"Character A and character B try to take care of a lost dog in an apartment where dogs are strictly prohibited. Or a lost cat. A lost pet. Any pet is acceptable."
Hello hello! Here's my contribution to the SE February Prompt Challenge. This prompt was such a joy to write for! Much love to jaded_envy and piercelovewonton who gave this fic their eyes, their love, and a long-winded discussion on the consequences of throwing litter boxes out of second floor windows.
Another big thanks to jaded_envy for organizing this event and being a total babe in general. Love ya!
As always, I hope you enjoy!~
"No."
"Please?" Maka says.
It is far too early in the morning for Puppy Dog Eyes, but here she is, unleashing them while Soul is still in his plaid pajama pants, mug of tea in hand. The juxtaposition of Puppy Dog in her eyes and black, mewling cat in her hands is as charming as it is grating.
"Maka. We can't even have cats in the apartment."
He wants to make her see reason, but unfortunately, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a weapon, in possession of perfectly good sense, must be in want of a meister with no sense at all.
He's not being entirely fair. Normally she does have good judgement, but alas... today it has been stolen by a four-legged purring machine.
"I know, but look at her." She holds the cat up, another meow escaping its jaws. Soul walks over to it and leans in, narrowing his eyes.
"...Looks like a cat," he observes, which earns him a scowl. "And-" Accusatory eyes flash. "How do you know that it's a girl?"
A wave of guilt crosses her face before it's replaced with a smile. She feels bad, but not bad enough. "Beeeeecause… I might've already taken her to the vet. And had her microchipped."
"Makaaaa," he grouses into his teacup, closing his eyes.
"...We don't have to keep her," Maka says softly. She's the queen of the guilt trip, even when dumping a large shopping bag on the counter that is, incidentally, filled to the brim with cat toys.
"We can't keep it," Soul says. "Unless you wanna get thrown out of the apartment."
He stands no chance. Her heart is too big, programmed to help every living thing that needs saving, and it's going to leave them homeless, wandering the streets of Death City with Maka's feline charity case in tow.
If they have to become vagabonds because of this, he is not carrying the cat toys.
"Just for a little while, then," Maka says, looking down at her feet. "Until we find somewhere for her to go. Okay?"
He heaves a massive sigh, eyeing the now-purring cat in her arms.
"... Fiiiiine," he groans. "But only until you find someone else."
The way she beams at him is totally non-permissible. She should not be giving him positive reinforcement for harboring a fugitive.
"Wanna hold her?" Maka smiles, extending the cat out like she's presenting Simba to his lowly subjects.
Soul grimaces and reaches out, but as soon as it seems to get settled, it lets out another yowl and jumps out of his arms, prancing away with its tail in the air.
"She likes you," Maka declares in response to his scowl. "I can tell."
He doesn't like it at all.
It's always there, in the apartment, staring at nothing, or licking itself, or thundering down the hallway at two in the morning like it's chasing ghosts. Or even worse, staring at him. Which it does. Frequently. And when he shuts the bathroom door, it comes for him, claws slithering beneath the door, pawing at him like a toilet-peeping thief in the night.
It all sounds a little like paranoia; he knows this, and yet he can't stop himself from keeping tabs on this cat. Fear for his own life is one thing, but he also finds himself making sure it hasn't gotten itself into the grocery bags, or the coat closet, or crushed by the vacuum, or in the vacuum-
Not that he'd care. It's not like he worries about its well-being or anything.
It does give him heart attacks every second day, though. One night, he'd been halfway through his routine midnight snack of two percent when yellow eyes had flashed out of the corner of his eye. A demon, he's sure. Freshly summoned from the underworld to expunge his fridge of dairy.
"Yikes," he'd said flatly, ignoring his heart hammering against his ribs. "Little witch."
She'd let out a mewl and tried to rub against his leg, which had left him paralyzed in the kitchen at one in the morning, victim to her infernal whims.
She probably just wants milk, he could imagine Maka saying. In any case, his plaid pajama pants are no longer safe.
Maka had decided to name it Blair, after that character from Gossip Girl, because she's supposedly classy and refined, or something. The 'picture of down-to-earth glamour,' Maka had said, as Blair had hacked up a hairball on the bed.
All Soul can think of is the Blair Witch Project, which he finds infinitely more fitting.
"Maka!"
The next day, his strangled yelp echoes through the apartment, and he hopes that the sound of pure desperation can properly rouse her.
"...What?" comes a drowsy response from behind her bedroom door.
She's not grasping the urgency of the situation, so he expedites the process: "She's trying to get in my pants!"
It's very effective. The door flies open, followed by three heavy steps as Maka bounds into the room, fists clenched, ready to fight. "Who the h- … oh."
