'You know,' says Ben, his lips now a mirror of Gwen's earlier obstinate pout; 'you could have let me drive.'

'In my truck? No.'

Ben stares at him outraged. 'You've trusted me to drive it before!'

'It was a choice between you and a bunch of Gourmand soldiers whose attention wandered every time you muttered the name of an item of food,' Rook stated. 'I would have been a fool to put one of them behind the wheel.'

Ben sighs and glances down over the whips of light that catch on the ocean's waves beneath them. He wonders if Rook's managed to catch the similar sense of deju vu that's creeping up on him right now.

'Whatever. Just...no peeking at the address, alright?'

Ben's not an idiot. The truck's like an overgrown teddy bear for Rook sometimes and the guy's always been a bit territorial over who gets to drive it. Which is why he's asked the Plumber's navigational software to pick the largest public park to the place there's going to, so the Proto-truck can safely nestle under the shade of some tree. There's no real law against space-craft parking yet (at least not in England) so they should be safe.

And it's not fifteen minutes later that they do just that, before Ben's anxiously peering round street corners and jotting down their names within his memory to match them up to the route he remembers from all those inky green lines Google drew up for him.

'Why can you not be this prepared for missions?' Rook asks in fond exasperation as Ben gives a self-congratulatory smile and leads them over a zebra crossing.

'Because Google can't draw up maps of alien terrain?'

Rook scowls. 'It would not kill you to glance over the paper briefings.'

'No,' Ben allows. 'But it would still be really boring. I'm more of a learn-on-the-job kinda guy. I don't pick up the same stuff from those things that you do.'

'Yes, because you do not bother to look at the-'

'We're here!' Ben announces before Rook can embark on another futile, but still utterly annoying rant about his lack of organisational skills. He spreads his arms wide in front of a store-front window that Rook had been about to casually brush past, only to blink and wince at the way the glass is painted over with snowflakes, the artist rearranging their strand-like ends into tips that resemble dandelion-seeds. They wind-mill off into no discernible pattern, while illustrations of cats uncoil into the foreground, chasing the tip of the tail before them until they do form a pattern, a shell-like curve, with the last reaching for the skirt of a fairy.

Ben cringes. Gwen was right, so, so right. Already, peering inside, he can see circular tables set up as though they're on a small garden patio, cutesy wooden furniture engraved into the background. This is a cafe for people like Rayona or Julie, who find such things utterly adorable. Not Rook, whose interests lie inside places where the furniture tends to be sparse and a secondary feature to whatever museum exhibit or new piece of machinery is the main attraction. Indeed, peering over his shoulder, Ben can see Rook gazing up at the sign that swings overhead with a less than impressed look on his face.

'Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium,' he reads out-loud, his voice containing all of the snit Ben's always known Rook been capable of producing and yet somehow, never really registered until now. And then, with a sharp turn of his head, Rook is suddenly looking at Ben as though he's the alien.

'I...' Ben is blushing now, he can feel it. 'Shut up!' He starts to shove Rook towards the door, drawing curious looks from inside as he does so. 'You're always encouraging me to try new stuff, c'mon...'

Rook sighs. 'Very well,' he says in a tone that indicates that he is being pushed into a dunking tank rather than a simple cat cafe. 'You are paying, after all.'

'That's the spirit,' Ben says in a strangled tone. And then they're inside and everyone is staring at them. Well, staring more at Rook than at Ben, but hey, go figure.

Ben gives them a wide smile, as friendly as he can manage and links his arm with Rook's, practically hanging off his elbow. 'Hi! And yes, before you ask, he is an alien.'

But he also looks enough like a cat for everybody here, who obviously love the animals, to settle down in their seats and develop rather admiring glances. Hopefully none of them will turn excessively creepy otherwise Rook will probably never forgive him.

'I do not purr,' Rook informs an elderly lady nearby, one who has yet to return her cup of tea to her saucer. Her eyes almost pop out from under her shawl as he speaks. 'I bear some similarities with your earth cats, yes, but that does not mean...' he trails off as a tabby peers up at him under her table, head weaving up and then down in the cat equivalent to 'you're not like the other humans here and I want to sniff you.'

Ben sighs and breaks off the weird staring contest that's starting to develop between the two of them by pushing Rook towards the nearest empty table. A black and white cat is already lounging on one of the seats there, paws draped over the curve that falls off into space, so Rook rather pointedly takes the seat that juts off towards the cafe counter, leaving Ben to carefully brush his flesh-and-blood hand over the cat's side in a weak encouragement for it to move. And it does. By about two centimetres. So Ben gives up and very carefully, with his prosthetic one as support, lifts the lazy thing up and into his lap.

He can't quite help but roll a cautious finger under its chin, measuring the feel of its fur against Rook's. It's softer, though not by much, like the underside of an apple-mint leaf, all wispy and slip-stream sensation in comparison to the more solid feel of a proper tree leaf. Which makes sense in a way. Rook's chin is much larger than an earth cat's after all, and the jawbone inside is heavier, stronger, landing into Ben's palm with the weight of a china cup rather than the slam of a teaspoon. Which yeah, that black and white cat is starting to do right now, dunking its head so that it's chin scraps against his fingers with a similar thrust of motion.

