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

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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.

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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.

"Oh, fuck," Martin blurts out as John suddenly yowls in his ear. "John-" He winces, cuts himself off. There's nothing to say. He can't make this better. He just can't.

Magnus had said it wouldn't last. They just... have to make it through. That's all.

But it isn't right. John didn't do anything, he just - he was just being himself, and he got punished for it. John wouldn't even have been there if not for him. He was just indulging Martin, going along because Martin asked, and now this.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, because it feels like it'll never be enough. "Jesus, I'm so sorry, John."

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.

It's hard not to fret over John's jerky, uneasy movements; it takes him a moment to realize what John is actually trying to do, that he's trying to dislodge his claws the only way he knows how. He can't use this body; it's his, but it's unfamiliar to him. Martin feels a flash of anger, wishing he'd just - just punched that smug so-called warlock in the face or something, only that certainly would have made this worse.

As John folds his paws under himself, he's forced to burrow in against him, and Martin feels like his heart might break. Part of him can't avoid thinking god, that's cute but it comes with a bitter undercurrent. It feels awful to think something like that when he knows John hates this, that he's not doing this to be sweet or affectionate - he's likely panicking.

He doesn't know what to say. He can't just keep apologizing. He sets his jaw tightly and adjusts his grip as gingerly as possible, making sure he has John's weight supported. He plants one hand against the join of John's neck and back, over his shoulder blades, hoping the sustained slight pressure is comforting and not harmful.

"Just a little further," he says as he crosses Haight St. Not quite halfway there, but at least he's moving fast. He says it again, trying to reassure them both: "Just a bit further."

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.

He can feel John shutting down, settling, but not comfortably. Martin doesn't say anything else, just focuses on getting the rest of the way across the city. It's a long walk. He wishes he knew anyone with a car, or rather that he knew anyone well enough to ask, or that he'd felt confident in his ability to talk a taxi driver into letting him in with a very unhappy cat. By the time he finally reaches Candlewood, he's winded and exhausted, wincing over the slight burn of a stitch in his side. Coming to the door, he realizes the next step isn't once they're in his flat; it's getting into the building at all.

"John," he says as softly as he can, trying not to startle him, "I have to shift you around a bit, just - just a second. You can grab on if you need to, okay?"

He grimaces as he shifts John's weight into the crook of his left arm as gently as he possibly can, murmuring another soft slew of apologies. He leans back a bit to try and mitigate the loss of support as he lets go his right hand, awkwardly fishing his keys out of his pocket and fumbling with the door. It takes him longer than it should, and he grunts in frustration before he finally gets it open, elbowing his way in while trying not to jostle John around too much. It's difficult, but he gets them inside and puts his hand back on John, gentler this time. They're inside. They're close.

As he shuffles hurriedly down the hall toward the elevators, in no mood to climb stairs like this, he hears the telltale click of his landlord's door opening and barely suppresses a groan. Christ, does he do anything but watch for his tenants?

The door opens and the man inches halfway out, breath drawn for a standard too-friendly greeting.

"Fuck off, Peter," Martin snaps, brushing past him without a look. He reaches the elevators and nudges the button with his elbow, wishing he could just punch it. He can feel Peter staring at him, but mercifully the elevator door slides open and he steps inside. The ride up is short but tense, the struggle into his flat just like the one outside, but then they're in and it's quiet and they're alone.

"Okay." He slumps briefly against the door, breathing. "Okay." Next step. He lowers himself down and sets John carefully, gently on the floor.

Edited 2019-09-22 15:09 (UTC)

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)

Martin sits, his back thudding quietly against the door, and he puts his head in his hands. He's dimly aware of John stumbling a bit, but he clamps down on the urge to reach out and help. John has had every bit of dignity stripped away from him, had to be bloody carried for far too long a time, and he is not going to make it worse now by mothering.

So he just sits there until his breathing slows. He looks up slowly, his hands dragging down his face, to find John venturing slow and awkward, more like a newborn deer than a cat, into his flat.

"I can contact Eliot," he says softly, "or Daine. They might be able to... undo this somehow." He knows as he suggests it how unlikely that is. As far as he knows, Eliot has barely been able to scratch the surface of getting his powers back, and Daine... he's certain there are ways she'd be able to help with the situation as it is, but how's not sure she could actually change it. He huffs out a breath, rubbing once more at his face before getting up.

