Moonbeams: Swing on a Star 2/2 (SGA)
Moonbeams: Swing on a Star 2/2
Author: Tari_roo
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if I did… I’d own Cat!John
Summary: AU (Crack) Cat!John returns. Or the Food War. Or the life of a cat named Cat and his mission to drive Rodney McKay insane.
Warning: None. Maybe excessive cuteness? I’m immune.
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John was a fairly patient man. Military life taught you patience and then split second action. As a cat, John had found an even greater capacity for patience.
Rodney McKay thought he was a genius. Rodney McKay was going to find that he was very very wrong.
John was curled on the couch watching TV. Turning the TV on was usually not a problem, unless McKay hid the remote somewhere. Changing channels though sometimes proved beyond his limited ‘paw’ ability. Fortunately this time, McKay had left the TV on the Discovery channel, and John was happy to watch even the repeats.
The real downside to this two week trip of McKay’s was the lack of laptop. Rodney had taken both laptops with him, leaving John’s painstaking research on hold. The touchpad on the laptop left at home responded to his paw and with agonizing slowness and effort, Sheppard had made some progress in finding out what had happened to his body. The military was not listing him as MIA or KIA, or even discharged due to mental illness.
He was not unaware of the irony that he was in effect - a real life LOL cat. Without the LOL.
John’s theory on his current ‘condition’ was a ‘consciousness’ transfer. His mind inside a cat. A cat’s mind in his body. How this had happened - no idea. Or why. Magic spells or something improbable like that weren’t off the table. Sheppard just liked to think he had a modicum of understanding of the potential science in play.
Hopefully his body was in some hospital somewhere, while the doctors tried to figure out the reasons for his mental breakdown. Sheppard had no real way of confirming this, short of enlightening Rodney as to his condition and getting help that way. Rodney McKay PhD! Not MD.
The Food War had taken priority so far.
John Sheppard was not eating cat food. Not now. Not ever. No way on God’s green earth.
Rodney McKay PhD would be eaten by aliens before John gave in. Considering all the classified information Sheppard had heard the last four months, there was a good chance McKay would end up as a snack for a weird alien ‘thing’. It also added a small complication in John’s reveal options.
The odds of a man turned cat ending up in the same neighborhood as a scientist working for a secret Government base with a ‘StarGate’ were too funky for John’s liking. His current malady was no doubt linked to something at the base or a project, or alien device. And McKay was the right guy to figure it out. Weird alien technology. Funky alien powers. Ancient humans with a predilection for spreading the gene pool a little. It was possible. Alien science was within the realms of reality. Magic? Not so much.
But, McKay worked for a paranoid, over cautious, we’ve-nearly-been-invaded-Agency. Finding out your cat was smart enough to rearrange the tuna tins into a model of a carbon atom did not mean rejoicing all round. John watched sci fi shows and movies. He knew the deal on super smart furry critters.
Right now though, Sheppard just needed to get McKay beyond this ridiculous obsession with feeding him cat food. After that, he could figure out a ‘don’t dissect me, I’m an Air Force Major’ reveal strategy.
John heard Sam’s lighter footsteps approaching down the hall and as she turned the key in the lock and opened the door, he was the picture of an indolent cat - and the TV was off. She gave him a beaming smile, threw an overnight bag on the coffee table and sat down next to him on the couch.
“Hey, sweetie. You waiting up?”
John purred, dignity be damned. Being petted - rocked! He submitted happily to her hands, his chest rumbling loudly. The overnight bag was unexpected but hopefully meant she was staying over. As an Air Force Officer he would definitely ‘not’ follow her into the bathroom at shower time, but as a cat, he could not be blamed if Sam took of her top, or something like that in front of him. He’d look away… eventually.
Sam stood up and made her way into kitchen. John didn’t bother following her. Carter had stuck to the pre-arranged feeding regime all week. And every day she found an uneaten mess of cat food in his bowl. Her sigh was audible. “Yeah, Rodney this is really working,” Sam muttered.
From the couch, John watched her open the cat food cupboard, and review her options of what food to waste on him tonight.
“You know, sweetie. This one is made with real tuna. I promise,” Sam held up a can for his review. It was pink, and had an adoring cat face on the tin. Sheppard swished his tail, unimpressed and unpersuaded. Some of the tins, once opened, made his little cat mouth water like mad. McKay had nearly crowed himself stupid when he caught John drooling like a dog. But the human brain was still in control. No matter how good it smelled, John wasn’t eating it.
