AN: Filled for the fe-fest prompt "Soren is not a cat person" in honor of Raphiael's birthday. It's a rather silly piece, but I hope someone enjoys it.
By Soren's standards, the morning had been surprisingly decent. He'd woken at the suitable hour of three o'clock after an entire four hours of uninterrupted sleep, and by the time dawn had come, he'd not only managed to balance the month's budget, write a complete inventory of the company wares, and study ancient Begnion history without vomiting, but also organize the library, storage shed, and pantry. He attributed his productivity to the fact that none of the mercenaries had stumbled out of bed and distracted him by shouting, whacking him on the back (Boyd and Gatrie's idea of 'proper manly greetings'), or drowning his freshly made charts by knocking over inkwells. Soren may have loved Ike with the burning passion of a thousand Elfires, but if another battle plan fell victim to Ike's gorilla hands, Soren was concocting a week-long assignment for Ike in a far away place.
In any case, it was a peaceful morning, seeing as all of the mercenaries were 'sleeping in' in honor of the national holiday and subsequent 'day off.' The company was housing guests who had travelled to Crimea for the festival, but Soren wouldn't ruin his accomplished mood by thinking about that now.
Yes, the morning was going his way for once—which was why, when he finally emerged into the main hall, he was not at all pleased to walk in on a sight that made him drop his books.
He blinked, his mouth hanging open. When words refused to leave it, he snapped it shut and cleared his throat, stepping forward. His sandal caught on the pile of books he'd dropped. He steadied himself just in time not to face plant on a copy of 'Healing Herbs and Where to Find Them.'
His arms outstretched as if still cradling the stack of books under his chin, he pointed an accusing finger at Ike's lap—more specifically, the creature sitting in it. A creature that was most certainly not him.
"Ike," he said. "What is this?"
"A cat," Ike said.
Soren gave Ike a withering look. "Yes, Ike, I know it's—no, wait, that's not…" He took a deep breath. He would not lose his composure over a cat of all things, even if the way Ike was scratching its ears made Soren suddenly wish he was feline.
He cleared his throat again and folded his arms. "Ike, this hardly seems appropriate."
"Why?" The cat's back arched against Ike's hand as he rubbed it. Soren tried not to lose it.
In all of his time with Ike, Soren had guarded him against shopkeepers, maids, and the occasional soldier. He'd even side-eyed kids that acted too friendly, discreetly redirecting them toward other father-figures in case Ike got any ideas.
Pets, he'd never worried about.
While Soren tried to wrap his brain around this new infidelity—and the fact that there was a danger to Ike he hadn't yet fretted over—the cat yawned and cracked open an eye. It looked at Soren and swished a lazy tail. Soren gazed steadily back. This challenge was not going unaccepted.
He analyzed his possible plans of attack. His mind could form strategies for more than battle, after all, and he had no intention of it failing him now. Unfortunately, Ike had his own special talent for knocking the logic straight out of Soren.
"You want to pet him?" Ike said.
Soren's checklist of options derailed into something as coherent as Boyd's attempt at love poetry, an event the axe-user had decided to cut short when the part about what Mist's magical meatloaf did to him earned both a barking laugh from her and cracking knuckles from Ike.
"Pardon?" Soren said.
"You want to pet him?"
Soren glared at the offending beast. It purred. "No, Ike. I do not."
"Why not?"
Soren gave him a pointed look. Did he really have to explain this? His mind formed another list that he promptly tossed. This was ridiculous.
"Come on," Ike said.
"Ike, I'm not…"
"What?"
Though Soren didn't even know why this was a discussion, one look at Ike's face garbled all of the reason inside him.
"…I'm not a cat person," he muttered. He mentally cursed. Of all the sensible points he'd come up with, that had not been one of them.
"He doesn't bite," Ike said.
"I'm sure."
The cat nudged Ike's stomach.
"He's friendly," he added.
Soren grit his teeth. "I've noticed."
He had a biting lecture prepared if Ike continued with 'he's well-trained,' but Ike just silently scratched the cat's neck. Soren returned to strategizing the fastest way to get this accursed home-wrecker off Ike's lap.
The cat nuzzled Ike's hand. Soren decided to settle on the most satisfying way instead. His lip curled in a sneer. "I wish you'd told me you were planning on getting a pet," he said. "I would have left a space in the budget for horse meat."
"Hey, now! I'm worth good beef, at least."
Got you.
"Ranulf, get off Ike's lap. Now."
Ranulf pouted, an odd expression on a cat. "But he's comfy."
"You have said I'm comfy, Soren," Ike said. Soren felt his cheeks go hot.
"That is not the point."
Ranulf moved his paws back so that one knee was open. "We could share."
Soren gritted his teeth. "I should not have to share my own—"
"Your own what?" Ranulf rested his snout in his paws.
Damned cat. "My own, ah—" Soren willed his cheeks to cool down, but his anatomy did not cooperate. This was the part of defending his territory that he did not excel at.
"My own commander," he mumbled.
"I'm a lot of people's commander, Soren," Ike said. Soren raised an eyebrow. If he didn't know better, he'd say Ike was enjoying this. If Soren had found the slightest trace of amusement in Ike's eyes, Ike would have been sleeping in the woods for at least a week, but Ike's face was as blank as his plate after a meal.
Soren suppressed a sigh. His lover's complete lack of sense regarding, well, love, or at least attraction, was occasionally useful, particularly when girls were flocking around him, but it apparently wasn't so useful when he had a lapful of overly pleased Gallian.
Ike's ineptitude for subtleties aside, it seemed past the time for them anyway. Soren stepped over his pile of books and kicked Ranulf's stomach. "Off," he said.
"Ouch," Ranulf said.
"Did Soren actually hurt you?" Ike said.
Soren caught the note of incredulity and decided that a week in the woods would be called for, after all. He shifted his tiny sandaled feet. "I don't have time for this. Get off him, now." Before Ranulf could respond, a voice rang in from the hall—a voice that sounded entirely too cheerful.
"Ike! Where are you? Rolf found the coolest frog!"
"In here," Ike called.
Soren would not be distracted. If other witnesses were about to arrive at the scene, he had to nip this absurdity in the bud, quickly.
"Ranulf. You have ten seconds to get off him before I get my fire tome."
"Your wish is my command," Ranulf said. He winked.
Eight seconds later, Mist and Rolf skipped in cradling some amphibian in their hands. They managed not to trip over the books strewn across the floor and looked ahead to where Ike sat. His lap held a very puzzled Soren, who had not had the good grace to be knocked into a more dignified position. His hands were planted on either side of Ike's legs where he'd tried to catch his fall, and his own legs were awkwardly bent and spread. A cat was resting its head between Soren's knees. It purred.
Mist and Rolf stopped short. Soren braced himself.
Mist gasped.
"Ooh, a kitty!" she cried.
And Soren decided it would have been a surprisingly decent morning to sleep in.