"What can I do?" he asks, knowing immediately how unfair it is to ask when John cannot answer. "I... are you thirsty?"

It doesn't matter if he is, actually. He'll need water. He'll need... Christ, he'll need lots of things. It's late, creeping into Friday now, and he can't resolve any of this now. Not just the possibility of a magical resolution, but basic necessities: food, Christ, he supposes John will need a litter box, he can't imagine how horrendous that proposal will be.

One step at a time. He moves to the kitchen and fills a bowl with water and sets it gently on the floor.

"I'm sorry," he says again, because it'll never feel like enough. "I know this is awful, but I..." He sighs and looks away, feeling stupid and self-conscious over what he's about to say. "We'll figure this out, all right? And I - I'm going to take care of you. However I can."

He's almost glad John can't answer him. He hopes, all the way down there and in the relative dark, that John also can't see his pathetic, damning blush.

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.

God, it's weird seeing John move, so much of it still innately human enough that it wanders a bit toward the uncanny valley. Seeing him wipe his chin and nod, it's mildly unnerving. But Martin is grateful, too, that this isn't worse, that Magnus didn't just transform John fully into a cat, his mind lost with the rest of it. He's still John in there, and they can still find ways to communicate.

He sits down on the floor again, hating being so high above John; it just feels wrong on multiple levels.

"Well," he sighs. God, he's so tired, he feels like he could just fall asleep, but he doesn't like the idea of leaving John up by himself like this. He just doesn't know where to begin. It's possible Daine is at the party herself, he supposes - it did seem like the sort of thing every visitor to Darrow knows about and may attend - the upshot of which would mean she might still be awake. But he doesn't want to involve anyone else without John's permission, and he hasn't even met Daine yet.

"I'm not sure what to do," he admits. "God, I really just want to go back there and - and-" He's not sure what. He looks away, huffing in frustration, his hands pulled into fists with no target, just settled tense but useless in his lap. "I can't believe him, I can't believe he did this to you, just - just like that. What a prick!"

He's not sure the anger is helpful, but he needs to let it out somehow. So much of it got swallowed up in the immediate urgency of getting John out of there.

"I just-" He relaxes his hands and drops his head down, his shoulders hunched in defeat. "I'm sorry I dragged you along, this wouldn't have happened if I hadn't..." He purses his lips and lets out a breath slowly. He needs to focus. He needs to figure out a way to communicate with John. Yes or no questions seem like the best option right now, something John can reliably respond to. He's just so tired and out of sorts he's not sure where to begin.

Edited 2019-09-22 18:43 (UTC)

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.

The sighing is weird, too - he can almost fool himself into thinking John is still here, still human. He's never heard a cat breathe that deliberately. The trill, however, is closer to a noise one might expect, and he looks up, a little bewildered as well as cautiously charmed by it. Seeing John shake his head - it's as odd as the rest of it, but the meaning is quite clear, and Martin finally manages to offer him a tired, half-hearted smile. Even now, John doesn't want him blaming himself for this, and that's... he's right. He couldn't have known this would happen, and the guilt is an unnecessary distraction. They have far bigger problems.

"You're right," he says aloud, trying to effect a brisk and more professional tone. And much as he might like to go make a very ill-advised series of decisions where Magnus is concerned, there are more pressing logistical issues to deal with.

He wishes he could just ask John directly what he wants or needs, but that isn't currently practical, so: "Well, since we've got 'yes' and 'no' covered..." He sighs. "Are you... hungry?"

Edited 2019-09-22 19:18 (UTC)

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.

“Okay.” Martin nods. Simple enough to start. At the thought of rattling through the full list of things he might need to ask, however, he hesitates before deciding to skip ahead several pages in the proverbial script.

“Do you want me to try and get a hold of Daine now?” he says. “I told you about her a bit, she's... got all the animal friends. She can talk to them." He shrugs. "You might actually be able to talk to her.”

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.

Martin nods in return, relieved John is willing to at least try the option, and without getting up he fishes his phone out of his pocket. Focusing on the simple task of texting Daine is both a much-needed respite and a stark reminder of how tired he is, but he manages. After a bit of back and forth, he looks back up at John.

