ifeelbetter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ifeelbetter) wrote2011-03-10 01:47 am
ifeelbetter) wrote2011-03-10 01:47 am
Entry tags:
Last refuge of the unimaginative
Title: Last refuge of the unimaginative
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ifeelbetter
Disclaimer: I own nothing of value but one kickass ukulele.
Word Count: 1,306
Summary: Andrew tries to talk to Jesse's cats in their own language.
Notes: This was written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tsn_kinkmeme for this prompt: let's speak in meows. maybe you'll understand me better in cat language. There was already a superawesomesauce fill by the ever-glorious thisissirius (hers had Andrew turning into a cat, though, so I don't think I stepped on any toes by writing this vastly different minifill) which YOU SHOULD READ. Also, in the news: I GUESS I'M WRITING TSN RPF NOW. (I have two other fics in the works at the kinkmeme, one a Mark/Eduardo Star Trek!AU and the other...more secret. I've been doing it anonymously.) Last thing: the title comes from an Oscar Wilde quote.
Jesse had asked Andrew to stay in his house overnight to keep his cats company. He'd done it over the phone and he hated talking to people over the phone in an adorably obvious way that involved a lot of talking over the ends and beginnings of sentences. It was all the sort of thing that made Andrew grin at his iPhone goofily which led to Emma throwing an empty styrofoam cup at his head ("To save you from yourself!" she'd explained).
But he'd agreed and now he was in Jesse's hotel room--a special, pet-friendly, Hollywood-silly-expensive hotel room--with three cats looking up at him coldly.
"I didn't ask for this either," he told them. "Can't we just get along for one night?"
The gray one--he was pretty sure it was a girl and that it was named something from Mrs. Dalloway--licked a paw in a way that spoke volumes about how little effort she was prepared to make.
"I can grovel," Andrew informed her. "I'll beg. I'm man enough to beg."
She paused for a split second in the paw-cleansing and gave him a Look over the paw.
The motley tabby cat hissed, tugged the end of the scarf that Andrew had stupidly left trailing on the ground from the hook on the door, and proceeded to shred the yarn into delicate tendrils. The third one--the one Andrew hadn't officially met before ("He's new, he's named Coppola, I'll do formal introductions tomorrow when I get back," Jesse had said over the phone, spinning trails of conversation helter skelter, and Andrew had just kept on grinning stupidly)--looked like it might be willing to join Team Andrew if he made a bit of effort. Maybe it had a soft spot for Brits, he thought desperately.
The gray one looked like she could tell he was feeling tendrils of hope so she showcased her teeth suddenly and terrifyingly.
He really wished he knew what her beef with him was. She hadn't liked him the first time Jesse took Andrew back to his apartment in NYC. Jesse had apologized ("the guilt of my kitty guilt," he had joked, nervously twisting the cords of his sweatshirt) when she actually perched on the sofa behind Andrew's head and swatted at his hair, claws out.
"Fine," Andrew told her, "let's get this all out on the table right now. You and me."
She stopped cleaning the paw and sat up straight, looking right into his eyes.
"Look, right, the thing with me and Jesse--don't look at me like that--" he said but she was just slightly more than terrifying. Especially when she thumped her (tiny, thin, couldn't-hurt-a-fly, these were things to remember) tail against the floor.
"The thing with me and--OK, no, seriously, what do you want from me?" he demanded as she started kneading the carpeted floor with her claws. It looked like some sort of demonic ritual. The cat was definitely demonic ritualing him. He was going to die from kitty demons.
"You're right, it's only fair I meet you halfway," he conceded, holding up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Let's speak in meows. Maybe you'll understand me better in cat language."
She dipped her head, a regal permission.
It felt absurd--utterly, completely absurd--but he meowed at her. The tabby dropped the end of his scarf and looked up happily. Coppola wound himself around one of Andrew's ankles.
Success breeds success, he decided. He meowed some more.
A lot of meowing later and even the Mrs. Dalloway cat seemed to have warmed up to him. When he went to sleep on the coach--because it felt weird, right, even if the bed wasn't Jesse-Jesse's, it was sort of Jesse's--all three found warm little crevices between his limbs and the cushions of the coach to snuggle into.
He continued to meow to them the next morning while he made coffee. He meowed at them around the newspaper. They meowed back when he meowed-read the news to them. Apparently, Jesse's cats liked to be kept appraised of the state of the world.
They pushed the bathroom door open while he was in the shower and he meowed to them then. He meowed a warning to Coppola when he tried to walk around the rim of the porcelain bathtub without falling in the shower's spray (a futile effort--Coppola tumbled into the tub and scrambled frantically to get out). He meowed-agreed with the Mrs. Dalloway cat when she tut-tutted Coppola for his bravado and they exchanged a meow of exasperation when Coppola looked out pathetically from under his drenched fringe.
He meowed small talk with the tabby as he pulled on a pair of boxers and--lost in the conversation--he entirely missed the sound of the front door opening and closing.
