Why am I thinking of Methos and kittens this morning? I haven't a clue!
As he walked down the path, his breath created clouds of mist around his face; it was the coldest winter Methos remembered in a very long time. Pausing, he wrapped his scarf a little more tightly around his throat. That was when he heard the almost imperceptible cry. Looking down, he spied the source in a pile of wet, disintegrating autumn leaves.
“Where’s your mum, little bit?” he asked the bedraggled kitten as he picked it up, cradling it. It looked up at him, with eyes too large for its half-starved face, and cried again. “Are you all alone too?”
The kitten bunted against his thumb, its sad cry of moments ago now a tiny rumble of happiness as Methos scratched its head. Pulling off one glove with his teeth, he gently placed the kitten inside its warm interior. “That better, little bit?”
“Methos, are you coming, or are you going to stand there all night?” Duncan MacLeod asked, coming back up the path.
“I’ll catch up with you later -- realized I left something back at my flat.” Then he said to the kitten, “This is our little secret, okay? This would ruin my reputation if it got out.”