John really should've seen this coming. With the sudden rise in animal companionship in the roster, he should have expected something like this to happen. He should have just seen it coming but he doesn't see it coming and now he feels kind of like an idiot. Like a massive idiot who didn't see anything coming and Randy is going to laugh at him as soon as he wakes up.
They don't even have a dog, but the door still has a dog door because Randy insisted that they might have a dog some day and really, it's just a good investment. Good investment, John's ass. All the damned thing did was let in three furry monsters who are now warring for control of the living room. It's not even really fair because the little orange one with the crazy fur doesn't have a chance against the bigger brown monster of a thing. And then there's the sleek black one just watching from the back of the couch, tail swishing languidly through the air.
There are three fucking cats in his house, and he's kind of pissed about it. Not that he hates cats. Taker's cats are actually pretty well-behaved even if they are occasionally evil and steal things that aren't too heavy for them to carry. Seth is a sweetheart and damned near everyone backstage loves the little fur ball who defies gravity by leaping and bounding all over the backstage arena—under Roman's loving and watchful eye, of course. Damien is a very relaxed, almost elegant cat so he isn't so bad, either. And of course, Dean is a fucking sniper kitten. But that doesn't mean John wants a cat, much less three cats and he is really pissed off about this.
This is all Randy's fault. Randy just had to have the dog door for the hypothetical, theoretical dog they still don't have after living together and being together for years. And he has to half-wonder if Randy maybe snuck the animals in at some point because he's really warmed up to Seth and Roman even calls Randy the kittens' uncles and that's just sappy and weird and John wants nothing to do with it. Besides, Dean still tries to pounce and claw his ankles regularly.
He scrubs a hand over his face and tells himself to just breathe because getting upset is not going to stop the kitten warfare going on in the house right now. Then he actually does take a breath and advance, trying to assess the situation before just diving right into it. How can he separate this giant brown menace from this little ginger without getting his hands sliced open in the process? He probably can't is the problem. But thankfully, the cats seem to realize he's watching them and the brown one finally lets off of the ginger, shaking out its incredibly long fur before settling back and looking up at John with astonishingly bright blue eyes. It meows at him.
The ginger isn't having any of that and tries to launch itself at the big brown cat again, but John surprises himself and catches it in mid-air, wincing when needle sharp claws dig into his skin. He growls when the kitten tries to wriggle free and stands straight, bringing it up to hold it against his chest like Roman showed him to do with Seth. Not that it does much good. The orange ball of fury continues to writhe for freedom and John can't tighten his hold much more because he'll risk hurting the damned thing. God, why does he even care? It isn't his cat. From how scruffy it looks, it's a stray cat and it probably has like seventeen diseases and fleas. Just gross.
"Would you just hold still for one second? Didn't you get your ass kicked enough? That thing was practically sitting on you." He holds the kitten up by the scruff of its neck, satisfied when it goes mostly limp, and tries checking over its small body for wounds. "Congratulations. I don't think you got bitten or scratched. Guess he just smacked you around a lot or something."
The cat on the back of the couch meows, and John turns and just stares at it before glaring.
"What the fuck are you doing in my house? You don't live here. I live here. Where did you three even come from?" He seriously considers just throwing all three of them out right now.
"John." An amused voice from the stairs makes him groan. "John, are you talking to cats?"
He sighs and gives Randy a plaintive look as he returns to holding the ginger kitten against his chest, trying to smooth down its flyaway fur. That gets him a bite on the finger, but it's not particularly hard so he doesn't bother stopping. He just starts petting it again until it eventually settles down and starts purring even as it continues to watch the big brown cat with wary bright blue eyes. Randy joins him a moment later, stooping down and picking up the monster, which settles into his arms and rubs its head against his arm. Oh, sure. Now you're all nice.
"To be fair, I was talking to the cats that invaded our home because of the dog door you wanted to have installed that we don't have a dog before despite years of—" John starts.
Of course, Randy cuts him off. "They're in really good health for strays, it looks like."
"Why does that..?" John's eyes widen. "Orton, no. We are not adopting these cats. No, no, no—"
"I've always wanted a cat," Randy says, carrying the large brown thing into the kitchen.
John sighs and follows behind him, noting that the black cat jumps off the back of the couch and follows them as well, trailing right behind John like an unwanted shadow. When he reaches the kitchen, he's mildly surprised to see the large brown monster of a cat sitting on the island while Randy rifles through the fridge, licking a paw and washing its face with it. The ginger cat hisses at it and John honestly can't blame it because that cat is huge and he's half-convinced it might lie on his face one night and kill him because as everyone knows, cats are, in reality, really evil.
There's a reason all the rich, evil bastards in movies and cartoons always have one to pet.
Randy looks up at him when he rounds the island. "Do you think they can eat turkey?"
"We're going to feed them our turkey." Because it's not enough you just adopted them.
"Sounds like a plan to me." Randy retrieves the package. "We have to take them to the vet."
John has to agree with that. "Yeah. Because when they show up with any disease, they go."
Randy ignores him and John isn't even surprised. He leans his back against the counter and watches his boyfriend retrieve three small saucers from the cabinet—because the floor is apparently too good for these random stranger cats—and divide the turkey up among them. Almost silently, the black cat leaps up onto the island and sits down beside the brown one, curling his tail around his feet and looking up at John silently. Yeah, the vet. And then Randy will want to buy them things and name them and keep them and just no. John really, really hopes they all come up sick or parasite-ridden and he feels bad for even wanting that to happen.
He is annoyed when Randy sets a saucer down in front of either cat, alternating which one to pet as they dig into the meat. Wisely, John keeps the third saucer on the counter behind him and lets the little ginger eat there. He doesn't like any of these animals, but he's not going to let one of them starve because the biggest one beats up on it and steals its food. And he knows that the minute Randy turns his back, the giant brown cat would do just that to the little orange one.
"Come on," Randy says when the cats are done eating. "Go get dressed so we can go."
"I really hate you sometimes. Like, I love you and I always will, but I also really, really hate you for making me adopt three cats," John informs him as he walks out of the kitchen.
Footsteps behind him make him realize he's being followed by one of the cats.
And now just one of the cats but the massive brown monster who he stopped from probably killing the little orange one. He is extremely unnerved to find this giant thing following him.
But he goes upstairs and gets dressed, which for him really just means swapping out the t-shirt he slept in for a fresh one and throwing on a pair of jean shorts and socks. The brown cat sits in the doorway, watching his every move, and John seriously considers kicking it or something. But it's a cat and in the end, he just gets dressed, picks it up, and carries it downstairs to Randy.
"Your name," Randy says as soon as the cat is in sight, smoothing a hand down its back, "is Bray. And you." He kneels down and picks up the little ginger kitten. "You're Sheamus. And you." He glances back at the black cat, who has resumed its spot on the back of the couch. "You are Alberto. John, come on. Let's get them to the vet and get them checked out."
"We are not keeping them," John grumbles, trading the brown cat—Bray? Seriously? What the fuck kind of name is that?—for Sheamus and Alberto. Sheamus still seems wary of him, but Alberto just butts his head against John's jaw once before settling down.
Randy just gives him a look, and John sighs.
Okay. Maybe they are keeping them.
He is so going to fucking kill somebody for this, though.