"She's on her way," he says with another faint smile. "Apparently this is just something he does. She seems... properly annoyed." He doesn't mention that 'annoyed' comes through from Daine as 'odds bobs,' which is so delightful he almost laughs, but he manages to keep himself dry and resigned, which feels far more appropriate to the situation.

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.

Martin gets up gingerly when he hears the knock, not wanting to startle John overmuch - he can only imagine how disorienting everything must be, bigger and probably louder than normal. He pads over to the door and - taking care to look this time, just in case - opens it to let Daine in.

"Thank you for coming," he says softly and with a tired smile. "He's, erm..." He steps back, seeing John still over by the water bowl. "He's not very mobile, I think... I think he's having a hard time working out all the... logistics?" He shrugs. He doesn't really want to speak for John, but he's not sure what Daine is expecting, or if this'll even work.

"This is John," he says belatedly. The weirdness of the whole situation certainly doesn't discount the importance of being polite. "John, this is Daine."

Edited 2019-09-22 23:32 (UTC)

"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.

Martin watches her closely, not from any suspicion but pure curiosity, wanting to see how she handles this. He appreciates that she sits down, keeping a safe distance, and reflects that the rules of engagement for Jonathan Sims and for cats are actually... quite similar, in a lot of ways.

What he's absolutely not expecting is the way Daine describes John's cat form as handsome, and he barely manages to stifle a startled cough into a... slightly more subtle clearing of his throat. It's both the only time he thinks he's heard anyone describe John thus, and the first time he could imagine hearing it without a kneejerk rush of jealous anger, but it's still... terribly uncomfortable, whatever the context. He doesn't need to be told twice to make her some tea.

He steps back into the kitchen and goes about fixing them each a cup, having to remind himself not to make one for John as well. He keeps an eye on John, not wanting to stare but not wanting to let him out of his sight, either.

Edited 2019-09-23 00:06 (UTC)

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.

Daine offers John a rather vague explanation of what she's going to do, and Martin has to tamp down on the urge to explain it in greater detail, as if he has any idea what he's talking about. He needs to just let her do her business. So he watches the kettle, which heats steadily in spite of conventional wisdom, his eyes flicking repeatedly to John. For several moments there's a silence that he knows is probably productive but cannot help but find hopelessly frustrating nevertheless - the only outward indication that anything is happening at all being the startled lurch John makes halfway to his feet. Martin looks over quickly, but John continues to stare at Daine; and it is she who finally blinks out of her evident meditation and looks at Martin.

When she relays a message, Martin feels for a very embarrassing moment like he could just collapse into relieved weeping, as though there was ever any doubt John was still in there - it just feels so good to know there is a way to talk to him. But beyond that, far more powerful than that, is the shock of the message he actually chose. The first thing John wanted to say, not even knowing if this would work or, or if it'll stick, was to thank him.

Martin looks at Daine for only a moment after she speaks, and then his stare rests fully on John, who's once again sat down. The kettle begins to heat enough that he can hear the water roiling, and he switches the burner off before it can get loud, without sparing it a glance. He feels - it's so stupid, but he still feels like he might cry over that, over something so small and simple. Knowing that as horrible as all this has been, he helped, and John is... that he's grateful.

He manages to smile, weak but deeply relieved. "Oh, I - y-yeah," he says. "Of course. Of course."

What else would he do?

He forces himself to return his attention to preparing the tea. He has a lot of questions he wants to ask, but he's not sure how difficult this is for them, or if there's a limit to it. Probably best to just... get Daine her tea, and wait it out.

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."

Martin follows the thread of the conversation closely; it's easy enough to keep track with Daine's spoken questions and answers, and he appreciates that she's making at least part of it verbal. As she runs through all the necessary particulars, he feels himself finally beginning to relax a bit, releasing a tension he didn't know he had.

He's sitting on the floor again, off to the side and out of the way, when Daine begins talking about taking cat shape. He lowers his mostly-empty teacup and stares at her in open bewilderment.