She stares at Soul for a moment, and then lets out a little laugh as she sinks onto his bed, watching Blair knead at the spot where Soul's hip joins his leg.
"Nothing is funny about this," he squawks, knuckles white against the backboard, which only makes her snort.
"Have… you never seen a cat do this?" She scoots up close to him, seeming to relish seeing him immobilized by cat affection.
"I have," he says, grimacing. "But not to me." When the cat jumps up onto his leg and settles herself in the crook of his thigh, however, he gives up the fight, scowling at Maka instead.
"She likes you," she says again, reaching up and lying across the bed as she scratches the top of Blair's head, and suddenly, this image, the two of them stretched across the bed with a cat nestled between them, sets his heart thumping again, though in a different way than before.
No. He will not fall victim to the allures of domesticity. He's not ready to be a father, okay? Especially not to a creature that may or may not be consorting with the devil.
He is further convinced of this the next day, when all hell breaks loose.
"Surprise inspection!"
Sid is perky, as he normally is when he comes around for inspections. Soul suspects that this is because secretly, their landlord loves the stress that he induces in his tenants via his little check-ins. Much like the zombie apocalypse, no one can ever know when he's coming. For many years, however, Soul had found it hard to be phased by this routine, since they never had anything to hide.
Until now.
"Uuuuhhhhh, just a second!" Maka calls out cheerfully as she jumps up, knocking over the cereal box in her haste. Her eyebrows knit in worry and she starts to sweep it up, but Soul's got other priorities.
"Leave the Mini Wheats, what are we gonna do with it?" Soul hisses.
"Agh! Yeah. Okay. " Maka jumps up and the two of them sweep the house, de-catifying the apartment which is, unfortunately, a process that normally requires more than thirty seconds.
"It's okay, pretty girl," Maka soothes as she quite literally stuffs Blair into a backpack, holding her down as Soul deftly pulls the zipper over Blair's face. Under normal circumstances this would've given him an immense amount of satisfaction, but for the moment, he is made only of panic. Blair echoes his sentiments, screeching her displeasure as Maka carries her through the living room.
Maka places her gently on the porch, sliding the door shut against a chorus of yowls. Cat toys are quickly amassed and stuffed into a bag in the closet. After finding no other suitable hiding places, Soul simply chucks the litter box out the window, the top of the tupperware enclosing Blair's… business inside. Maka glares at him, unimpressed at this decision, but time forces her into complacency, so she grabs the Lysol and makes it rain all over the bathroom.
With their tracks appropriately covered, the two of them run for the door, shooting each other a wide-eyed glance before they tug it open, faces ashen.
"Gooood morning!" Not waiting for a response, Sid struts in, chest out, almost giddy in the way he strolls through the apartment. He looks down at the spilled cereal and glances up at them.
"Heh. Yeah," Maka says, pulling at a pigtail. "I'll just-"
"No worries," Sid says as she leans forward to start cleaning it up. "I'm sure this'll be a quick visit, anyway."
The two of them laugh, and Soul wonders if Sid can hear how forced it is. Soul crosses back into the living room as Sid and Maka make their way through the kitchen, and his feet still when a very obvious yowl carries in from outside. He peeks through the curtains to see Maka's backpack rolling around the porch in a little circle, moving forward by little jolts and accompanied by Blair's screechy commentary.
"Christ," he mutters and, with Sid in the other room, he abandons his normal cool-shuffle for a full-on bound towards the record player, slapping on the nearest record without even looking at which one it is, eager to mask the sounds of screaming cat.
It turns out to be the soundtrack from Psycho - a present from Wes for his birthday - and he takes a moment to appreciate his love for Angry Violins, which happen to sound... not that different from Angry Captive Cats in Backpacks.
His relief is short-lived when, accompanied by the Psycho violins ringing his in ears, he hears something truly horrific from the kitchen:
"...Why is there cat food in your fridge?"
Maka's stunned silence feels louder than the music, and since he won't let her face that question alone, he doesn't think before he hears the words coming out of his mouth.
"Oh, uh - that's mine." (He's going to kill this cat.)
He walks into the kitchen, trying to keep his face as impassive as possible - which Maka is certainly not doing, her mouth falling open as Sid turns to face him in disbelief.
"Yeah, it's got uh… good health benefits, okay?" He can tell Sid still doesn't believe him, and he can see Maka's eyes growing wide with fear from behind him, and he knows, deep in his heart, what must be done.
"See?" he says, grabbing a fork and popping a bite in his mouth. "Good for digestion." It tastes like salty, fishy refried beans, but the worst part is… it's not even that bad.
"Plus-" Maka says, eyes sparkling with amusement at this point, because they can both see that Sid is beginning to accept that he may just have really weird, if catless, tenants. "It's free range."
