loficharm: (tense)
Martin Blackwood ([personal profile] loficharm) wrote2019-09-21 10:15 pm

on the care & feeding of a cat who is not a cat // for John

September 19 (cont'd) - September 22

Bursting out of the mansion into the insufficient relief of cool night air is only step one, and it's such a fraught step that Martin freezes up, not sure what comes next. John is still clutched in his arms, trembling but also holding still with a level of tension that would be alarming in an ordinary cat, and is alarming either way. His claws are still digging sharply into Martin's shoulder, but the pain is a distant bother, nothing Martin has any room to worry about just now. He's breathing heavily, adrenaline still up and his throat sore from shouting at Magnus to no avail. He stands out front, dimly aware he's being watched by the bouncers, and looks around like he doesn't know where to go.

He pulls himself together quickly because he has to. Focus on what's important, what's right in front of you. Think like Basira. One foot before the other. He has to get home. All of John's belongings, his clothes, his phone, his keys, it all disappeared into this new body. There'll be no accessing his flat in the Bramford. Martin has to get them to his own, which might actually be further from here. God.

"It's all right," he whispers, a bit manic, like he doesn't totally know what he's saying. "I-it's all right. I'm - we're gonna figure this out."

He starts walking. Reaches the city proper, Old Forest Rd., and he'll just follow that until he gets to the other end, to Candlewood.

"Gonna be all right," he says again, his voice trembling a little, resisting the various impulses toward comfort that might be welcome on an actual cat - stroking his fur, holding any tighter than he absolutely has to, even, mortifyingly, planting a kiss on his head, a thought he banishes in a little rush of panic atop panic. The best he can do for John is hold him as securely as possible without constricting and just. Get him somewhere safe. And then, the next step will be next. Whatever that is.
statement_ends: (cat - anxiety)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 04:18 am (UTC)(link)
Everything is too much in this new, feline form. The noise and bustle of the party, Magnus' insufferable smugness, Martin's panic. Martin's hands on him, gentle but far too large and inescapable, not so much because he couldn't but because he has just enough sense to know he shouldn't. He barely even knows how to move like this, let alone run, presuming he knew where to run to. His first thought would be his flat, his second the Archive, but with his keys having apparently been whisked into the ether, he'd have no way of opening the fucking doors.

He's shaking, his breath coming in shallow pants, and he knows his claws are digging into Martin's shoulder, but he has no idea how to make any of it stop. He wants to say something, but he knows he's only capable of unhappy yowling, and as apropos as that would be, he doesn't want to make Martin listen to it.

Somehow, absurdly, 'don't make this worse for Martin' is the most coherent thought he's managed since this whole horrible business began.

Right. Okay. He can... can he do that? Christ, he hates this, he hates this, it's so--so stupid. Turned into a bloody cat, like a cautionary fairy tale, except for the part where he didn't even deserve it. On what fucking planet is 'not enjoying a party' that much of an offense?

John tries to yell a generally indignant 'fuck!' He yowls, instead.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 05:17 am (UTC)(link)
Startling Martin had been an accident, though there's some grim satisfaction in at least hearing the word he was aiming for, even if the tone wasn't quite right. He has no idea how to convey an apology, though. The most he can manage is a much softer growl of a noise, the nearest approximation he can find to 'ugh.' Fucking ridiculous. He wants his actual voice back.

One large ear swivels towards the sound of Martin's whispered apology. It worms its way in, slipping past the static, the panic and overstimulation not enough to bury it beneath his notice. Maybe because it reminds him, unsettlingly, of his own whispered apologies in the tunnels beneath the Institute. Or maybe because it reminds him that he's meant to be trying not to make this worse, and if Martin's apologizing, then he can't have managed it.

Christ.

Okay.

His claws are still digging into Martin's shirt, and he thinks stop at them, but it makes no difference. He needs -- god, if he could laugh, he would -- he needs to relax. Simple. Except he very literally can't.

After a few moments of paralyzed indecision, he tries a different approach. He lifts his right paw, claws snagging on Martin's shirt but eventually coming free. It's difficult, he's still tense and wracked with involuntary tremors, and his leg doesn't readily bend the way he wants it to. But after a few shaky tries, he manages to fold his paw under itself, so even if his claws do come out, Martin won't have to feel them. The other paw follows, slow and unsteady, until they're both tucked away beneath his body.