"I - you can do that?" he blurts. Christ, it sort of makes sense, doesn't it, with her existing connection to animals. He has to struggle not to look too excited; this isn't about showing off or having fun, it's about helping John. But if it could help him, just to make this... situation more endurable, that... well, that would really be something.

"Boring," he adds belatedly. "I don't think it'll be that. Please, I - anything you think will help."

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.

"Right," says Martin, warming to the idea as Daine describes it. "Yeah, that - I can do that. That'd be great." He smiles in gratitude for the thought, for a moment staying put before he realizes what she's actually suggesting is that he work on it now. Which makes sense, of course, the sooner the better; but there's also the underlying hint is that this, whatever she's about to do - or whatever she's about to do with John - is private.

That, too, makes sense. John is overwhelmed and frustrated and probably wants as little attention as possible while this happens. Still, it's hard not to feel a bit stung - he's every bit as invested in helping him acclimate to this as Daine is, if not moreso; it's just that there's not a great deal he can actually do. Being shooed away onto a different task better suited to his small, specific skillset is too familiar for it not to hurt.

But he's being childish; he knows that. He gets to his feet slowly, nodding to Daine as she heads to the WC, and waits long enough to see her step back out. Her cat form is so fluffy and charming he almost can't resist being outwardly delighted, though he manages to school his expression into something more serious and befitting the occasion. This whole thing is just so weird, the least he can do is pretend it's... not? Also a bit too familiar, really.

The bedroom is really the only space there is for him to sequester himself, and he heads in and shuts the door gently behind him. It feels... odd, uncomfortable, to be letting John out of his sight, but he trusts Daine has this in hand.

He doesn't have a lot in the way of supplies to actually make this grid she's suggested - he'll need to go shopping tomorrow anyway, to get whatever John needs, and he can pick up some sort of poster stock then. For now, he settles onto his bed and begins making a list of words on his phone.

There isn't much to hear from outside - even a cat that doesn't know how to use his body is quiet, he supposes - and before long he starts to feel the loneliness sink back in. No capital L this time, at least, but it's still a bit of a pain, feeling sorry for himself when he's just. Fine. When no self-aggrandizing 'warlock' decided to bully him with a completely undeserved existential crisis of a prank. When his flat is not, in fact, empty. When not even an hour ago he was literally holding John to his chest.

Best not to think about that, really. He breathes out like he's trying to physically excise these unwanted thoughts, and settles in to focus on the task he's been given.

Edited 2019-09-24 18:52 (UTC)

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.

Martin manages to spend about fifteen minutes compiling some words before he feels like he can't think clearly anymore and he sets his phone aside with a weary huff. It's finally hitting him how deeply exhausted he is; the whole week has been a bit much, but after even their brief stint at the party, after all the panic and anger and the absurd long walk home, now it all hits him like a slow avalanche. He wants to get up and move around to stay awake, and more than that he wants to check on how John's doing, but he makes himself stay put. In the end, the effort to do nothing wins over the effort to stay wakeful, and he finds himself lying back, dozing off despite his own reluctance.

He jolts back to his body when the doorknob rattles, his heart pounding with sudden, ridiculous fear. Disoriented, feeling a bit sick from hunger, for a moment forgetting where he is - that had almost stopped happening, and it's not a welcome feeling now - he sits up and stares at his door, the knob shaking a bit, before it all comes back to him in a dizzying rush.

"Oh-" Shit, how long as he it been? He staggers off the bed and opens the door, half-expecting to see John standing there, and... well, he does, but just. Down on the floor.

"Sorry," he says, rubbing his face. "You... Are you all right? Did Daine-"

She steps out of the WC a moment later, human once again. He must not have actually been out that long. She gives him a brief but encouraging assurance that John will be all right and promises to send him the full details on what John'll need. She looks fairly tired herself, and excuses herself quickly. He'll have to thank her properly when he has a chance; right now, he's a little relieved to be alone again with John.

Of course, now he doesn't know what to say.

"All right?" he says softly, half-heartedly. "Christ, I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted." It's so strange, not hearing John's voice answer him, just... looking at him and having to guess at his thoughts. He shrugs, a bit hapless, not sure what to offer or suggest. "Do you want to sleep?"

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.

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.