"From Uruguay," Soul adds, pointing to the label.
Sid heaves another sigh at this, and just as Soul is about to stuff another bite in his mouth to really bring home the charade, Sid simply shuts the refrigerator door and mutters, "Can't believe I already gave back your damage deposit."
The soothing sounds of Psycho continue to spill from the living room as they enter, which probably doesn't do much to improve their newly decreasing reputability with their landlord, but at least this particular room is devoid of potential cat giveaways.
With one exception, of course.
After clearing this room, Sid opens the curtains to look out onto the porch, and Soul's heart jumps into this throat as he cranes his neck, trying to see what Sid sees and hoping desperately that Sid isn't watching a strangely mobile backpack. Somehow, though - miraculously - he doesn't seem to find anything of note, and he continues down the hallway. It takes everything in Soul to not race to the window and make sure that their cat is still breathing, but he holds himself back for the final ten seconds of Sid's inspection.
"Everything's fine, as usual," Sid says, and Soul tries not to let out an audible breath. "But," he adds with a small laugh, "lay off the kibble, would ya? I don't wanna have to call Poison Control on my weirdest tenants."
He pulls the door shut, his chortling echoing down the hallway and leaving Soul and Maka staring at the peephole in the door.
The things he does for her.
Well, he's not living this one down for awhile, but for the moment he's more concerned about the great escape that his cat seems to have pulled off from the porch.
But no, the porch door slides open to reveal her purring and curled up in the bottom of the bag, pressed against the door. As soon as they bring her back inside, she hops out of the bag and runs over to the table the record player sits on, rubbing against its legs.
"Huh," Maka says, glancing at Soul and smiling.
"What?" He's still grouchy about Sid thinking he subsists on a cat food diet.
"I think... she likes the music."
Startled, he looks down at Blair again, who is happily curled up at the base of the table, head bopping along slightly to the music.
"'Course she does," he says with a shrug, turning to finally clean up the cereal. "We already knew she was psycho."
"You're leaving me alone with her?!"
"It's only for a week." Maka's eye roll is extremely unnecessary, he decides, especially since his concerns are extremely legitimate.
The cat won't leave him alone. She still hasn't stopped watching him when he drinks his midnight milk; if anything, she's gotten bolder, meowing at him in the kitchen, even standing on two legs and pawing at his knee, eyes wide and unblinking like she's trying to bewitch him into handing over his precious carton cargo.
"You're just a wolf in cat's clothing, aren't you?" he'd said to her on one of these nights, and as she'd finally stalked away, leaving him to finish his milk in peace, he swore he saw her wink in the light of the fridge.
"She's a cat, Soul," Maka says, bringing him back to the present. "The worst she can do is fall asleep on your face."
"Uh, yeah, which would suffocate me. That's murder."
Maka hoists her bag over her shoulder, dropping her keys into his begrudgingly outstretched palm. She's the Responsible One, after all, keeper of the sole keys to the mailbox and the recycling room. Normally he'd be quietly happy about accepting this responsibility, but now... at what cost?
"You'll be fine. She trusts you."
It's not whether the cat trusts him that's the problem, he muses, but he catches the keys anyway. As she walks to the door, he staunchly ignores the fact that he misses her already.
That night, he puts on the Blair Witch Project to properly educate his fugitive feline about her namesake. She watches it with the same wide-eyed attention that she gives him when she's after his milk which, yes, he does find terribly unnerving.
"You like horror movies, don't you?" It's the most riveting discovery he's made in months, mostly because it makes so much sense. She meows back at him from her perch on his lap.
(It's not like he likes her sitting there, or anything. He's just too lazy to move her.)
They finish the movie in silence, Blair purring against his stomach. And even if his cat is a horror movie-loving, crazy violin superfan who is probably a demon, he has to admit… it's sort of nice to have her there.
The rest of the week passes much like this. Blair invades his space at every opportunity, and Soul fends off her advances. He's taken to pacing around the kitchen to avoid her begging during midnight milk, which is only moderately successful. She - like Maka - is aggravatingly persistent, and although he will only ever claim to be supremely annoyed about this, there's a part of him that does find it endearing.
Currently, Blair is on a quest to grab a bite of his dinner, jumping onto the table every few seconds and swiping at his chicken. He imagines Sid saying well, if you're so interested in her food, she should get a crack at yours! and crabbily wolfs down another bite. In response, he picks her up like a baby (which cats are supposed to hate, but she, for some infuriating reason, loves it) and tosses her on the bed, shutting the door so he can finish his dinner in peace.
Minutes later he finds himself creaking open the door to find that Blair has nestled completely into his laundry pile. Only her face is exposed, eyes half-closed in Tide-scented bliss.
"Tch," he says, feigning disgust, but even as he says it, he's taking his phone out, snapping a photo to send to Maka.