The immediate downside to the maneuver is how much closer to Martin it requires him to be, his narrow chest pressed against Martin's now much broader one, as much a landscape as a person. The scent of him is more pronounced, this close, beneath the lingering scraps of the party: some generic deodorant, the dust of the Archive, tea -- Christ, he can still smell the bloody English Breakfast -- and something human and natural beneath it all. It's... familiar, though John can't recall consciously noting it before. It's also overwhelming, in much the same way this entire bloody evening has been overwhelming, and he wishes with sudden desperation that he could just make it all stop.

None of it stops, of course. The most he can do is bury his face against Martin's shirt, no longer watching, no longer seen. He doesn't want to be seen like this.
statement_ends: (cat - anxiety)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 06:17 am (UTC)(link)
Martin's hand presses gently just above his shoulder blades, and John shivers again, wishing he could just find comfort in it instead of having to tamp down the knee-jerk impulse to flee, the fear that he's being restrained. Which is absurd on several counts. Martin would never hurt him--not deliberately, not like that. He's holding him because he has to; John's repositioning of his paws means he can't really hold on, so without Martin's hand to keep his top half (front half?) steady, he might fall.

And if that happens, he's so fucking useless in this body that he might not even land on his feet.

He tries to redirect his racing thoughts to how much farther they might actually have to go, but it's hard. He doesn't want to lift his head to check their progress, but if they're going to Candlewood -- and they must be, there's nowhere else to go -- then it's a fair hike. He's in no position to suggest a cab, presuming one would even allow them both inside with him like this, not just a cat but an unrestrained one. He's also, infuriatingly, in no position to walk. All he can do is just let Martin carry him the entire ridiculous distance. Christ.

With that miserable conclusion reached, he just... tries to stop thinking, to stop as much as he can. He keeps his face hidden against Martin's chest and just breathes, trying to forcibly recategorize the hand on his neck as secure and safe, trying not to think about how pathetic he must look and sound and feel. He just needs to hold himself together until... until Martin's not watching, whenever that is.
statement_ends: (cat - nnNNO)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 04:11 pm (UTC)(link)
John loses track of time. There are too many other things to process with his newly heightened senses: the rumble and hiss of traffic, the occasional sounds of passers-by (he distantly hears a woman saying, "wait, was that a cat?" and huddles closer to Martin on some miserable instinct, horrified by the thought of some random person attempting to pet him), the feeling of air passing over his fur (his ears in particular are absurdly sensitive, and keep twitching at the slightest breeze), the myriad scents carried by the night air, most of which are unidentifiable to him.

But most of it, to his quiet mortification, is just Martin. The feel of his hands, the warmth of him, the increasingly labored sound of his breathing, the quick beat of his pulse, the scent of him, all of it so pronounced and overwhelming that it feels somehow invasive -- not on Martin's part, but on his. The Ceaseless Watcher has no goddamn business knowing these intimate, animal things. It's not useful or relevant, it's just deeply, horribly personal, and he knows there's nothing he can do about it, no way to be rid of it all. Maybe this miserable cat business will only last a few days, but he has a sinking suspicion that he'll remember these too-close details for the rest of his life.

When Martin speaks, soft as it is, John twitches, lifting his head and cracking his eyes open as if waking from a bad dream. No such luck, of course. Still a fucking cat. He tentatively uncurls one paw and braces it against Martin's shoulder, his claws coming out automatically. This time, at least, he manages to pull them back a little, hopefully enough that he isn't scratching him. They make it inside, and then -- oh, Christ, and then Peter appears.

John tenses in Martin's arms, acutely aware of his own helplessness, still halfheartedly considering the possibility of just launching himself at the horrible man's face, if need be. But Martin dismisses him without missing a beat, and John blinks at him, momentarily startled out of his own misery by that snapped profanity, and the incongruous little rush of pride it stirs up.

A minute later, he's gently deposited on the floor of Martin's flat. John just stands stiffly for a moment, once again left reeling by what it feels like -- his weight balanced on nothing but his fingers and toes, his spine... wrong, extending too far into a narrow tail that's currently puffed to thrice its normal size, his whiskers making his whole face feel weird. The discomfort translates into a full-body shake, a shudder that passes from his nose down to his tail and sends him staggering sideways into the wall with a soft grunt. He braces himself there for a few moments, his back hunched and his breathing rapid and shallow, then endeavors to take a few creeping steps deeper into Martin's flat.