Martin dreams, and at first, it's all right, in that it's unremarkable. A bit weird but not in any way haunted, not rife with any of the too familiar horrors. A bit stressful, as it goes on. At work, how work used to be, with John and Tim and Elias and... and... she's there, somewhere, but it isn't important. Someone shouting at him from around the corner, but he can never quite reach it, can never quite manage the turn in time. It might be John shouting. It doesn't matter, of course, because he'll never reach him, and really, it would be simpler if he just gave up. But he keeps calling and Martin keeps trying because he never could stop, could he, not really, not even when there are hands grasping at him from behind, dragging him back, reminding him, turn back turn back turn-

The hands burrow into his shoulder, sharp sudden pinpricks, and he jolts awake with a soft cry. There is a dark shape next to him and he jerks back, his arm lashing out in defense before he realizes it's - it's John.

John is awake, startled awake no doubt, and staring at him, his ears flat back. Martin holds the gaze, breathing slow and heavy for just a moment, before he says, "John, wh-"

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.

"John, wait!"

He doesn't, of course; Martin watches him bolt, more catlike than ever, through the open door - the door he left ajar in case John needed him - and he thinks about getting up and going after him, and he thinks about the abject horror John somehow managed to convey with his weird little cat face, and instead he just lies back down and breathes in and out for several moments.

He'd hated leaving John with the couch. Daine hadn't included any sort of bedding in her list of things John would need, and so it hadn't come up. John hadn't used their little grid to indicate needing anything either. So, the couch it was, and Martin knew there wasn't really a viable alternative. It just felt so bloody unfriendly. So he'd left the door cracked. Just in case. In case... something.

He never imagined, would never have imagined, that John might actually choose to join him here. But why shouldn't he? These are fairly extraordinary circumstances, and there's nothing remotely untoward about it, even if it is a little... odd. If Martin hadn't awakened so sharply (and also hadn't so recently awakened to an intruder in his bed), he might even have been able to react calmly. John might have been a bit embarrassed, but he might not have just run.

Or maybe that's not it. Maybe it's that he didn't want to be caught. Which also makes sense, quite honestly. John knows, after all, he knows everything, because he listens to every tape, he's heard each of the desperate, pitiful little admissions Martin's ever made, he's heard Elias taunting him about it all, heard him refer to his own feelings with that very word. He's heard it all, and what's more it's obvious. Martin knows he's obvious, because all the people who've barely known him a few weeks know too, they all know and John could probably know everything if he liked, so there is nothing left to doubt.

So of course he fled. Of course he wouldn't want to be caught here, no matter the absurdity of the circumstances. Of course, of course, of course.

Martin lies there for a while until he gets sick of the way he always ends up circling a rather pathetic drain whenever he allows these thoughts to crop up. There's nothing productive about it and he knows that, so; onward. He sits up, immediately guilty for having made John wait, and he ventures slowly out into the flat.

"John..." Looking around, he's not immediately visible. Martin pokes his head into the WC, the closet, the kitchen, seeing no sign of him. He sighs heavily. "John, please come out, I... it's okay."

He waits, but as nothing continues to greet him, as the silence of the flat settles heavily over him, he starts to feel a prickle of unease.

"John?" He goes over the areas he's checked again, looking more thoroughly this time. Christ, did he sneak back into the bedroom? But there's nothing there either, increasingly there's nothing anywhere, no sign of him up on the cabinets or under the bed or the couch, or anything. His voice takes on a note of panic. "John?"

He doesn't understand. John can't have gotten out, the front door's locked and all the windows have screens on them, even if he were inclined to do something so monumentally stupid. He can't imagine John would be hiding from him while hearing him call, would he? Unless he's hurt somewhere? Or stuck?

"John, where are you?" He starts checking in the strangest places he can think of - spaces he doesn't think John could or would get into, his panic growing steadily. He's desperately opening cabinets, wondering if he should call Daine, when finally he checks under the sink.

He almost doesn't see him, dark as he is, curled into the corner behind all the supplies. He nearly gets back up, then notices a subtle twitch of movement and immediately settles onto his knees, almost collapsing from relief.

"Jesus, there you are," he says, feeling shaky and a bit stupid now. This seems like such an obvious place to look - and if John really wanted to hide, it would certainly be a good spot for it. "Don't do that again, okay? Christ, you had me so worried."

