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It starts out with a single stray cat.
The tabby shows up halfway through a q-word shift. Chim isn’t even sure how it gets in, given that the bay doors have been closed all morning, but he has more important questions. Such as:
“How long do you think it’s going to take Fi to notice?”
Their lightweight med-flier is sleeping in a heap on the floor, one striped wing tucked over her head. She is for all intents and appearances dead to both the world and the fact that the tabby – which looks like it’s been on the wrong end of several fights in quick succession – has decided to curl up next to her shoulder. It looks perfectly at home in the firehouse and against Fi's black-and-orange hide.
“An hour,” Hen offers after due consideration. Chim glances down at Bobby, who has paused to survey the scene and only shakes his head before continuing up the stairs.
“Two,” he counters. They shake on it.
Fi notices an hour and fifteen minutes later when she rolls over in her sleep. The tabby voices its general displeasure at nearly being squashed by five tons of dragon. She startles awake in response, scrambling with uncoordinated legs to get upright, but her bewildered alarm turns to evident displeasure when she hisses at the scrawny beast.
It has the gall to eye her, tattered ears flicking, before sauntering towards the back of the firehouse and promptly vanishing.
Chim unwraps a fresh stick of gum and accepts Hen’s five-dollar bill.
“Odds it shows up again? I’ll put ten on under a week.”
“We’ll see.”
Four days later Fi picks up the tabby by the scruff, grumbling under her breath, and deposits it outside in the pale sunlight.
It’s back within ten minutes.
Fi repeats this process two more times before whirling to Bobby, her eyes shot with orange, and warbling in a way that demands with absolute clarity he fix the problem.
Bobby shuts the back door that hadn’t closed all the way.
It’s back within half an hour.
Fi collapses in despair and lets it perch on her tail, purring contentedly.
Hen admits that the entertainment is well worth the ten dollars.
-
The next time the A-shift is on duty and a cat appears it is, in fact, cats plural. Two of them slip in through the bay doors open for spring’s weak warmth. Fi is half-awake enough to snap at the air around them as they settle beside her, paws tucked up under their bodies in what Hen calls “relaxed” and Buck calls “the loaf.” They watch her spend ten long minutes trying to prod the furry intruders away before giving up.
“Could it be because she’s warmer than the bricks?” Bobby offers when they speculate about the unusual behavior.
Eddie snaps a pic that he’s guaranteed to be sending to Christopher. “If that were the reason they’d be going to Fin and Ferro too.” Fin, deeply invested in some soap opera Ronaldo adores, is watching the latest episode with him on a laptop. The tendrils around his mouth are rippling with delight. Ferro is lazing around in typical heavyweight fashion and looking just as amused as the humans at Fi’s dilemma.
“Maybe it’s because she hates them.” Chim catches Hen’s raised eyebrows. “What? Tell me that’s not clear anti-cat behavior.”
“You know, cats aren’t really attracted to people who hate them. It’s actually down to a mismatch between our signals." Buck nearly misses catching the bagel he’s tossing from hand to hand when he gestures to emphasize his point. Chim adds a note to his mental list to get hacky sacks. They at least don’t get everything bagel toppings all over the floor. "Cat haters avoid looking at or interacting with them, which in cat language is a sign you’re not going to get aggressive and are safe to be around.”
“Well, whatever the reason, it looks like she’s not having cat pate today.” Hen smiles as the long-haired gray ignores Fi’s latest attempt to dislodge it. The lightweight snorts, displeased, and goes boneless with an angry huff.
The cats continue to look particularly pleased with themselves.
-
Two cats turn into four, then five, then seven, all coming unerringly on days when the F Wing is at the firehouse. By summer the 118 captains have collectively given up on trying to manage the invasion and Fi has given up on deterring them. The crews have not given up on the tooth-rotting sweetness of the situation. (There are many, many pictures of the feline-draped dragon. Notably not on social media, for reasons of health and safety regs as well as the brass being unlikely to appreciate it as much as they do.)
It’s one of the hotter, stickier days in July, where tempers wear thin and patience wears thinner, that Fi finally snaps.
At last count there were easily ten strays curled up or stretched across the dozing tiger dragon. She erupts out of the pile, scattering cats to the wind, and flares her wings to their full length. Ferro ducks and complains in a rumble. Fi pays him absolutely no attention. The entirety of her focus is on the cats who have mostly landed on their feet and now look at her, disgruntled. The ridges on Fi’s tail clatter against the concrete as she lashes it from side to side, but for all her dramatics it never comes near one of the cats. While Chim can’t hear what she’s ranting – no one except the other dragons can – he’s willing to bet it’s in the psychic equivalent of all caps and possibly italics.
The human firefighters stay where they are. If they’re anything like Chim they’re caught between intervening and wanting to truly believe that despite the impressive display of saw-edged teeth, Fi isn’t going to actually eat the cats.
It’s into this frozen tableau that the tabby, original stray and originator of this trend, appears. It strolls in with complete casualness from the back of the floor, entirely unconcerned with the intimidating display before it. It’s carrying something in its mouth.
Fi stares at it.
The tabby makes its way to her nearest paw and sets down its burden. The tiny shape mews.
Fi stares at the kitten in turn.
The tabby licks the kitten’s head, purring, and trots back to the staff door.
The kitten mews again.
“Hen-“
She shushes him.
Fi’s head swings closer to inspect the kitten.
The tabby comes back in, carrying another bundle of black and white fur. It – she – deposits the second one and heads off again.
“Are we going to do something?” Chim whispers.
Hen shushes him, louder.
The third kitten, it seems, is the last. The tabby sets it with its siblings, now all making tiny kittens sounds, and arches against Fi’s leg with pleasure.
When Fi settles down onto her side, eyes glowing blue, the cats – including their newest additions –return to their rightful places.
“Did you think she was going to eat them? Because I definitely didn’t.”
Hen shoots him a look that says loud and clear that she sees through his lies and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
So, Chim thinks, is Fi.