He can't bear to actually look at Martin. He's dead certain he doesn't want to see whatever expression might be on his face.
Edited 2019-09-22 16:23 (UTC)
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 05:39 pm (UTC)(link)
John doesn't turn, but his ears swivel back to catch the sound of Martin's voice as he continues his slow, awkward way forward. No particular destination in mind -- honestly, he'd be tempted to just lie down and not bother with going anywhere, because what's the point, if not for the fact that if he doesn't learn how to fucking walk in this body, Martin will have to keep carrying him. So he tries, intellectually aware that he should straighten his spine and his hind legs but unable to fully banish the mortifying conviction that if he did that, he'd be sticking his arse up in the air. That's not how this body works, but it's how his usual one did, and it's hard to let go of the idea of where all his parts are meant to exist in relation to one another. Christ.

When Martin asks what he can do, he half-wishes he could request a full-length mirror set sideways on the floor and three hours of complete solitude, but he can't really request anything, not in this form. He can't speak, and he's trying to make as few noises as he can, as if he can hold on to the illusion of being able to talk whenever he likes as long as he doesn't spoil it by demonstrably failing.

He is thirsty, though. Christ, he's parched, actually, and when Martin goes to kitchen, he follows at a jerky, awkward trot. There's really no dignified way to drink out of a bowl; it's not as if he could use a straw even if he could ask for one, and he's thirsty enough to almost convince himself he doesn't care about the bloody optics of just lapping at it like... well, like a cat. At least it's working: apparently there are some things basic and instinctive enough that even he can't fuck them up, and he drinks for a solid ten seconds before it occurs to him to wonder what he's going to do when all this water inevitably passes through his system.

He's pretty sure there are cats who have been trained to use the toilet. He'll just have to figure it out, because he'll be damned if he does any of that into a fucking box. As if this isn't all horrible enough.

John sits up, wiping at the water on his chin with one paw, the gesture far more human than feline. Just in time for Martin to quietly insist that he's going to... to take care of him. John looks up at him for a moment, not knowing how to feel about that, part of him bitterly resentful that it's come to this, that Martin should need to, part of him rather pathetically grateful that if anyone's going to, at least it's someone he trusts, someone who hasn't succumbed to the temptation to tease or joke or infantilize him (a temptation he can only assume must be there; he isn't so miserable that he can't distantly appreciate the goddamn absurdity of it all). If it had to be anyone... he supposes there isn't anyone else he'd prefer.

With his means of communication as limited as they are, all John can do is heave a heavy sigh, defeated and acquiescing, and then bob his head in a stiff nod.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 06:54 pm (UTC)(link)
It's more of a relief than it should be when Martin sits down. He still towers over John, which is weird at best, but far more unnerving when he's standing up and downright brobdingnagian. John listens, gratified by Martin's indignation. At least one of them is saying what they're both thinking. John lets out a quiet huff of agreement when he pronounced Magnus a prick, another feline approximation of a human sort of sound.

Less pleasing is the apology, the more overt admission of guilt. Even if he could speak, John isn't sure how he'd go about reassuring him. There's no getting around the unfortunate truth of it: John was only at the party at Martin's behest, and this wouldn't have happened if he or both of them had just gone out to a pub or had a quiet evening in. But Martin isn't the one who actually did this to him. They couldn't have guessed Magnus would be so bloody unreasonable. Christ, given that Magnus is apparently the sort of person who does things like this, maybe it's just as well that John was there. He wouldn't have wanted something like this -- or worse -- to befall Martin, instead, because he'd gone without backup.

Martin has his head bowed, eyes fixed on his own hands, and John breaks his deliberate silence to get his attention, letting out a low, soft trill. Then he carefully shakes his head: no. This is already difficult and miserable enough without Martin sinking into self-recrimination. If nothing else, he doesn't want Martin to think he's angry with him, or holding him accountable for all this.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 07:49 pm (UTC)(link)
It's not much of a smile that Martin has to offer, small and exhausted, but it's better than nothing. Hell, that John managed to earn a smile by some other means than simply embarrassing himself is... sort of nice. To the extent that 'nice' can apply to his current situation, that is.

He gives Martin's next question a beat of consideration before shaking his head again. He's still too unsettled for the thought of food to have any appeal, and besides, what would Martin give him? The absence of actual cat food in his flat could probably be deemed a mercy, as the thought of eating that is appalling, but most of the human foods John could safely consume like this would require some preparation. He doesn't want to put Martin through the trouble of cooking him eggs at this hour.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-22 09:28 pm (UTC)(link)
John's tail twitches idly as he mulls over the prospect of bringing another person into this. His instinct is to hide himself away until he's back to normal, and the thought of meeting someone under these circumstances isn't exactly pleasant. But if he could actually communicate with someone clearly, without the limitations he's currently facing with Martin... it is tempting. And while he doesn't know Daine, personally, he'd like to think someone connected with animals might appreciate how wrong this is instead of merely finding it hilarious.

