[ God, he's infuriating. And cute. And it's so fucking easy to flirt with him and watch him respond positively to it, to watch the little flood of colour reach his ears when he's sure that any ghost more capable of controlling their corporeal form might have been able to keep that particular reaction under wraps at least a little better than this. He wants to touch his face, feel if he's getting hot, and God, fuck, this is such a bad idea, and yet the Cat can't stop himself. ]

That's a fine way to ask for an audience with the King. [ He says, a little snooty, but nevertheless he's reaffirming that hold on Charles' arm so that the ghost is firmly at his side as he starts to encourage him to turn away from the shop, and begin walking down the main road toward the center of town. ] But, lucky for you, I like you enough to let it slide. Even if your attempts to get me to stroke your ego are pretty transparent.

[ He smirks. There's a lot he could say here about dogs and how they like to be praised, but pinning that particular trait solely on dogs makes his own interest in it feel a little subpar, so he keeps it to himself for now. ]

I guess a little stroking would make me feel better if I lost all my memories, but you won't get me to roll over that easily. Praise loses all its weight when it's not earned.

[ He's laying on the innuendo pretty impressively now, but.. Well, he can't help it. And besides, stroking could just as easily be literal. He is a cat, after all. ]