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

[loficharm]

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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[loficharm]

"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?"

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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?"

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.