Fic: Domestic Short-Hair (J2. PG-13 Crack!fic) 4/?
Cat-fic.
Trist's first evening prowl on two legs.
Jensen sleeps. Trist tries the words out, feeling the way “sleeps” stretches out all lazy and long. Jensen sleeps and Trist is bored. He walks around the apartment, looks out all the windows for something to play with. Sometimes there are fast-slither geckos eating the flutter-bugs by the light. He sees one but it won’t play with him, too far away to chase through the glass.
He checks all the corners because once there was a crunchy-fat bug there and it was fun to play with it and tasty to eat it.
He doesn’t find any crunchy bugs and corners are boring when they’re empty.
Trist sniffs at the garbage, but he knows that Jensen is mad when the garbage falls over and sometimes he fusses at Trist when that happens. He licks his lips, tasting the faint residue of the tuna on his own skin. Tuna was good. The garbage smells like tuna, and Trist looks for something else before Jensen gets mad.
He sniffs around the rest of the kitchen. His nose isn’t right still. He can’t smell all the little tasty things he used to be able to, but being up high makes up for it. He smells the place the water comes from, licks at the tiny drip. There’s a hole where the water goes on each side of it. In one there’s a metal grid blocking him but the other side smells tastier and he puts his pa--hand past the rubber thing and into the damp hole. His fingers come out all nice and smelly but there isn’t any food there.
His elbow bumps a jar of pens on the counter and he chases them as they scatter, until they’re all pushed into corners or under the stove. The cloth-thing, the “buh-lan-kit,” gets lost somewhere along the way but Trist figures if he has no fur, it’s better to not have the thing rubbing on his skin.
His belly is sort of empty and he nuzzles the canister his food stays in. He can reach it now, and that’s good. Maybe if he loves on it enough it’ll be nice and feed him. Happy food-holder. Good food-holder.
He doesn’t mean to push it. Maybe he does. Being so big makes it hard to accidentally do things. The canister falls off the flat-space and Trist tries to bat at it as it slips past. The lid just comes off and a million billion tiny toys fly out of it. It’s the best thing ever and Trist pounces on the bits as they scatter. They keep moving, sliding on the floor. He eats some of them but even when he’s full of crunchies they’re still so tempting.
He chases the food-pieces until he’s bored again. It takes a long time. Much longer than the pens.
Then he’s bored and he’s lonely and he misses Jensen.
Jensen sleeps and Trist wants to go to him but the door is closed. All the way closed instead of like it usually is, just partway closed with a shoe in the way. Why is it closed if Trist is on the wrong side?
He pushes the crack with his face and then with his hand and it won’t move. “Jensen?” he calls. He wants Jensen. It’s important. “Jensen Jensen? Jensen. Jensen?”
Trist kneels by the door, trying to push in, to smell what’s happening, why he’s been locked out. Trist is never locked out.
The door opens and Trist is leaning on it so hard he almost falls in. Jensen smells like sleep and Trist moves forward to press his nose against Jensen's bare belly, breathing in the scent. Jensen's here and he won’t be bored and lonely anymore.
“Trist, no,” Jensen says, but not like he means it. “You have to stay out here now.”
Trist slips past him and into the room and he’s happy again. Close to Jensen and on the right side of the door is all the places he wants to be.
“I’m sorry,” says Jensen, and his voice sounds not-right, all hoarse and broken around the edges. “Come on. You sleep on the couch.”
He tries to pick Trist up but Trist twists in his hands, getting too close to be pushed away. Jensen trying to put him out feels bad, worse than the carrier, worse than the thing outside that makes all the noise and takes him to the smell-bad sharp-pokes place. It hurts his--his arm, and Jensen's never ever never hurt him before, he’s always so careful, picking Trist up with one hand under his ribs and the other scooping up under his back legs.
This isn’t right at all.
“Jensen!” he cries, “Jensen. Jensen.” His face feels funny; his not-seeing-right eyes get seeing even worse and his nose isn’t letting the air in. He clings to Jensen's waist, desperate to not be shut out. He holds tight, but careful--no claws. No claws at all. Can’t hurt Jensen but can’t be shut out.
Jensen sighs and Trist thinks he’s won. “Oh, kitty,” Jensen says and sinks to the floor to hold him. Trist nuzzles in against Jensen's neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, but Trist still doesn’t know what that means, “I’m so sorry.”
There is petting though, Jensen's hands stroking his hair, over his back. He sniffs, because Jensen smells so good.
And then--Jensen sniffs him back, which only happened that one time when the food made his tummy hurt and came out bad, and Trist is horrified to think that maybe he smells bad and can’t tell. He would--he needs a bath, he needs a fur-cleaning tongue, or maybe a naked-skin cleaning one and--
“Oh my god,” Jensen says, like Trist smells really really bad. “What is that on your breath?”
