[ Boys Charles' age should be playing with their friends, not sitting in their own back garden with something to pass the time, talking to a cat that won't talk back, especially not in the freezing cold of late autumn when it gets dark so fast and the chill sinks in to little bones and stays there. But sometimes, as the Cat King well knows, there is safety to be had in discomfort rather than facing the fear of something trampling over a space you once thought of as yours.
His cats had shown him the gist of the conversation Charles had with Edwin and even the one he had with Crystal regarding his father, and Charles hadn't exactly been graphic with the details, but seeing it first hand like this puts it into perspective. After all, it takes common ground to garner trust in an animal so hurt by the world and the people in it. Often, like finds like in those circumstances, and Charles might not have a missing eye or a chipped ear, but the Cat King would bet that beneath his sweater or the long legs of his trousers he might have more than one or two bruises mottling his skin.
The inevitable loss hits him as painfully as if he were feeling it personally, as if he knew this cat or knew this boy beyond simply watching what they've been through. Strays aren't forever, just as cats aren't, and it's all the Cat King can do to hope that that angry ginger tom inspired the same kind of sympathy in Death when she came to pick him up, perhaps even made him a Cat King like she had presumably done for him. Didn't the Cat Boss of London have a brief spell as a ginger once?
He's broken from wondering, from the reverie completely, by Charles' clicking fingers in front of his face, and he blinks quickly to dispel the last lingering trails of mist from his vision. ]
What? [ He furrows his brow, coming back to his own mind slowly, like wading through syrup. ] What happened? Did you- [ He frowns a little harder. ] You didn't see that?
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His cats had shown him the gist of the conversation Charles had with Edwin and even the one he had with Crystal regarding his father, and Charles hadn't exactly been graphic with the details, but seeing it first hand like this puts it into perspective. After all, it takes common ground to garner trust in an animal so hurt by the world and the people in it. Often, like finds like in those circumstances, and Charles might not have a missing eye or a chipped ear, but the Cat King would bet that beneath his sweater or the long legs of his trousers he might have more than one or two bruises mottling his skin.
The inevitable loss hits him as painfully as if he were feeling it personally, as if he knew this cat or knew this boy beyond simply watching what they've been through. Strays aren't forever, just as cats aren't, and it's all the Cat King can do to hope that that angry ginger tom inspired the same kind of sympathy in Death when she came to pick him up, perhaps even made him a Cat King like she had presumably done for him. Didn't the Cat Boss of London have a brief spell as a ginger once?
He's broken from wondering, from the reverie completely, by Charles' clicking fingers in front of his face, and he blinks quickly to dispel the last lingering trails of mist from his vision. ]
What? [ He furrows his brow, coming back to his own mind slowly, like wading through syrup. ] What happened? Did you- [ He frowns a little harder. ] You didn't see that?