“How about actual tuna?” came Sam’s voice from inside the refrigerator.
John was up like a shot, bounding over the couch and onto the counter instantly. McKay, the bastard, had moved all the tuna tins into the fridge after he caught John ‘inside’ the cupboard, trying to pry one open. Sam looked up and grinned at his hopeful expression. “Make you a deal, sweetie. One mouthful of that,” and she pointed at the lump of ‘Whiskerful Reel Tuna’. “And then I’ll give you some tuna.”
John shot her a look as full of ‘do I look stupid to you?’ as he could and hopped down off the counter. No coffee for a week, and back to scrounging on the streets for a meal - it was going to be a rough two weeks.
“Can’t blame ya,” Sam sighed, poking at the cat food.
The door bell rang and John sat down under one of the bar stools, curiosity piqued. Sam slammed the fridge shut and called out, “It’s open, Cam.”
The door swung open slowly, a sole cowboy boot knocking it further in. “That’s not why I rang, Sam,” a deep male voice whined and a tall guy staggered into the apartment, his arms full with grocery bags.
“Oh, sorry, Mitchell!” Sam hurried over to help him with the bags. The dude kicked the door closed and whistled, “No way. McKay’s got a pretty sweet pad for a…” He trailed off, a cheeky grin finishing the sentence. Carter though had no qualms, “For such a pain in the ass? Yeah. He does.”
They put the grocery bags on the counter and John stayed under the stool, discretely sniffing the air, trying to isolate what treats lay inside.
“You sure McKay won’t mind me staying here for the rest of the week? He’s not exactly…” Sam waved Cam’s concern aside. “I emailed him, he didn’t say no.”
Mitchell grinned, “Did you wait for a reply?”
Sam shrugged. “Let me show you around.”
While Sam showed Rodney’s unapproved house guest the apartment, John dashed out from under the stool. Sam had definitely gone up in his estimation. Annoying Rodney was great fun on most days, this though - pure genius.
“And, that is Cat.”
“Cat?”
“Cat.”
John stared up at the guy and poured on the charm.
“Cute.”
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John was in love. Not really. But it was close. Close manly non-romantic love. The love of a cat for a fellow sports fan. Because Cam? Cam was watching the Game.
Rodney was not overly a guy who flipped onto a sports channel and stayed long enough to do more than roll his eyes and continue to the next channel. Unless it was female beach volley ball.
That had been a good afternoon.
Completely ignoring Sam’s instructions about human food lying around, Cam had packets of Doritos open on the coffee table, pork rinds on the couch, some sort of dip on the arm of a chair and a very very happy cat draped over his lap.
“Come on, run it!” Cam yelled and John meowed in agreement. The Steelers were completely throwing the game away, and if it wasn’t for all the food, the honest to God junk food, John would be pissed that his first football game in over six months was this travesty.
As Pittsburgh fumbled just before half time, M itchell gently moved John off his lap and stalked over to the refrigerator, no doubt to find another beer, this one to drown his first half sorrows. John had his eye on the empty though.
He knew he had seconds, literally. He pounced on the empty beer bottle, tipping and hugging it, willing the dregs to tilt towards his waiting tongue faster.
“Wait, what? Nonononononononooooo.”
Cursing, hissing, John tried to roll out of Cam’s reach, but little cat body failed him and Cam grabbed the bottle. John though, did not let go. He had claws on four ends, buster!
“Yeowch! Shit, ah…. Let go!” John sunk his claws in, both into Cam’s hand and arm, refusing to be budged, removed, or pried away from ‘his’ damn beer! Sheppard could see Cam’s brain ticking cover, considering his options, whether it would be dignified or plausible to run around the apartment screaming, trying to shake a little black cat off his arm.
John glared back. Do it! I dare ya.
“Screw it. Trust McKay to have a crazy cat. Knock yourself out, buddy.”
Cam lowered his arm back near the couch, and shook it a little, no doubt hoping the mad cat would take the hint. John did, but not without shooting Mitchell a look full of venom. The love affair... was over! Because the bottle was now definitely empty, and he was wet… with beer.
Within the first few days of his ‘cat’ experience, Sheppard had caved quickly to the ‘licking yourself clean thing’. Mostly because it came naturally, the hairballs weren’t too bad and well… it beat trying to ‘accidently’ walk into the shower with McKay. John settled for ‘drinking’ his beer from his fur, and biding his time.
