Purrchance to Dream - Part 4 (Patreon)

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Companion prose written by my wonderful co-writer Calico! Enjoy!

***

So now Crowley has started another day with another headache, another vague sense of unease that he doesn’t remember going to bed, yet again, and an irritating sore patch streaked across one thigh. Bloody cat’s left its mark on him. 

Who on Earth goes around getting assaulted by a random cat?!

Stings more than he’d have expected, too. Maybe it’s the insult with the injury. Or… maybe it’s the hangover. 

Time for a vat of coffee. 

Crowley strides down the street, veers into the coffee shop, and stops dead. 

 The sodding cat. That sodding cat. Is here?! 

 Maggie is sitting at a table by herself, and at her feet is the increasingly familiar sleek white form.  Its head is bent to lap delicately at—is that a teacup and saucer?! 

 Before he knows what he’s doing, Crowley stalks over and yanks back a chair. 

 The cat jumps, looking up from its teacup of milk. 

 “Mr Crowley,” Maggie coos, and too late Crowley realises it looks like he’s here to socialise rather than complain. 

 “Oh, hi,” he says, tipping his head back, feeling the urge to tip his chair back onto two legs. 

“How are you?” Maggie says, all gentle concern.

 Crowley ignores that. “Did you know,” he says instead, tapping his finger in the cat’s direction. The cat looks at him. “This…  feline,” he says, “is following me?”

 A different kind of concern crosses Maggie’s face. “Er… is it?”

 “Turning up everywhere,” Crowley says, rubbing his chin. “Yesterday, today… ‘s weird. Can’t be a coincidence.”

 “You… um… you are aware he arrived first,” Maggie points out, cautiously. 

 Crowley barks a laugh. “Ha! No, I think you’ll find, I predate him juuuuust a little.”

 The cat’s head jerks up from his teacup again, and he fixes Crowley with a look that is oddly penetrating for such a small, fluffy face. 

 “Mr Crowley,” Maggie says gently, leaning forwards and covering his hand with her own. “I meant to ask. I know it’s been rough recently. Are you okay?”

 For fuck’s sake. “I’m fine! I’m—” Crowley starts, and then cuts off because with a rush of air and a heavy soft thud, the cat has jumped on his lap. 

 “Mrow!” 

 Crowley stares, frozen with his hands in the air. He has a sense that he would not feel more surprised had Beelzebub themself materialised in the sugar bowl. 

 “Little guy showed up a few days ago,” comes Nina’s voice, appearing next to them with a steaming mug that smells promisingly of a prodigious amount of espresso. “No collar. Stray, or something.” 

 Her expression shares something with the one that Maggie’s been giving him. 

 Crowley is horrified to recognise it as… pity.  Which is just—not okay. Not okay at all! He doesn’t want their pity! Their respect, their fear, their alarm, sure. Never, ever pity. 

 The cat takes advantage of Crowley’s momentary paralysis, turning around in Crowley’s lap a few times before sitting down. It arranges the big white tail around his feet, blinks its startling blue eyes up at Crowley, and starts to purr.