three whole years now and it had not once gotten any better. He vaguely remembered a time when he could actually taste it about the first week he was here. He had hated it then, but now it was air that crunched. Would it really kill Arthur to buy him some canned food from time to time, or at least leave a can of tuna out on the counter? It did not even have to be open. Alfred was resourceful, he could find a way.

"Hero, do you remember what today is?" Arthur quizzed, still elbow deep in what was supposed to be cooking.

Alfred paused in eating his crunchy air. Today? Wednesday, he supposed. Dates had never been his thing and they mattered even less as a cat then they did as a human. He could check a calendar if he really had to, but as far as he was concerned it was another normal Wednesday for the most part.

A small smile warped Arthur's lips, "Today makes three whole years since you have been here, lad. Happy birthday."

Alfred blinked. He supposed it was the anniversary of when his father had obtained him, and the man had thus dubbed it his birthday. Still, Alfred could not really think of it as such even three years later. As far as he was concerned, his birthday was still the fourth of July, the day that everyone set off fireworks for both America and him alike as he had always said. He wanted to celebrate it then, but he would take what he could.

"I will have to bake you some treats later today,"—Alfred's hair raised—"And I even got you a present."

The cat perked up at that, losing all interest in the kibble within his bowl. It was all air anyway.

Arthur's smile grew as he saw his cat's undivided attention, "It is nothing extravagant now, so do not get your hopes up, and you will not be getting a thing until you have eaten and I have made a little more progress on my manuscript."

Arthur's grin widened even further as his feline skulked back to his bowl. Hero had always been such a character, even when he had first got him. In fact, that was why he had given the cat such a name. Because he reminded him so much of—Arthur shook his head fiercely. It was no time to be thinking of something like that. Today was a day to celebrate. Nevertheless, he had to keep reminding himself of that all throughout breakfast. He was truly grateful for Hero's distractions even when all the food was gone from his bowl. Arthur had contemplated filling it up again just to keep him around, but it pleased him greatly when he realized that he did not have to. The animated fur ball even stole on of his house slippers in one of his games. Arthur naturally chased after him, thankfully finished eating by that point.

It took a while for Arthur to find just where Hero had gone and he had traipsed the entire house in his pursuit. It was the last place he looked, his own bedroom, where he saw the missing slipper placed atop the covers of his pristine bed. Not quite believing it would be so easy, Arthur scanned the room for the mischievous feline. He really had to give it to Hero at times, the cat was smart, and the last thing he wanted was to fall for yet another trap. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he approached the shoe cautiously. When nothing happened, even when he grabbed it, he finally sat down to finally place it back on his foot. Before he could even raise said foot, the cat was square on his lap.

Arthur blinked in surprise, "What game are you playing at?"

Hero meowed softly, turning a couple of time before ultimately curling up in his lap. Arthur could not help but somewhat fidget. He had things he had to do and Hero could sleep anywhere. Then again, it was also the animal's birthday. Even if Hero was not aware of such, it was still sentimental to himself. Arthur sighed, realizing that he would be too guilt ridden to get anything done anyway if he forced the cat of his lap.

"You win, Hero. Are you happy?" Arthur asked, falling back onto his bed.

It was only several minutes later, when Arthur was snoring softly that the cat answered, "Why yes, I am."

Alfred could not help but laugh to himself as he carefully crawled out of his father's lap to get a better look at him. The man had really needed the sleep and it showed. A part of Alfred wanted to fetch a blanket for him, but the other said that would be breaking the mold for feline intelligence and he had done enough to not feel guilty. In the end, the latter half won out and he quietly left the man's bedroom.

Now what? He had done his good deed for the day, eaten, and had another one-sided conversation. Back to the window sill then? The mere thought made Alfred wonder if there was a precedent for feline suicides. He was sure there was, even if their owners were too stupid to realize it. Alfred was not sure where Arthur would fall on such a scale, but he did not hesitate to believe that the man would start forcing mood stabilizing pills down his throat, prescribed by his dear friend, the vet, if he started acting even slightly strange. No feline suicide today, not unless he knew it would work.

Not that he wanted to die, of course. He had debated that when he had first became a cat, and again when he became Arthur's pet. Both times he realized he was grateful to be alive, cat or not. That did not mean that he always enjoyed life, human or feline, but the times that he did were enough. Still, faced with the window sill once more it was a rather tempting option.

Bring. Bring. Bring!

Alfred huffed, hearing Arthur starting to shift about on his bed already. He just got the man to sleep. Who would be calling him anyway? Alfred meandered back into Arthur's bedroom in time to watch him hustle to reach the outdated phone on his nightstand. Really, who had a landline anymore? Alfred stood his ground in the middle of the room, watching with an annoyed face but listening intently. As good as his hearing was, he could not make out what was being said by the person on the other end, but he could tell Arthur was getting more and more overwhelmed. Was the editor moving up his deadlines again?

"B-but you are sure right?"

Sure? About what?

"Have you found anything else—Any kind of lead?"

Alfred began to feel dread settling in his stomach.

"I can be out there as quickly as humanly possible—Yes, yes I understand that was years ago and I intend to let you do your job, but—"

This could not be happening.

"JUST LISTEN TO ME! My son has been missing for five years and this is the first word of anything of his being found. Excuse me if I get a little worked up! I-I need to find him, so just keep me updated, okay?"

Alfred watched as he returned the phone to its proper place and then buried his face into his hands.

"Oh, Alfred…Where are you?" he whispered softly.

Alfred could not bring himself to leave his father, but he could make himself go up to him either. He knew before the soft sniveling began that the man was crying and it pained him for different reasons. Part of him wanted to tell him that he was there, right in front of him, and had been there for three years. The other part wanted nothing more than to tell Arthur not to waste his tears anymore, because the Alfred he knew was gone forever. Five years ago, that Alfred died and was reborn as the cat he was today, forever a shell of his former self. For that very reason, he felt like he never should have been with his father ever again, because he was an imposter and Arthur deserved the real thing. Suddenly the window sill did not look so bad anymore.