It's weird because Ben's never really been a cat person. Or a pet person really either, although his family owned a dog when he was younger. But that doesn't seem to prevent the cat from getting its daily massage routine worked in.

'Would you like a menu?'

'Hmm?' Ben asks. 'Oh yeah, thanks.'

He reaches for the menu, his eyes glancing over a list of tea and fancy red velvet cake slices, stuff he doesn't really care for, when he sees Rook's eyes narrow in a glare over the top. Even his arms are crossed.

'What?' Ben asks. 'You want a turn?' He offers the black and white cat up like a present. 'I'm sure they've got plenty more if you don't want to share. How many have you got?' he asks in a whispered aside to the waitress.

'Nine. The rest of them are downstairs right now, playing with the yoga mats. You can go down if you like.'

'See? Nine.'

Rook bunches in on himself, his glare becoming worse.

'Look, I get it, you probably think it's demeaning. But have you ever actually stroked one of these critters?'

Ben re-adjusts his grip on the cat that is attempting to roll into a ball in his lap and shuffles forward, all so he can direct his voice furtively across the table to Rook's ears. 'Look, it feels nice when I stroke you, right? Don't you ever want to experience it from the other side? I figure it'll make a nice change of pace.'

For it is this sentiment, more than anything else, that had reached out to strike him with a flash of inspiration yesterday afternoon, inspiration that is perhaps now backfiring. Or maybe not, at least if the sudden widening in Rook's eyes is anything to go by.

Rook stares thoughtfully at the cat pressed under Ben's thumbs for a moment. And then he reaches out over the table, allowing a large hand to scrape its way carefully over the sparse clumps of fur that litter the space between the cat's ears. His fingers draw up to fondle said ears, watching them roll and bend like paper under his touch, before the cat closes its eyes in bliss.

'It is not that I do not derive pleasure from touching another furred being,' he says carefully. 'Oxytocins are released throughout my body in a similar manner to humans, though I believe to a much lesser extent. It might be different if the fur was that of a fellow Revonnahgander, but here...no, it is a thoroughly different experience to feeling you stroking me.'

Ben flushes and lowers his head behind the menu. Rook's voice is clear and thoughtful, losing much of the tenseness that infused it minutes ago. But even so, within the pleasant atmosphere of this cafe, it still feels very, very loud.

Perhaps that is why the elderly woman next to them chooses to settle her teacup back into its saucer with a delicate clang that speaks volumes.

'Well,' she says, not a second after the sound has died down. 'If I can live through my son getting married to a conservative pencil-pusher, I can definitely survive hearing about someone giving a hand-job to an alien.'

It must be revenge for the way Rook spoke to her earlier, Ben thinks, even as he sees Rook sputter and hasten to address the fact that no, no, it is a misunderstanding, I was not making a reference to sexual congress, at all. Because she doesn't fool Ben, no, not one bit, not with that sly smile developing between the wrinkles that perch on either side of her mouth, ones that abruptly lift them from their sagging folds into a fan of skin that ripples outwards. Laughter lines, and they brush out like clouds, telling Ben all he needs to know about just how much fun she is having setting that desperate look on his boyfriend's face.

'I'll have the banoffee cupcake,' he tells the hovering waitress, her own face looking as though Christmas has come early for her. 'And for him...get the chocolate mandarin loaf.'

It's not really that much of a risk to take, given that Rook likes anything that contains so much as a hint of orange within. Because while it may not taste that much like Amber Ogia to Ben, Rook always insists it does whenever he closes his eyes to 'savour the taste.'

Meanwhile the old lady is cackling and Rook has stopped uttering apologies, starting to look rather sore in the face as he does so.

'Man,' says Ben with a low whistle, 'if you have that much trouble with her, I can't wait until you meet my Grandma. She'll run circles round you. Or, heh, float.'

'She can be nowhere near as bad as you,' mutters Rook, though the rigid certainty is slipping from his face by the second.

The old lady narrows her eyes at them, her guffaws falling into low sputtering chunks of sound. And Rook narrows his eyes back, looking torn over whether to exercise caution against her or chip in with a deceptively polite remark.

'I know you humans say that laughter makes the best medicine, but you also say that one can have too much of a good thing as well. And I believe the latter applies in your case, madam.'

Ah. Well, maybe not that polite then.

The old lady narrows her eyes, gearing up for battle and Ben, feeling oddly mature, reaches out to stir Rook's tight knuckles with a light tap of his human fingers. His other hand remains stuck in the ruff of the now purring cat, whose eyes flare open with unbridled affront as Ben shuffles to the edge of his seat, dislodging its position slightly.

'Dude, I'm not going to sit here and watch you get into a fight with an elderly woman. Look, here comes cake, okay?'