He looks up at Martin and nods, trying not to get his hopes up.
wildmage_daine: (wary)

[personal profile] wildmage_daine 2019-09-22 11:20 pm (UTC)(link)
Daine lets herself in the back stairwell to avoid getting caught up in needless unpleasantries with the landlord and climbs up to Martin's floor. As she does, she makes sure to keep her magic closed off. She doesn't know Martin's friend, but she can guess he's not pleased about any of this, and taking an animal shape for the first time is overwhelming enough without adding her magic to the mix. It'd probably be better for him if he didn't feel her coming.

That, and it'd probably be better for her if she was sitting down before she tried to talk with him. She's never met someone changed into animal shape by Magnus before, but her experience with Numair -- to say nothing of Biffy and Lyall -- have her suspecting that it won't be as easy to talk to him as it would a proper cat. At best, it might be like trying to tune a radio to a station that's hard to land on squarely. At worst, she might not be able to reach him at all, and trying will just give her a headache.

Well, she can cross that bridge when she comes to it. For now, she softly knocks on Martin's door.
wildmage_daine: (intrigued)

[personal profile] wildmage_daine 2019-09-22 11:50 pm (UTC)(link)
"Of course," Daine replies, taking in how weary Martin looks and giving his arm a sympathetic pat in passing. His friend -- John -- is sitting a little ways off, back stiff and straight and eyeing her warily, which she supposes she can't blame him for. It's a fair strange way to meet someone.

But manners are manners, and once Daine has set down her bag and settled herself on the floor a polite meter or so away, she nods to him. "It's nice to meet you, John." He glances from her to Martin, then echoes the nod uncertainly. Daine offers him a faint smile, then adds, "At least Magnus had the decency to turn you into a handsome cat. Though I s'pose that's a small mercy, all things considered."

John blinks, ears swiveling back uncertainly, and she sees a little of the tension leave his shoulders. Probably just thanks to bewilderment, but it's better than nothing. "I've got my magic locked down right now," she carefully explains, "because I'm not sure what it'll feel like, to you. You're not a proper cat, after all. But we might still be able to work something out, if you don't mind being patient with me."

After John considers her offer and nods again, she turns to look at Martin. "I couldn't trouble you for some tea, could I?" she asks. "Only I could use a bit of a boost." More to the point, she thinks this initial, fiddly stuff might be easier if Martin isn't hovering like a mother hen.
statement_ends: (cat - anxiety)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-23 12:39 am (UTC)(link)
Christ, she's young. Late teens, if he had to guess, and he's immediately apprehensive, sitting up straight and doing his best to scrape together as much dignity has he can muster. But it isn't really necessary, in the end. Daine sits down and gets to business with a frankness that's both foreign and refreshing (though being called handsome throws him for a brief loop, not being a compliment he's accustomed to receiving in any form, let alone delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone as one might read a weather forecast).

He isn't blind to the way she neatly redirects Martin towards tea, and he's wondering if he ought to be worried or impressed when she actually winks at him. He huffs without quite meaning to, another human sound of amused acknowledgment, and Daine smiles.

"I'm going to try opening up a bit," she tells him, tapping the side of her head for emphasis. "See if I can reach you. It shouldn't hurt or anything, but I s'pose it might feel a bit... odd." Privately, John thinks he's heard more encouraging openers, but the possibility of actually being understood is alluring enough that he stays put, tail twitching.

He isn't sure what her 'opening up' is going to look like, but all she does is shut her eyes and take a slow breath, apparently meditating. He watches her dubiously for a few moments, then glances over at Martin, who isn't so preoccupied with the tea that he doesn't have time to dart curious looks at the both of them. John looks back to Daine, sitting there with an outward serenity that he both envies and finds almost offensive, and then he... he feels something. A sort of tentative, feather-light brush against his mind, which is shortly followed by the sound of Daine's voice.

Hullo? Can you hear me?

John half-rises, his tail puffed and his eyes wide, and a faint line appears between her brows. It's all right, she... says? Thinks? Just think what you want to say, nice and clear.