John's face is still turned into the corner of the cabinet, his body still tense and, he can see, shaking a bit. Martin frowns, struggling not to let his thoughts dip back into the pit he'd fallen into earlier. John must really have wanted to get away.

"John, I..." He sighs. "Look, it - it's all right. Okay? It's fine. I was just startled, is all." He hesitates, then reaches a hand in, not to touch him, but to sort of beckon. Like trying to coax a real bloody cat, he thinks dryly. "Please come back out?"

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.

Martin feels like his heart could break when he watches John push further away from him, and after a moment's hesitation he pulls his hand back, settling it slowly in his lap. He just sits there, not sure what to do. The idea of bringing up his own suspicions about why John is behaving like this is too horrifying to consider; and he might be projecting all of that anyway. He just... he needs to make John feel better. That's all that matters.

"John," he says, and sighs softly. "Look. This is a weird situation, all right? I know it's... it's not fair and it's awful and, and Christ, I can't imagine how tiring it must be, being in the wrong... It's not fair and it's not your fault. And I don't want you feeling like you have to... Just because you're a cat doesn't mean you have to sleep like one, all right? I should have offered. You can sleep wherever you want, John, you don't need to.... Whatever you need. I just - I want you to be comfortable. If it doesn't bother you, sleeping there, then you're more than welcome. It's okay. I promise it's okay."

He feels so terrified, like somehow he's saying too much, letting too much show. He rubs a hand over his face and pushes it up through his mussed hair.

"You had me worried sick," he says, quiet and a little more plaintive than he'd like. "Just... please come out of there, John. Please."

Edited 2019-09-26 17:56 (UTC)

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.

Martin breathes out with palpable relief when John finally emerges, and watches him as he slinks over to the board he made. He gets up, coming over to see what John has to say, full of nervous anxiety. He doesn't quite know what to expect, and the time it takes John to spell things out with this certainly doesn't help.

The first is just the SORRY Martin included in the list of common words, and Martin just hums softly to acknowledge it - whether it's for John's perceived infraction or having hidden himself away for nearly an hour, he'll accept it.

At the messages he then spells out, Martin sits back down and just laughs, brief and tired and quiet, his head resting in his hand.

"Christ," he says. "God, I'm sorry, I should have thought of that." He feels even worse now for not offering some sort of bedding, not that he has a spare blanket. He raises his head again to look at John. "Well, that settles it. Can't have you out here in the cold. Bed's warm enough for both of us. I tend to run hot anyway." He gives another light chuckle, far more awkward this time, but he doesn't dwell too much on that feeling. He's just glad John's talking to him.

"It's all right," he says again. "I'm just glad you, you know... that you're taking care of yourself." God knows it's rare enough.

He clears his throat, eager to move away from the lingering sense of overexposure. "Can I make you some breakfast?"

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)

Martin smiles at the thanks and gets to his feet, wandering into the kitchen. He'd left the flat in a bit of disarray after his search, and he tidies absently as he goes. "Eggs?" he asks.

It's a bit of a pain to drag the board in and out of every room they're in, but by now they've fallen into a bit of a rhythm of yes-or-no questions and answering trills. At John's acquiescent little chirp, Martin grins and starts setting things up on the counter beside the stove.

"Sort of ironic that having a cat around is making me actually do some cooking for once," he says. "Would have been more my style if you'd gone for the Fancy Feast. Oh, sorry." He gestures mockingly with his spatula. "'Elegant Eats.'" Honestly, the rebranding that goes on here is almost the worst part of it all.

Edited 2019-09-27 03:06 (UTC)

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.

Martin glances over at John, smiling as he clambers up onto the counter. Martin does like having him up higher; it feels more appropriate somehow.

"You miss being tall, don't you," he says, cracking two eggs rather deftly into a bowl and tossing the shells into the bin under the sink. He whisks them up with a fork, humming thoughtfully. "Bet you could get up to the fridge, if you wanted. I could set up some kind of... stepladder situation."

He's not sure if this is patronizing or not. He's trying to keep things light after that rough awakening, and to sympathize without being overly pitying. It's a delicate line to walk, especially when he can't read John's expressions at all.

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

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September 20th - Night

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