Cam kept a wary eye on John, and returned to the game. Fur done, furry beer gone, John deliberately lay over the pork rinds packet and started eating the few that popped out. “You are one weird cat.” An overly large hand tentatively patted his head and fondled his ears, and John resisted the purr. And in typical Sheppard fashion, the moment Cam’s hand left his head, the carefully ‘groomed’ fur on his head was back to being a scraggly mess. Some things never changed.
Fortunately after half time, the night improved. The Steelers realized that they were playing an ‘actual’ football game and started moving! Cam ‘forgot’ about a nearly half empty bottle and John forgave him and the Steelers while he lapped it up. Beef jerky was suddenly produced. The dip was frigging jalapeño and onions!
And the Steelers won.
John yowled along with Cam in delighted amazement and if John had five, he’d be high fiving. Cam was bouncing on the couch like a mad man, hooting and whistling. He paused long enough to grab John, squeeze him tight and yell, “We won!” right in his ear. John didn’t mind.
The beer and his tiny body were conspiring against him. At some point after that, while things were getting more than a little blurry, John got an expectant fist in his face, waiting for the responding ‘bump’. Who was he to deny a fellow dude? He bumped paw to fist.
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A week of fumigation at his apartment and SG1 grounded while Sam healed up should have been a boring, dry, paperwork week. Instead it had been a pretty awesome week. The Star Wars marathon on Thursday night had been the highlight (after the Steelers game of course) with Teal’c happily quoting the film, verbatim and Daniel debating hyperspace versus warp with Sam.
Cat had spent the whole night attached to Cam in some way, no doubt hoping for more beer and chips. Sam’s disapproval had meant only one thing - Cam waited for the lights to go off, and he slipped Cat (stupid name) a steady stream of beef jerky. The awesome cat had actually purred along in tune to the theme! Cam was positive it had!
Sam had arrived on Friday to make sure Cam left Rodney’s place in as near ‘like we were never here’ condition. She had got an email back - a very unhappy email.
Standing there in McKay’s sweet little pad, Cam sighed happily. Good times had been had. Sam came out of the bedroom, her cast off, ready for work again, and said brightly, “Looks like we’re good to go. Ready?”
Hefting his bag, Cam nodded. “Yep.”
Cat was perched on the couch - their couch, staring at them both.
“Hey, do you think…” Cam started.
“He will kill us, Cam. Kill us and make it look like an accident. Leave the cat.” Sam patted Cat on the head and very deliberately opened the door. Cam fondled Cat’s ears once last time.
“Be cool, Cat. And give him hell.”
Cat rolled his eyes as if Cam was a moron and hell giving a certainty.
“Please?!” Cam whined as he followed Sam out the door.
“No!”
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Rodney opened the door to his apartment slowly, expecting the worse. When clean floors, intact furniture and gleaming surfaces greeted him, Rodney entered, pleasantly surprised. It was good to be home after living in third world, heck, fourth planet!, conditions for two weeks.
The plan for the night was, hot meal, hot bath, catch up on Terra Nova and hit the sack. And if he could eat and watch from within the tub, he planned to.
Cat was lounging on the couch, ignoring him. After complaining bitterly to Sam for a good thirty minutes, McKay had no illusions that his obstinate cat had surrendered and was eating a vet approved diet. “Don’t look so smug. I’m back… it’s on, Cat.”
Cat did not seem overly concerned.
After unpacking, Rodney returned to the kitchen to fix himself a plate of hot, not-caught-by-a-Marine-corporal, food. Something with pasta and meat sauce, and lots and lots of cheese. Whilst pulling all the ingredients together and noting with some surprise that Sam had stocked his refrigerator with fresh food, Rodney kept an eye on his cat.
Once the meat sauce was simmering, Rodney decided that now was as good as any a time to let Cat know the vacation was over - the war was back on. Throwing open the cupboard dedicated to cat food, McKay stared at the empty space for a good long while. Cat like sniggering noises from the entertainment area must be his imagination. The cupboard was Mother Hubbard bare. Except for a note and web page print outs.
Scanning the note and then tossing it, McKay grumbled, “Yeah, right Mitchell. Magically disappeared overnight. No accounting for it…. whatever. Moron.” The web pages from a website promoting feline diets that included plain fish, chicken, limited vegetables etc, had Sam written all over them - literally. Her neat handwriting circled and highlighted easy recipes. The pages hit the trash can just as fast as Mitchell’s insane note.