He was just adding a rejoinder to the meow-conversation, when he became suddenly and completely aware that (a) Jesse was leaning, expression fond and amused, against the door-frame and (b) he still hadn't gotten beyond the boxers stage of dressing himself. (It had been an interesting conversation!)
"You're meowing to my cats," Jesse said, a quirk of a smile bitten off t the corner.
"I've just got the gift of the gab," Andrew said, shrugging awkwardly. "And we agree on so many topics." He tried to tug the pair of trousers out from under the tabby but the tabby wasn't hearing any of that.
"Honestly, Andrew," Jesse said, "I don't think you could be any more perfect if you tried. I bet you could get woodland animals to pitch in and clean my apartment by singing."
"I do a brilliant karaoke rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On,'" Andrew said. "Does that work on woodland creatures, do you think?" The joke came out a little breathless and choppy because--hello, still mostly naked. Why-oh-why had the tabby chosen that moment to pretend to not understand Andrew? Just give me my trousers, he tried to telepathically tell the cat.
The tabby started catching at the ends of the trouser leg like they were his new favorite toy.
The Mrs. Dalloway cat appeared between Jesse's feet--in a sort of adoringly-but-still-grande-dame way--and nuzzled him expectantly. He started to reach down to scratch her between the ears--Andrew had seen this greeting a million times, it felt like--when she suddenly ducked out of reach. She was suddenly at Andrew's feet, gazing up at him with similar disdainful-affection.
"If your ability to win over cats is any demonstration of potential, the woodland creatures should be no problem," Jesse said, still soft-and-fond in his face and his voice.
Coppola pushed his way out from under the pile of towel near the door--he'd hidden in it after his escapade in the bathroom--and meowed pathetically at Andrew.
Right, Andrew thought, I could aim for dignity and ignore the adorable, sopping-wet kitten in the corner or I could just--
What the hell, he decided. He meowed back. All three cats began to purr.
"You're an absurd human being," Jesse said, amazement tinging the fondness. And--like it wasn't something he was conscious of doing--he crossed the room and authoritatively pulled Andrew's head down for a decisive kiss.
Which was an odd adjective to describe a kiss, right, because "decisive" isn't what one normally thinks. That's more reserved for the manner in which you order your coffee or go into battle or something. But Jesse--guilt-ridden, neurotic, hopelessly, wonderfully circuitous Jesse--kissed like something under all that had come to a point beyond which it would brook no further discussion. Meow at my cats, some part of Jesse seemed to say, and be prepared for my tongue down your throat.
And, yeah, well. Andrew could deal with that.
I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE MORE RIDICULOUS CAT FLUFF. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. FIRST INCEPTION AND NOW TSN. I AM AN ABSURD HUMAN BEING.
Author:
ifeelbetterDisclaimer: I own nothing of value but one kickass ukulele.
Word Count: 1,306
Summary: Andrew tries to talk to Jesse's cats in their own language.
Notes: This was written for the
tsn_kinkmeme for this prompt: let's speak in meows. maybe you'll understand me better in cat language. There was already a superawesomesauce fill by the ever-glorious thisissirius (hers had Andrew turning into a cat, though, so I don't think I stepped on any toes by writing this vastly different minifill) which YOU SHOULD READ. Also, in the news: I GUESS I'M WRITING TSN RPF NOW. (I have two other fics in the works at the kinkmeme, one a Mark/Eduardo Star Trek!AU and the other...more secret. I've been doing it anonymously.) Last thing: the title comes from an Oscar Wilde quote. Jesse had asked Andrew to stay in his house overnight to keep his cats company. He'd done it over the phone and he hated talking to people over the phone in an adorably obvious way that involved a lot of talking over the ends and beginnings of sentences. It was all the sort of thing that made Andrew grin at his iPhone goofily which led to Emma throwing an empty styrofoam cup at his head ("To save you from yourself!" she'd explained).
But he'd agreed and now he was in Jesse's hotel room--a special, pet-friendly, Hollywood-silly-expensive hotel room--with three cats looking up at him coldly.
"I didn't ask for this either," he told them. "Can't we just get along for one night?"
The gray one--he was pretty sure it was a girl and that it was named something from Mrs. Dalloway--licked a paw in a way that spoke volumes about how little effort she was prepared to make.
"I can grovel," Andrew informed her. "I'll beg. I'm man enough to beg."
She paused for a split second in the paw-cleansing and gave him a Look over the paw.
The motley tabby cat hissed, tugged the end of the scarf that Andrew had stupidly left trailing on the ground from the hook on the door, and proceeded to shred the yarn into delicate tendrils. The third one--the one Andrew hadn't officially met before ("He's new, he's named Coppola, I'll do formal introductions tomorrow when I get back," Jesse had said over the phone, spinning trails of conversation helter skelter, and Andrew had just kept on grinning stupidly)--looked like it might be willing to join Team Andrew if he made a bit of effort. Maybe it had a soft spot for Brits, he thought desperately.
The gray one looked like she could tell he was feeling tendrils of hope so she showcased her teeth suddenly and terrifyingly.