“Treats!” says Trist, so proud to have remembered the word. “Fooood.”
Trist's first evening prowl on two legs.
Jensen sleeps. Trist tries the words out, feeling the way “sleeps” stretches out all lazy and long. Jensen sleeps and Trist is bored. He walks around the apartment, looks out all the windows for something to play with. Sometimes there are fast-slither geckos eating the flutter-bugs by the light. He sees one but it won’t play with him, too far away to chase through the glass.
He checks all the corners because once there was a crunchy-fat bug there and it was fun to play with it and tasty to eat it.
He doesn’t find any crunchy bugs and corners are boring when they’re empty.
Trist sniffs at the garbage, but he knows that Jensen is mad when the garbage falls over and sometimes he fusses at Trist when that happens. He licks his lips, tasting the faint residue of the tuna on his own skin. Tuna was good. The garbage smells like tuna, and Trist looks for something else before Jensen gets mad.
He sniffs around the rest of the kitchen. His nose isn’t right still. He can’t smell all the little tasty things he used to be able to, but being up high makes up for it. He smells the place the water comes from, licks at the tiny drip. There’s a hole where the water goes on each side of it. In one there’s a metal grid blocking him but the other side smells tastier and he puts his pa--hand past the rubber thing and into the damp hole. His fingers come out all nice and smelly but there isn’t any food there.
His elbow bumps a jar of pens on the counter and he chases them as they scatter, until they’re all pushed into corners or under the stove. The cloth-thing, the “buh-lan-kit,” gets lost somewhere along the way but Trist figures if he has no fur, it’s better to not have the thing rubbing on his skin.
His belly is sort of empty and he nuzzles the canister his food stays in. He can reach it now, and that’s good. Maybe if he loves on it enough it’ll be nice and feed him. Happy food-holder. Good food-holder.
He doesn’t mean to push it. Maybe he does. Being so big makes it hard to accidentally do things. The canister falls off the flat-space and Trist tries to bat at it as it slips past. The lid just comes off and a million billion tiny toys fly out of it. It’s the best thing ever and Trist pounces on the bits as they scatter. They keep moving, sliding on the floor. He eats some of them but even when he’s full of crunchies they’re still so tempting.
He chases the food-pieces until he’s bored again. It takes a long time. Much longer than the pens.
Then he’s bored and he’s lonely and he misses Jensen.
Jensen sleeps and Trist wants to go to him but the door is closed. All the way closed instead of like it usually is, just partway closed with a shoe in the way. Why is it closed if Trist is on the wrong side?
He pushes the crack with his face and then with his hand and it won’t move. “Jensen?” he calls. He wants Jensen. It’s important. “Jensen Jensen? Jensen. Jensen?”
Trist kneels by the door, trying to push in, to smell what’s happening, why he’s been locked out. Trist is never locked out.
The door opens and Trist is leaning on it so hard he almost falls in. Jensen smells like sleep and Trist moves forward to press his nose against Jensen's bare belly, breathing in the scent. Jensen's here and he won’t be bored and lonely anymore.
“Trist, no,” Jensen says, but not like he means it. “You have to stay out here now.”
Trist slips past him and into the room and he’s happy again. Close to Jensen and on the right side of the door is all the places he wants to be.
“I’m sorry,” says Jensen, and his voice sounds not-right, all hoarse and broken around the edges. “Come on. You sleep on the couch.”
He tries to pick Trist up but Trist twists in his hands, getting too close to be pushed away. Jensen trying to put him out feels bad, worse than the carrier, worse than the thing outside that makes all the noise and takes him to the smell-bad sharp-pokes place. It hurts his--his arm, and Jensen's never ever never hurt him before, he’s always so careful, picking Trist up with one hand under his ribs and the other scooping up under his back legs.
This isn’t right at all.
“Jensen!” he cries, “Jensen. Jensen.” His face feels funny; his not-seeing-right eyes get seeing even worse and his nose isn’t letting the air in. He clings to Jensen's waist, desperate to not be shut out. He holds tight, but careful--no claws. No claws at all. Can’t hurt Jensen but can’t be shut out.
Jensen sighs and Trist thinks he’s won. “Oh, kitty,” Jensen says and sinks to the floor to hold him. Trist nuzzles in against Jensen's neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, but Trist still doesn’t know what that means, “I’m so sorry.”
There is petting though, Jensen's hands stroking his hair, over his back. He sniffs, because Jensen smells so good.
And then--Jensen sniffs him back, which only happened that one time when the food made his tummy hurt and came out bad, and Trist is horrified to think that maybe he smells bad and can’t tell. He would--he needs a bath, he needs a fur-cleaning tongue, or maybe a naked-skin cleaning one and--
“Oh my god,” Jensen says, like Trist smells really really bad. “What is that on your breath?”
“Treats!” says Trist, so proud to have remembered the word. “Fooood.”