Christ, is what he thinks, before realizing how unhelpful that is. This... connection, unnerving as it is, might not last for long. He can't waste it. Can you hear me? Can you tell Martin... he pauses, not knowing how to finish that sentence, before eventually deciding, Tell him... thank you. For getting me here.

Daine blinks her eyes open, then looks up at Martin. "He wants me to thank you. For getting him here, he says."

God, it actually worked. John's eyes are still wide, but he sits back down, his gaze flicking between Daine and Martin.
wildmage_daine: (neutral - mild)

[personal profile] wildmage_daine 2019-09-23 01:50 am (UTC)(link)
There's a moment after Daine translates John's message where she half-expects Martin to just start weeping, and between that and the funny little noise he'd made when she called John handsome, she can't help wondering if he's a bit smitten. Mithros, that'd complicate things even further, wouldn't it? Does John know? She gives her head a little shake; it's none of her business, really.

Getting a bead on John's mind had been tricky, but now that she's found it, she's not worried about losing it. They have what must sound to Martin like a one-sided exchange as Daine sips her tea, with Daine speaking aloud for manners' sake and translating John's side of things when it's needful. He has some strong but unsurprising opinions about actually living like a cat, which... well, she can hardly blame him. She likes cat shape, but she wouldn't like being stuck against her will for days at a stretch.

Food is the first concern, and John immediately makes it known that he'd sooner starve than eat cat food. She figures she'll have to go through Martin's fridge and cupboards and let him know some two-legger things John could safely eat over the coming days. At least that issue shouldn't be too difficult; she can't imagine Magnus's spell will last more than a few days, or a week at the outset. So long as John doesn't eat anything outright poisonous, nothing else he might try will have time to hurt him overmuch over such a short span.

(She delicately switches over to just mind-speech when asking about the possibility of a litter box, and gets such a desperately indignant look for her troubles that she doesn't even bother to pursuing that line of questioning. It's not as if he couldn't use the privy, so long as he's careful not to fall in.)

Really, it seems as if the most pressing issue is the one Martin mentioned right off: that John just doesn't know how this shape works. "Cat shape is a fun one," she muses as she finishes off her tea, "but it's always weird when you're trying it out for the first time." She looks between John and Martin, feeling a slight pang of embarrassment. She hadn't got round to telling Martin about this aspect of her magic, so he couldn't have warned John about it. "If you like, I could take cat shape, too, and sort of... show you?" It'll be much easier for her to walk him through it if she's in that shape, too, not least of all because if she gets too deep into thinking about how cat shape feels, she'll just end up shifting, anyway. To Martin, she adds, "Though it'll mean not being able to talk to you for a bit. It'll be fair boring, probably."
statement_ends: (cat - anxiety)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-24 02:29 am (UTC)(link)
John isn't sure quite how to feel about the possibility -- or, hell, the incipient reality -- of her taking cat shape. He knows he really can't complain; it's past midnight and she's going well out of her way to help him, for no more compelling reason than the fact that she knows Martin and probably feels sorry for the both of them. But he also can't help but feel preemptively embarrassed at how much he's about to be... well, shown up. There can't be more than a handful of people in this bloody city who can just become cats at will, and one of them just happens to live up a few floors and is about to show him how it's done. As if even this niche humiliation isn't so specific that there isn't someone within shouting distance who's ready and able to actually demonstrate how to handle it gracefully.

Maybe she senses his unease -- maybe her magic allows for that; he doesn't know much about it, and evidently Martin never had a complete picture, either -- but part of him rather suspects her 'boring' descriptor has less to do with painting an honest picture of how it will look and more to do with subtly trying to nudge Martin's attention elsewhere. He almost wishes it had worked; this is all intimidating enough without the thought of Martin's curious scrutiny added to the mix. But then again, what else is Martin supposed to do? Go to bed and pretend none of this is happening? Read a book?

"Actually," Daine says as she starts to get to her feet, "I've an idea about how the two of you might talk easier without me here. One of my friends... he's not here anymore, but he couldn't speak aloud, so he used this little board to talk to folk. It had letters and numbers and common words on it all laid out in a grid, and he'd point to them with a laser pointer, so you could read what he wanted to say. You could probably make something like that for John. It'd have to be bigger, is all, so he could use his paws." She straightens, then gestures towards the WC. "Um. I'm just... my clothes don't come with me, so."