He really wished he knew what her beef with him was. She hadn't liked him the first time Jesse took Andrew back to his apartment in NYC. Jesse had apologized ("the guilt of my kitty guilt," he had joked, nervously twisting the cords of his sweatshirt) when she actually perched on the sofa behind Andrew's head and swatted at his hair, claws out.
"Fine," Andrew told her, "let's get this all out on the table right now. You and me."
She stopped cleaning the paw and sat up straight, looking right into his eyes.
"Look, right, the thing with me and Jesse--don't look at me like that--" he said but she was just slightly more than terrifying. Especially when she thumped her (tiny, thin, couldn't-hurt-a-fly, these were things to remember) tail against the floor.
"The thing with me and--OK, no, seriously, what do you want from me?" he demanded as she started kneading the carpeted floor with her claws. It looked like some sort of demonic ritual. The cat was definitely demonic ritualing him. He was going to die from kitty demons.
"You're right, it's only fair I meet you halfway," he conceded, holding up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Let's speak in meows. Maybe you'll understand me better in cat language."
She dipped her head, a regal permission.
It felt absurd--utterly, completely absurd--but he meowed at her. The tabby dropped the end of his scarf and looked up happily. Coppola wound himself around one of Andrew's ankles.
Success breeds success, he decided. He meowed some more.
A lot of meowing later and even the Mrs. Dalloway cat seemed to have warmed up to him. When he went to sleep on the coach--because it felt weird, right, even if the bed wasn't Jesse-Jesse's, it was sort of Jesse's--all three found warm little crevices between his limbs and the cushions of the coach to snuggle into.
He continued to meow to them the next morning while he made coffee. He meowed at them around the newspaper. They meowed back when he meowed-read the news to them. Apparently, Jesse's cats liked to be kept appraised of the state of the world.
They pushed the bathroom door open while he was in the shower and he meowed to them then. He meowed a warning to Coppola when he tried to walk around the rim of the porcelain bathtub without falling in the shower's spray (a futile effort--Coppola tumbled into the tub and scrambled frantically to get out). He meowed-agreed with the Mrs. Dalloway cat when she tut-tutted Coppola for his bravado and they exchanged a meow of exasperation when Coppola looked out pathetically from under his drenched fringe.
He meowed small talk with the tabby as he pulled on a pair of boxers and--lost in the conversation--he entirely missed the sound of the front door opening and closing.
He was just adding a rejoinder to the meow-conversation, when he became suddenly and completely aware that (a) Jesse was leaning, expression fond and amused, against the door-frame and (b) he still hadn't gotten beyond the boxers stage of dressing himself. (It had been an interesting conversation!)
"You're meowing to my cats," Jesse said, a quirk of a smile bitten off t the corner.
"I've just got the gift of the gab," Andrew said, shrugging awkwardly. "And we agree on so many topics." He tried to tug the pair of trousers out from under the tabby but the tabby wasn't hearing any of that.
"Honestly, Andrew," Jesse said, "I don't think you could be any more perfect if you tried. I bet you could get woodland animals to pitch in and clean my apartment by singing."
"I do a brilliant karaoke rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On,'" Andrew said. "Does that work on woodland creatures, do you think?" The joke came out a little breathless and choppy because--hello, still mostly naked. Why-oh-why had the tabby chosen that moment to pretend to not understand Andrew? Just give me my trousers, he tried to telepathically tell the cat.
The tabby started catching at the ends of the trouser leg like they were his new favorite toy.
The Mrs. Dalloway cat appeared between Jesse's feet--in a sort of adoringly-but-still-grande-dame way--and nuzzled him expectantly. He started to reach down to scratch her between the ears--Andrew had seen this greeting a million times, it felt like--when she suddenly ducked out of reach. She was suddenly at Andrew's feet, gazing up at him with similar disdainful-affection.
"If your ability to win over cats is any demonstration of potential, the woodland creatures should be no problem," Jesse said, still soft-and-fond in his face and his voice.
Coppola pushed his way out from under the pile of towel near the door--he'd hidden in it after his escapade in the bathroom--and meowed pathetically at Andrew.
Right, Andrew thought, I could aim for dignity and ignore the adorable, sopping-wet kitten in the corner or I could just--
What the hell, he decided. He meowed back. All three cats began to purr.
"You're an absurd human being," Jesse said, amazement tinging the fondness. And--like it wasn't something he was conscious of doing--he crossed the room and authoritatively pulled Andrew's head down for a decisive kiss.
Which was an odd adjective to describe a kiss, right, because "decisive" isn't what one normally thinks. That's more reserved for the manner in which you order your coffee or go into battle or something. But Jesse--guilt-ridden, neurotic, hopelessly, wonderfully circuitous Jesse--kissed like something under all that had come to a point beyond which it would brook no further discussion. Meow at my cats, some part of Jesse seemed to say, and be prepared for my tongue down your throat.
And, yeah, well. Andrew could deal with that.
I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE MORE RIDICULOUS CAT FLUFF. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. FIRST INCEPTION AND NOW TSN. I AM AN ABSURD HUMAN BEING.