It's after midnight, so he doesn't expect a text back, and when the screen lights up in his hands, he almost jumps.
[[ see? she likes you. :) ]]
He rolls his eyes, but he bites down on his lip to keep from smiling. Aloof stoicism is his brand, and Maka, with her ruthless optimism, will not break him.
[[ likes being up in my business, maybe ]]
[[ well, I do that too, sometimes. and I still like you. ;) ]]
The smile is gone, replaced by a dull heat that fills up his face and then recedes, though the familiar gnawing in his gut sticks around.
"I wonder if she could," he says to Blair. She blinks at him from inside her laundry cave. "Ever like me," he explains. "Like that."
At this, Blair stretches, sending socks rolling down the sides of the pile, and then plops back onto his lap, belly exposed.
"Is that supposed to mean something?" He tries to sound grouchy, but he's smiling again, and it's awful. "I don't speak cat," he adds, but as he sees her lying there, giving him nothing but love despite all his surliness, she reminds him of someone.
He looks down at his phone and starts to type.
[[ yea, ur not so bad urself ]]
Soul realizes that he should have seen his very peaceful week as a bad omen, because at this moment, he feels like Blair is making up for lost time.
This is what he gets for trying to be responsible. Clearly the possession of two forbidden keys had driven him mad with power, and since great power is the inevitable precursor to great responsibility, he'd decided to give Blair a bath - a cat's public enemy #1 - in order to surprise Maka when she came home.
And when Maka walks into the bathroom to find litter all over the floor, and Soul and Blair drenched in a corner of the bathtub, she is certainly surprised. In fact, she walks in at the worst possible time, to angry hissing coming from more than one source.
"Ugh, Blair, quit it -"
"W-What are you doing?!" She raises a hand to stifle her laugh as Soul stares absolute daggers at her.
"I was trying to get her clea- oh- oh god- stop wiggling-"
But Blair is, unfortunately, a master wiggler. In her haste, she leaps over the lip of the bathtub and out into the hallway. As Soul lunges for her, his face slams into the side of the tub with a sickening clunk.
"...Ugh." He rises from the depths and pinches his nose as Maka runs over to him. "Is it bleeding?"
She carefully lifts his hand off his face to reveal that yes, it is, and even in the daze that he's in, his eyes flicker to her hand, gentle against his.
"Let's… clean this up?" she asks. All he can muster in response is a glum nod.
"I dob't know," he huffs a few minutes later, two tissues stuffed up his nose as he crosses his arms. "I tought maybe she'b like bads!"
"Maybe she'll grow into them," Maka shrugs as she dries his hair with a towel.
"Yeah, okay." He settles into letting himself be taken care of, because his head is pounding and because yes, after a week, having Maka's face this close to his is kind of nice, or whatever.
He has mostly forgiven Blair (for precisely this reason, if he's honest). She'd come back in to the bathroom after sufficiently drying herself - he suspects the floor vent in his bedroom is to blame, as she's fluffier than usual - and has now endeavored to wind between his and Maka's legs.
"Well, anyway. All done." Maka tosses the towel on his face and heads into the hallway to put away her things, his hair apparently dry enough.
From inside the bathroom, he catches her saying something else as she walks away, something that he wasn't sure if he was meant to hear: "It was still really sweet."
Blair, at this moment, bounds into the hallway after Maka, stopping just for a moment to look at him again.
Before she turns to go, he swears he sees her wink again.
It's midnight and - world's biggest plot twist - Blair is here.
Because of course she is, this infuriating, adorable, sweetheart of a cat that he can't really bring himself to scoff at anymore. She might be Blair, Beseecher of Midnight Milk, Bringer of Nosebleeds in Bathtubs, Probably A Witch But Definitely Also A Cat, but she also might sort of be… family.
She's a nuisance, but she's their nuisance, and it's the way that things are supposed to be.
"Alright, fine, little witch," he mutters, going to the cupboard and grabbing a small bowl. "I think you tried to do some matchmaking yesterday. So here. I owe you one."
Into the bowl goes a modest helping of two percent, and Blair meows her gratitude as she laps up her earnings.
Down the hall, in her bedroom, Maka smiles at the two of them, at the grunty-meowy conversation that she can't quite make out.
As she lies there in bed, she pulls out her phone, and with a small sigh, she rereads a conversation from a few days before, replaying it in her head as she tries to figure out what it means, if anything.
[[ yea, ur not so bad urself ]]
She rolls over, letting the screen fade to black and watching her reflection in the glass.
… Who knows. Maybe Blair can help her figure it out.
An enjoyable tidbit: Newman's Own cat food is indeed free range. And from Uruguay! Things I never thought I'd learn in this lifetime.
Thanks for reading!