Figgis 6: I just Don't Know What to Do With Myself

More Figgis and co.. In fact A lot more of Figgis...

I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

Figgis wasn’t overly keen on the idea of using his house to store a body  (even if that body wasn’t technically dead) but since he still hadn’t managed to make his speech intelligible, he didn’t get much of a say. Apparently a discouraging woof can also be heard as enthusiastic encouragement. So they all went back to his place. Theresa manhandled Bel’s body into the living room and dumped it on the sofa, much to Bel’s very much voiced annoyance.

“Don’t stick me there!”

“On the sofa? Where else should I put you?”

“I look like I’m drunk!”

“And if I laid you down, you’d look dead.”

Figgis was beginning to think that was preferable.

“So what next?” Theresa asked. “If the studio has done a midnight flit, then none of us are going to get anywhere with that."

“There’s other studios,”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have enough credits for another transformation.”

Bel shrugged, “me neither, I don’t have anything now.”

Theresa slumped into the armchair and Figgis curled up at her feet. She had rather nice feet, he could smell her moisturiser. He wondered just how far he could push the doggy behaviour, if he licked the delicious looking stretch of skin between her sock and the hem of her dress, would she slap him? He figured at the very least it was a little disturbing, and probably not something he’d do as a man. Not in front of company anyway.

“It’s almost dawn,” Bel said, “will you turn into ash the moment the sun touches you?”

“I don’t think so, I was supposed to be able to turn into a bat whenever I wanted, and just glitter in the sunlight. Blood drinking optional, they suggested red wine just for the look of it.” She paused. “I bloody hate red wine.”

Even if Theresa wasn’t technically nocturnal, and Bel didn’t technically need to sleep, both decided a few hours down-time may be the best idea. Hopefully after a couple of hours sleep, they’d be able to think of a plan (or, more likely, Figgis mused, they would each come up with a plan and they could spend two hours arguing over it).

Bel climbed onto the sofa and laid across her own lap, which looked a little like a double negative photograph. Theresa said she was going to find a bed, and since there was only one in the house Figgis realised she was going to sleep in his. Now he wished he’d changed the bedding. Still, it was the first time in months he could honestly say he’d had a woman in there. He debated pushing his luck and sleeping at the bottom of it (if only so he could truthfully claim to have slept with a woman recently) but settled for curling up in the armchair. It was still warm from Theresa’s body heat.

Sometime during the night he heard a soft weeping. Theresa. So he mosied upstairs, hoping to give a little comfort. Theresa was glad to see him. She pulled him into her embrace and wept salty tears into his fur. 

“I’m really sorry, ought to keep a tighter rein on myself,”

Figgis licked her face.

“I ought to sleep,” she said, and curled up in the bed. Figgis snuggled up beside her and lay awake until her breathing evened out and grew slow. Then he allowed himself to sleep.

He woke to a shriek. Several things dawned on him all at once. Firstly, he was freezing cold. Secondly, he was human again. And thirdly (probably explaining the first thing) he was stark bollock naked.

“Ah,” he said, pulling the duvet over his rather obvious erection and blushing furiously. “Morning.”