He sips his tea gingerly while he considers her question. He knows the answer, or at least the answer he has prepared. When it's actually put to him, he can't quite stop himself from thinking about John pointedly and purposefully allowing Martin to touch him, to pet him. And the purring, and how good it had felt, not just because that feels naturally good, but because it was John.
The part of him that grew up wanting a dog would love a cat that is social and friendly and tactile. But that isn't what he has prepared.
"I think more relaxed is good," he says. "One that won't mind being left to its own devices, I suppose. I mean, I am at work a lot." He shrugs, a bit uncertain. "So I suppose... friendly, but self-sufficient?" He's far too aware of how much he's really describing himself, or what he'd like to be, and he turns his gaze downward, looking rather intently at his tea. "Probably an older cat, maybe... maybe one they're having trouble homing."
He can't resist it, that pull toward sensitivity. The desire to look after something that needs it, that's been passed over, left alone. Something that too closely resembles himself, or worse: John. But there's nothing wrong with that. He's looking to care for an animal, not to put a plaster on something that can't be healed, not to amuse himself. He wants to care for something that needs it, and he wants to do that because - well, he wants to. Just because this feels like a compromise doesn't mean he's doing it by halves.
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The part of him that grew up wanting a dog would love a cat that is social and friendly and tactile. But that isn't what he has prepared.
"I think more relaxed is good," he says. "One that won't mind being left to its own devices, I suppose. I mean, I am at work a lot." He shrugs, a bit uncertain. "So I suppose... friendly, but self-sufficient?" He's far too aware of how much he's really describing himself, or what he'd like to be, and he turns his gaze downward, looking rather intently at his tea. "Probably an older cat, maybe... maybe one they're having trouble homing."
He can't resist it, that pull toward sensitivity. The desire to look after something that needs it, that's been passed over, left alone. Something that too closely resembles himself, or worse: John. But there's nothing wrong with that. He's looking to care for an animal, not to put a plaster on something that can't be healed, not to amuse himself. He wants to care for something that needs it, and he wants to do that because - well, he wants to. Just because this feels like a compromise doesn't mean he's doing it by halves.