And like a benediction, the waitress quickly slips two small plates before them, the ends ringed with a floral motif.

Ben grins, and strokes the small pebble-like folds of Rook's fingers, now flattened beneath his own one last time, before his hand dives back across the table to seize a spoon. He doesn't care what they use in England or anywhere else for that matter; he likes to eat his cake with as large a spoon as he can manage. Even when it's just a cupcake.

'You should use a fork,' Rook tells him mock-sternly as though to reinforce the point.

'And you should eat your cake,' Ben retorts almost as firmly. 'I'm the one paying for it, remember? It would be oh-so-rude to leave it.'

Rook smirks and is just about to lift up his fork and use it to shovel out a shelf of crumbs from his loaf when-

'Ahh, young love.'

It drifts out into the air across their table like a curse. And Ben freezes, his mouth full of the sweet stickiness of banana as it melts into the welcome crumble of toffee. And then abruptly he swallows, remembering the feel of Kai's shoulders and the muscles in her arms, the whole soft glide of them, as he clutched at her on the top of Big Ben. And then the sneer of the Sir Chadwick ruining it all and saying those exact same words. It's like a trigger and suddenly he feels stuck, caught once again in the trap of people expecting something from him, of deciding they can read him after a few seconds of just seeing him.

He looks at the old lady who uttered that reminder, dragging him back in time to another possible lover within this same city. And then he traces the shape of her eyes and watches the stray grey lines of her hair escape her shawl, something prickling at his memory. Maybe it's the slight curve, the simple wave within the follicles that float free. Or perhaps it's the sharp cut of her eyes, teasing with a glint he remembers all too well. Either way, within his imagination, he rapidly subtracts a few of her wrinkles and is left reeling with the picture it leaves behind.

Rook stares at him, looking confused, and no wonder, Ben decides, because the guy wasn't there for that taunt the Chadwick threw at him and Kai about the fact that they just happened to be a boy and girl sharing the same area of space. So Ben scowls and throws his spoon down onto the table in a huff.

'Wow. Gwen was right, this was a terrible idea. Sorry Rook, I should have just taken you out to a museum or something.'

'You would not have enjoyed it,' says Rook slowly, looking even more confused.

The old lady is actually looking sorta sorry now. But it's too little, too late for Ben and he scowls at her. 'Float away,' he tells her a little rudely, 'I'm on a date' – a terrible one, he thinks – 'and you're not invited.'

He thinks he sees a little pink flare up inside her iris for a moment, but then she nods stiffly and rises to her feet.

Rook looks thoroughly perturbed and Ben feels awful, a total heel, so, he determinedly spears part of Rook's uneaten cake with his unused fork and lifts it, rising up onto his feet for leverage. The cat, its spine already curling in preparation for a leap, hits the floor a beat later, as Ben coaxes Rook's mouth open with a simple kiss, his back forming a bridge that cuts across the table and rakes shadows over their crumb-filled plate. Then he slips back, pulling away, tongue flicking away like a lizard's as he quickly slips his chocolate-and-mandarin loaded fork inside Rook's mouth, just as the guy leans forward in protest at the kiss ending.

Rook stiffens.

'Chew,' Ben instructs, forcing down a snort at just how teenage they are being.

Because making out across a table and feeding each other in public? Three weeks ago he could never have imagined doing such a thing. But they're in London, the place where Rook first met Kai and maybe Gwen's wrong or maybe she isn't, but Ben feels as though he has to prove something just by being here.

Rook chews moodily but then pauses, the rolling of his jaw becoming slower as he digests the taste filing his mouth. Then he swallows, gladly. 'Mmmm, that is good.'

There is a quiet, soft swish, a rustle of fabric as Verdona flows away into some ether of space. But Ben does not turn to watch her go.

Half an hour later, after managing to successfully feed themselves, Ben and Rook migrate downstairs and Rook becomes covered with cats as he attempts to do the sort of stretch that Ben is reasonably sure he could never attain, not in a million years.

Rook just grins at him smugly.

'I feel the need to burn off the calories you have so generously paid for me to ingest,' he informs Ben bossily.

But Ben just looks at him, and then with a laser pointer encourages a ginger tom to swat Rook directly on the foot.

Notes: Never to be updated this quickly again, probably.

Also, I have never entered Diniah's Cat Emporium in my life, though my sister has. All info and description involving the place has been gleaned from her and the most up-to-date photos I can find of it; which in this case came from frozen screenshots of a youtube video since google image search gave me photos back from 2014. I apologise for any inaccuracies I have depicted here and would ask anyone who does visit a cat cafe for the first time to not expect any of the cats there to be as friendly or as inquisitive as they are in this fic. Cat as a rule, generally take a while to warm up to people, which is why repeat visitors tend to receive more attention. Also, I believe Lady Dinah's possess some rescue cats amongst their numbers, so they tend to be a bit nervy towards humans in general.

Also, I'm taking great liberties with London's network of streets and general...largeness. As will be evident, if not in this chapter, but the next.