Tripod

When Steve returns from his morning jog, he can hear the sound of the washer and dryer rumbling. The dishes are in the drying rack and the cat perch has been vacuumed, as has the living room floor.

Were you late for work this morning? Steve texts Sam.

No? Why?

Just wondering, thank you.

When Steve takes his shower after his run in the morning, he notices the shower drain is working more effectively. He had been going to get to it over the weekend, but now he doesn’t have to. He smiles at Sam’s thoughtfulness, but again feels a bit embarrassed for not keeping up his duties. He makes Sam’s favorite for dinner and meets him at the door with a kiss.

The kitchen towels are new and that’s how he knows something is completely wrong. There is no way Sam had enough time to get matching kitchen towels when he came straight home from work and spent the whole night with Steve doing various activities.

“You don’t have a maid service, do you?” Steve asks, unable to come up with any actual reason why all the chores are getting done without him or Sam doing them.

“God no, I can’t afford that shit,” Sam says. “Why?”

Steve has no idea how to answer that question. “No reason,” he shrugs it off.

Steve spends the next three days not leaving the house at all. He goes absolutely stir crazy, and on the fourth day, Sam makes him leave because it’s Saturday and they have a running date, damn it.

When they get back, their bed is made and the laundry is sorted with one load already started and the throw blankets in the living room are settled attractively over the edge of the couch and Lazyboy recliner.

“You’re seeing this too,” Steve says, and it’s not a question even though it should be. He’s far too freaked out for Sam not to agree so he makes it impossible for Sam to disagree by making a statement instead.

“Uh-huh,” Sam nods. “Are all the doors locked?”

The two do a quick perimeter check, which also includes checking if anything is missing. Except why would a burglar spend the time to fold blankets and wash the two coffee cups in the sink? All the doors are locked. All the windows are locked. Nothing is out of place that would suggest they had an intruder except that the vents are dusted, too, and Sam hasn’t even done that since his mother came to visit last time.

“Okay.” Another statement, a thoughtful pause. “So what do we do about this?” and it’s so carefully worded and measured when it comes out that the answer should be equally as careful and measured. But it isn’t.

“Flour.”

“What?”

“Flour. You know, like in the movies,” Steve says.

“This is not Scooby Doo,” Sam shakes his head.

“Oh come on, what’s your idea then?” Steve goads him.

Sam raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, if you know what you’re doing.”

They sprinkle about a cup of flour in front of all the doors - the garage door, the front door, and the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Steve wants to sprinkle it in front of the windows, but Sam draws the line at that.

They head to the bedroom fairly early, and engage in various activities. Steve has actually always been a very heavy sleeper. Sam, not so much, but after a rousing round of vigorous sex, he sleeps like the dead.

Until a noise in the night makes his eyes flutter and adjust to the darkness of his bedroom. At first, he wants to dismiss the noise to Tripod being a shithead. But when it happens again, he can’t ignore it, and shifts the blankets aside to go investigate. Still mostly convinced it’s Tripod, he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water before tracking down the noise. The flour in front of the patio door is undisturbed, as is the flour in front of the garage door. A quick glance down the foyer confirms that pile is also the same as it had been when they’d put it out.

When he finds Tripod batting at his plush mouse, he shrugs off the noises he heard and shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak before going back to bed.

Thump.

Very much not a cat noise, Sam’s heart starts to race. He shakes and stuffs his dick back in his boxers before turning. The noise was really close. He picks up a shampoo bottle from the shower and walks towards the door, only cracked. He pulls the door open and is greeted by a very pissed off hiss before he shouts and throws the shampoo bottle up when he raises his hands to catch the thing that has landed on his head.

“Sam!” Steve shouts from the bedroom, falling out of bed and stumbling to run down the hall to his boyfriend.

“Arrguuuhhh!” Sam shouts and pulls at the thing on his face.

“Sam?” Steve asks, flipping on the hallway light.

Sam is standing in the bathroom doorway with Tripod raised like Simba on Pride Rock and the most sour expression on his face.

“God damn cat!” Sam shouts and shoves the stupid furball into Steve’s hands and skulks down the hall to crawl back into bed.

Steve comes to the bedroom shortly after. “Shut the door,” Sam demands bitterly.

Steve does and then climbs into bed next to Sam, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder to curl himself up next to his boyfriend. “What happened?”

“Stupid cat,” Sam says. “He jumped on my face from the top of the door. Scared the shit out of me. How the hell did he even get up there?”

Steve tries not to laugh and covers it with a kiss to Sam’s neck. “Go to sleep,” he says.

Then the yowling begins, and pawing at the bedroom door. The yowls and chirps last for a few minutes, just long enough that Steve ruffles the blankets like he’s going to get up and open the door before Sam shoots an arm out to pull him back, “Don’t you dare.”

The caterwauling quits for a while before starting up again. Steve again makes like he’s going to let the cat in and Sam again pulls him back. “He does not get to win,” Sam says.

Sam hits the snooze five times before dragging himself out of bed. He creeks his way to the bathroom for a shower before going to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Steve already has the cup ready for him when he arrives. He points with his own coffee cup at the sliding glass door. “You know, I don’t think we thought that through very well,” he says, referring to the now cleaned up flour.

The flour is also swept up from the garage door and front door. Steve knows without looking that the litter boxes have been scooped. The pillows and blankets in the living room have also been arranged in an aesthetically pleasing way. The coasters on the coffee table are stacked in their caddy.

“Nope, definitely not,” Sam agrees and takes a sip of the bitter, sugarless coffee.

“Either we’re losing our minds, or we’re being haunted by the world’s nicest ghost,” Steve says.

“Could go either way on that one,” Sam shrugs. “But there might be a third option.”

“And that is?”

“Werecat.”

“Because werecat is so much more plausible than world’s nicest ghost.”

“New plan,” Sam determines. “I cannot believe we went with your cockamamie flour idea - “

“Cockamamie? What are you, eighty? What’s your secret?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Sam deflects. “What we need is a Nanny Cam.”

“What in the hell is a Nanny Cam?”