Whirling around, certain Cat would be staring at him, which he was, Rodney beamed, “Guess you’re going hungry tonight. You might have bent those simpleton’s to your will, but the Boss is back.”
McKay refused to admit it, even to himself, but the lack of response, even a twitch of a tail tended to worry him.
A good thirty minutes later, the laptop was primed in the bathroom, the tub was full, spaghetti ala McKay was done to perfection and the evening was set. Glancing at Cat on the couch, Rodney laughed, “I’m closing the door this time, cat. Enjoy yourself out here all on your own, alone, hungry…. ARGH!”
A black phantom creature from hell launched itself at Rodney’s head, Cat moving so fast all McKay could do was throw up his hands to protect his face from inevitable clawing. The food went flying, a spray of meat sauce trailed by clumps of pale spaghetti. Cat landed on Rodney’s head. Rodney screamed, misjudged the rug underfoot, hands full of cat and tripped, and screamed again. Cat leapt free, going for the meat sauce, while Rodney flailed in the air for something to save himself. Like a black axe felling a might oak, Cat landed on the counter and watched as McKay toppled over.
It was perhaps fate, perhaps just a continuation of Rodney’s foul luck, but the only thing he managed to find on his way down, was the edge of the counter and that was with his head. McKay felt the blow, the empty feeling of nothing beneath him and then… nothing at all.
“Dr McKay! Dr McKay!”
Bright lights in his eyes, some moron tapping his face and yelling at the top of his voice. “Dr McKay? Are you with us?”
Of course Rodney was, he was ‘here’ wasn’t he? Wherever here was.
As his focus expanded Rodney found his apartment filled with paramedics and police, some ubiquitous NID agent examining his flowerpots, lots of bustle, lots of people touching his things.
“Wha?” Rodney slurred.
“You fell and hit your head, Dr McKay. Somehow you still managed to dial 911 and when the operator failed to get a response out of you, she dispatched the usual.”
“Huh?” Rodney mumbled, flapping at the paramedic’s hands, but happy to let them run as many checks to ensure that he wasn’t paralyzed.
Reality kept checking in and out, packing its bags and then deciding to stay, and then go. It was like a McKay family vacation. Do not make me turn this car around! But in the midst of all the confusion, head splitting headache (no pun intended) and being gently but firmly rolled out of his apartment on a gurney, Rodney caught a glimpse of Cat.
Cat huddled out of the way of all the people, watching with real interest and … guilt? Could cats look guilty? Or was it the concussion?
Rodney was whisked out before he could pursue that line of thought, but in the ambulance and later in the hospital, he thought. He had definitely not dialed 911. Nope. Did not. Someone had though.
As Rodney lay in a too hard bed, under scratchy sheets, under the watchful eyes of a nursing staff determined not to let him sleep longer than two hours… he thought. He thought a lot. Some of the thoughts were about physics and wormhole theory - it was inevitable. But most of it - was about Cat.
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The apartment was dark.
Spaghetti was still covering a lot of the kitchen and floor, but John had lost his appetite. Guilt ate at him instead.
Curled up in the butt impression left by McKay and Cam over the months, John considered his options. He may have overplayed his hand, or finally alerted McKay to the ‘true’ nature of his cat. But considering the weird ass scenarios Rodney dealt with on a daily basis, John was fairly certain that McKay would leap to the most dramatic and overcomplicated of suspicions and scenarios.
John might find himself in a lab under Cheyenne mountain.
He didn’t want that.
No way.
John was so deep in thought, wondering if he should run and try another SGC scientist instead, that he didn’t hear the door opening, and was only alerted when the light from the hallway outside spilled in through the open door. Looking up, knowing his eyes would give him away, John let out a curious ‘meow’.
“Hey, figured they left you behind. Come on.”
Cam.
Mitchell’s warm, strong hands picked him up, and tucked him under his arm. “McKay won’t mind if I look after you for a while… especially after tonight. And by the way - you seriously rock.”
John didn’t necessarily agree, but huddled into the warmth of the leather jacket nonetheless.
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Fin
AN: I think it’s fairly obvious that I am not promoting feeding your cat beef jerky and beer. If he/she wants it, I’m sure they’ll place it on the shopping list and score you on compliance.
Will there be more? Probably. Soon? Probably not. But any writer who says reviews aren’t motivating - is lying. Or a cat.