John drops his gaze instinctively as Daine heads into the WC and shuts the door, wondering for an uncomfortable moment just where his clothes have got to. It's not as if he left them in a heap on the deck of that illusory ship. Are they still part of him, somehow? Transmuted into fur? Christ, they'd better still be on him whenever this wears off.

He can hear some faint rustling from the WC, but there's no flash of light or anything obvious to indicate that there's some astonishing bit of magic happening. There's just a brief pause, and an insistent meow. And when Martin goes to open the door, a fluffy tabby walks out.

Hullo, Daine says cheerfully, looking perfectly comfortable in her cat body.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-26 01:28 am (UTC)(link)
It's sort of awful, how grateful he is when Martin takes the hint and quietly shuts himself in his bedroom to work -- or just to give them some privacy, most likely (he doubts Martin has poster board coincidentally tucked away in his closet). At this point, he probably ought to be beyond embarrassment, but he finds he still has plenty to spare for the thought of Martin watching as he makes what will surely be some awkward attempts to get this new body under control.

Hell, being observed by Daine is bad enough, and he doesn't even know her. It would be easy to let that cocktail of embarrassment and unfamiliarity sharpen into resentment, but as she briskly sets about educating him, he finds he can't. She's too bloody sensible. Her evident familiarity with the whole idea of getting used to a new shape, combined with an apparently natural aversion to mincing words, make her an empathetic and efficient teacher. Nor does it take him long to appreciate that beneath her folksy exterior is a deep well of biological knowledge, which makes her really rather good at describing human equivalents for cat things (like how he might think of his paws as hands to better keep his claws in check, which puts a merciful end to his tendency to get snagged on Martin's carpet).

After about an hour, he's reached the point where he's confident he can walk and even run normally, his claws are under control, and jumping onto high places is only slightly terrifying. Before changing back, she coaxes him into making the very high jump onto the counter of the WC, so he can actually get a look at himself for the first time.

His reflection is... a shock, to put it mildly. He'd gathered that he was brown, but that's about the extent of it. He didn't know his ears were so bloody large. Or that he was so... long. Apparently Magnus saw fit to turn him into an oriental shorthair. Christ. He should probably just be grateful he didn't go with a bloody sphynx, instead.

Daine pronounces him 'good enough to be getting on with' -- John can't decide if that's an insult or praise, and quickly gives up trying -- and as he leaves the WC so she can situated, he finds himself eyeing Martin's bedroom door. Now that he feels like less of a disaster, guilt gnaws at him. Martin, of all people, shouldn't have to sequester himself. What if he's... lonely?

It's a stupid thing to worry about, probably; Martin's flat is currently as full as it's ever been (unless he's hosting dinner parties he hasn't yet mentioned). But he's still shut away, and after a few moments' hesitation, John walks up to his door and rears up onto his hind legs, one paw braced against the wood, the other rattling the doorknob.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-26 02:58 am (UTC)(link)
Christ, did he wake him? He's been so keyed up on a mixture of adrenaline and the sensory nightmare he's still getting under control; it hadn't occurred to him that Martin might simply be exhausted. And once Daine has excused herself, and left the two of them alone together, his remaining stores of nervous energy start to rapidly drain away.

He responds to Martin's question with a low trill and a blink of agreement. For a moment, he catches on the realization that for him, that's really all there is to it: no human routine of changing into PJs and brushing his teeth. He just needs to decide where to lie down, which isn't exactly a head scratcher. He turns, making his way over to the couch and leaping up onto the cushions with a competence that would've been wholly foreign to the John of sixty minutes ago. And there he curls up, as if to make a point: see, perfectly fine, nothing to worry about.

Sure.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

September 20th - Night

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-26 02:37 am (UTC)(link)
John huddles on Martin's couch and wonders when his flat got so bloody freezing. Or, perhaps more accurately, just what the fuck is wrong with him. He's covered in fur. Cold shouldn't be a real worry. Intellectually, he knows that cats run a bit warmer than humans and that he might be more sensitive to a chill as a result, but this is bloody untenable.

Maybe crawling beneath a blanket would help, but there aren't any. Martin's supply runs hadn't included a cat-specific blanket, in no small part because when Martin actually did his shopping, they hadn't thought there was any need. John wouldn't have described his first night spent on Martin's couch as comfortable, but it certainly hadn't been the kind of uncomfortable a blanket might fix. It had just been weird, not cold or otherwise physically unpleasant.

