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It's pouring, and work ran long for stupid reasons - Lambert is going to tell old Vesemir that he's never working with that fucker Clovis again, the asshole forgot to bring half the materials and then whined about being sent back to get them, and then he hurried through the job because he wanted to get to a fucking ballgame and Lambert had to completely redo every single bit of wiring the asshole touched because he fucking well refuses to sign off on a slapdash bit of work like that - and he is, frankly, in a truly terrible mood as he stomps home from the bus stop. His truck's in the shop, which isn't usually a problem because usually he has an umbrella, except that apparently that fucker Clovis thought it was a communal umbrella. Dipshit. Wanker. Ass.
Lambert isn't going to break Clovis's nose for him, but he can sure think about it.
He's most of the way home when he hears the noise - a sort of squeaking like a rusty bike chain - coming from a crumpled cardboard box wedged under the curb. He almost doesn't stop. But the box squeaks again, and he's curious, so he steps away from the half-shelter of the overhang and pulls the box open, and swears so vehemently he's surprised the rain doesn't evaporate around him.
The kitten sitting in a quarter-inch of water in the bottom of the box squeaks pitifully.
"Fucking hell," Lambert says, and pulls his shirt off, reaching in to wrap it around the kitten - it can't get any wetter - and pull it out of the box. It squeaks emphatically and flails its little paws, but the shirt does an adequate job of keeping it trapped so it won't actually claw his arms all to hell.
"Come on, then," he mutters to the kitten, hunching his shoulders to protect it from the rain. It isn't more than a few steps to get home, thank fuck; he frees a hand from the bundle of shirt and kitten to open the door, and stops on the rug just inside. "'Lena?"
"Yes, love?" There's a rustle of fabric, and a moment later his wife appears in the doorway to the living room. Her eyes go wide. "Oh gracious."
"I need several towels," Lambert says wryly.
"I imagine so! Just a moment -" She darts up the stairs, and he hears the linen closet door creak open and snick shut again before she comes hastening down again. "One for you, love, and one to bundle your clothes in," she says, draping a towel over his shoulders and spreading another one on the floor, and then reaches out with the third in her hands and takes the kitten from him. It squeaks loudly. "Where did you find this little fluffball, then?"
"In a fucking cardboard box in the gutter," Lambert bites out.
"Ah," Milena says softly. "I see. Well." She looks down at the kitten seriously. "You are very lucky, little one, to have been found by the finest man in the world."
Lambert can feel himself blushing. He knows better than to object, though; the last time he said something self-deprecating in Milena's hearing, she spent the rest of the evening complimenting him so fervently and extravagantly that he thought he was going to spontaneously combust.
"I got no fucking clue what to do with a kitten," he admits. He didn't have pets growing up - he doesn't want to think about what his shitstain of a father might have done to a helpless animal - and while he can guess they ought to dry the little thing off and find it something to eat, he doesn't know what.
"No more do I," Milena admits. "You get your wet things off and take a hot shower; I will dry this little one off and do some research into how to care for it. I will show you what I have found over supper."
"Sounds like a plan," Lambert agrees, and starts stripping, grimacing at the unpleasant feeling of peeling soaked jeans off his legs. Milena carries the kitten off into the kitchen, making quiet cooing noises that would soothe Lambert and will hopefully do the same for the fluffball.
He gets his wet things off (with some quiet but vehement swearing) and drops them down the laundry chute wrapped in the towel, then heads upstairs and takes a short but frankly blissful shower. Truly hot water on demand is one of the best fucking inventions in the history of the world.
When he gets back downstairs, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of soft flannel pajama pants that Milena made for him, it's to find a heaping plate of roast chicken and potatoes and salad with so many ingredients that the lettuce is pretty much an afterthought, just the way he likes it, and Milena sitting across the table with the kitten investigating the shallow box she's put it in. It's dry and fluffy, looking much less miserable, with a shallow bowl of water and a little pile of chicken scraps tucked into the corners of the box, and a little dishtowel nest. Milena is reading something on her phone, an adorable little crease between her eyebrows as she concentrates.
"It appears we have become the newest recipients of the Cat Distribution System," she informs Lambert as he comes in.
Lambert snorts and ignores his plate for a moment in favor of rounding the table and bending down to lift her chin and kiss her thoroughly. She makes a soft, pleased sound and kisses back, and he gets lost in it for a little while, the way he always does: the smell of her rose perfume, and the softness of her lips, and the sheer wonder that he's allowed to have this, that the most wonderful woman in the whole damn world wants him of all people to be kissing her.
The kitten squeaks, and Lambert breaks the kiss with a snort of laughter. "The Cat Distribution System, huh?" he asks, patting the kitten on the head with a finger as he goes back around the table to his own chair. It's rather pretty now that it's not soaked through, light and dark grey in stripes, with a black tip to its tail. "Do you want to keep it?"
Milena props her chin on a hand, looking at the kitten thoughtfully for a long moment. "Are you allergic?" she asks at last.
Lambert swallows an overlarge bite of chicken and potato. "Not as far as I know." He leans over to sniff at the kitten. It rears back and bats at him with its tiny paws, squeaking indignantly, but he doesn't start sneezing, which is probably a good sign. "Are you?"
"I don't believe so," Milena says. She dangles her fingers in front of the kitten; it squeaks and bats at them, falling over its own paws and looking indignant as it scrambles upright again. Lambert snorts and grins. "I would have to keep it out of my sewing room, I suppose. And there would be the litterbox to consider. Though apparently there are self-scooping models available."
"The wonders of technology. That'd make it easier, yeah." Milena lets the kitten catch her fingers, and it topples over again, gnawing on them so gently she doesn't even wince. It's incredibly fucking cute.
"I would rather like a cat, I think," Milena says, smiling down at the little fluffball. "I always thought I might, but my parents considered them undignified, so…" She shrugs.
"No idea if I'll like it, but sure, why the fuck not," Lambert decides. "What d'you want to call it?"
Milena considers the question as the kitten abandons her fingers to investigate the chicken scraps. It squeaks when she trails a finger down its back, and starts purring, a shockingly loud noise from such a tiny body. "I don't know," she says at last. "Have you a thought?"
Lambert hums and thinks about it while he polishes off the last of his dinner. Milena is getting damn good at cooking, which is a relief, because Lambert himself can and has burned salad. "Cumulonimbus," he says at last.
Milena blinks at him, then starts to grin. "You want to name our new kitten Raincloud."
He shrugs. "Seemed appropriate."
"Nimbus, for short," Milena decides. "Hello, Nimbus."
Nimbus squeaks. Milena giggles.
Lambert decides that today might have been absolute shit, but as the rain pours down outside and he sits back with a full stomach to watch his wife dote on their brand-new and extremely adorable kitten - well, this evening is a real fucking improvement and no mistake.