He supposes Martin might have a--a spare? Somewhere? But John's increasing dexterity doesn't extend to rummaging through the Martin's closets without making a huge mess of things, and Martin deserves a little privacy, besides. John shivers, then sighs. He hates to wake Martin, but there might be nothing else for it.

His bedroom door is ajar. John has no idea if that's typical, or just a courtesy to a temporary roommate with no thumbs to speak of, but it means John can slip inside easily enough. His vision is quite good in low light, and he can easily make out Martin's slumbering form atop the bed, as well as hear his soft, even breathing. It makes his tail twitch, that too-familiar discomfort of absorbing details that were never meant for him, and he hurries across the carpet and jumps lightly up onto the bed, intending to prod him awake.

... But he looks so peaceful, is the thing. John blinks down at Martin's face, hesitating with one paw lifted before slowly setting it back down. Is he really going to rouse Martin from what looks like a very deep sleep, haul him out of bed at this hour? It seems, if not wholly needless, still a bit unkind.

It takes John a few extra moments to realize that he's no longer shivering. It's warmer in here.

His tail twitches again as a truly stupid idea occurs to him. If Martin's asleep anyway, none the wiser, then John could just... stay here, for a little bit. Just long enough to get warm. His senses are sharp enough that he's certain he could be off the bed and out the door before Martin actually woke up. All a bit underhanded, maybe, but... harmless enough.

The warmth of Martin's body is an almost visible aura, and John carefully settles himself down just at the edge of it, paws braced under himself so he can bolt at the first sign of trouble. It's fine, he tells himself. He's only shutting his eyes for a moment.
statement_ends: (cat - nnNNO)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-26 04:02 am (UTC)(link)
He dozes off. He dozes off because of course he fucking does, and what had merely been a stupid idea ends up blooming into a complete disaster. John jolts awake a little after Martin, or maybe at the same time, but it hardly matters. What matters is that it puts an end to the idiotic notion that he might make a prudent escape before Martin realized he was even here. Instead, he finds himself with his claws buried in the bedding, ears flat and heart racing, and he looks at Martin, and Martin looks back, and--

--And John only lets him get one-and-a-half syllables into asking him what the fuck he thinks he's playing at before he's gone, bolting off the bed and out of the room as fast as his gangly legs can carry him.

Shit. Shit. He skids to a halt in front of the door, realizing too late that there's nowhere for him to run to, much as he might want to just flee into the fucking hills. Which leaves him with hiding. He doubles back into the kitchen, considering and rejecting several options before hurriedly pawing open the cupboard beneath the sink. Sick with mortification, he picks his ginger way around the various containers of cleaning supplies until he's fully inside, the door swinging softly shut behind him.

Christ, what was he thinking? It doesn't matter what body he's in; there's no getting around the inherent fucking creepiness of sneaking onto Martin's bed to--to leech off his warmth like some kind of hairy little vampire. John huddles into the corner, crammed uncomfortably between the cupboard wall and the drainpipe, and tries not to shake. He might jostle one of the bottles and give himself away.
statement_ends: (cat - anxiety)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-26 11:35 am (UTC)(link)
It takes Martin a few minutes to start looking for him, and even longer to actually find him, which is... a mixed blessing. John does not want to be found, for all that he knows it's probably unrealistic to expect Martin to just return to bed and leave him to be appalled with himself in peace. Huddling here in the cramped gloom feels like nothing less than what he deserves: the longer, the better. But the note of worry in Martin's voice is hard to discount, and John bitterly reflects that of course, of course Martin would find a way to still worry about him, even when he's... like this. Just taking what he needs from people.

When the cabinet door eventually opens, he can't help but flinch, giving himself away in an instant. Fucking fantastic. He really hates this little body sometimes, not least of all because of how prone it is to twitching and shaking, broadcasting his anxiety for all to see. He shivers, partly due to the draft Martin lets in, but largely due to how ridiculously wretched he feels, listening to Martin's reassurances without truly believing them. It's not that Martin's lying -- he thinks he would know, if he was -- more that he just... he just can't believe that even remotely qualifies as fine. Maybe it's overwrought to think of his own actions as 'taking advantage of Martin while he was in a vulnerable state,' but that is also precisely what he did, and he can't accept forgiveness as easily as Martin offers it.

A few of the containers he's sharing the space with clunk together as John shifts, subtle as it is, to cram himself more decisively into the corner.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-26 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)
John keeps his face hidden, not trusting feline inscrutability to counterbalance the weight of his own mortification. Still, one ear swivels inexorably back to catch Martin's voice as he continues to speak. His insistence that he's welcome to sleep on the bed -- setting aside the far more damning question of whether or not the idea bothers him, which he's rather terrified to contemplate for fear that the answer will be something like 'not nearly as much as it should' -- is... he doesn't know what it is. Charitable comes to mind.

Perhaps he's being unfair. Were their roles reversed (something else he'd as soon not consider too deeply), he... might be willing to make a similar concession, provided it was framed in the way Martin so kindly offers: some vague nonsense about dignity, as if that ship hasn't long since sailed, or as if sharing a bed with Martin isn't inherently more embarrassing than just sleeping on his couch like the temporary guest he is.

In the end, it's Martin's outright pleading that finally persuades him. He can't just keep sulking in the cupboard with Martin sounding like... like that. He can't bring himself to look at him, though, and he keeps his gaze firmly averted as he picks his way out of the cupboard and trudges -- to the extent that this body allows trudging -- over to the communication board Martin's made for him. He has to... to account for himself. If for no other reason than to make sure Martin understands what he's actually offering.

First, he rests his paw on "SORRY," leaving it there for several long seconds and punctuating it with a quiet sigh. Then he continues to tap out a slow, careful message: "W-A-S C-O-L-D" and "D-I-D-N-T WANT 2 W-A-K-E U." Only then does he risk darting the briefest sidelong glance in Martin's direction.
statement_ends: (cat - sheepish)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-27 02:11 am (UTC)(link)
There's a moment in which Martin's laugh is the worst thing John has ever heard. He isn't sure how to parse it, and his humiliation is complete enough without adding laughter to the mix. He stiffens, shooting Martin a hurt look before the apology registers. At which point, all he can do is blink, surprised that Martin's taking this so well -- that he feels the need to even apologize in the first place.

As far as John is concerned, there really are no 'should have's worth applying to this situation. He doesn't know if Martin's ever owned a cat before, but regardless, anticipating John's every potential need, under such... fraught circumstances is too tall an order. It's not as if he'd been particularly chilled that first night, otherwise he could have brought it up earlier. He never would have expected Martin to just guess at it all.

He's expecting a solution more along the lines of 'I'll invest in a hot water bottle' or 'we'll get you a blanket' than 'nothing to do but share a bed and let you avail yourself of my surplus body heat.' Martin just... it's not even an offer, it's an outright decision, the matter apparently settled. Christ, he even frames it as John taking care of himself, which is bitterly hilarious. If he only knew what self-care too often entailed, in John's case, he might not be so quick to frame it as a good thing.

Not that John's so far up his own arse that he doesn't recognize the unfairness of the comparison. John's earlier behavior may have been invasive and a bit creepy, but it wasn't anywhere near as outright harmful as the worst things he can do. And if Martin's offering, then... that's not so different from voluntarily giving a Statement. It might even be a more comfortable concession to John's wellbeing, when all is said and done. Less psychologically distressing. Besides, he's small and the mattress is large enough; they needn't even touch.

His tail twitches, and then he hesitantly taps a paw against "THANK YOU." After another considering beat, he adds, "YES" and "PLEASE." He's still feeling a bit sick in the aftermath of all that anxiety, but he might feel better by the time Martin's made something, and he just... doesn't want to refuse such a simple kindness. Especially when he's still weighing the possibility of rejecting the more complicated one.
Edited 2019-09-27 02:13 (UTC)
statement_ends: (cat - peer)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2019-09-28 08:18 pm (UTC)(link)
John makes his way up onto the counter by way of a chair that Martin had dragged over for the purpose. He's reasonably certain he could make the leap without the intermediary, but not certain enough to risk another indignity to add to the bloody pile. Plus, he's still a bit stiff from huddling beneath the sink.

Being shorter than Martin is still bizarre, but at least it isn't so pronounced up here. He parks himself nearby to observe, less because he doesn't trust Martin not to fuck up something as straightforward as eggs and more because it just seems... kinder, this way. Martin's making an extra effort on his behalf, and simply leaving him to it would make it all feel too much like servitude. Which might befit an actual cat, but it would just make him a prick.

They generally stick to yes-and-no questions when not near the board, so it's a slight surprise when Martin starts to sort of... natter, a bit. John blinks, then hesitantly throws in one of his assenting trills in response to Martin's first comment. The mention of fucking Elegant Eats nets him a squint and a flick of his ears, the feline equivalent of a grimace. God, but he hates the brand replacements.