Chapter Text
Ritchie had warned him about the cat problem skittering around the block, a sort of strange, twisted plague that hissed when sprayed at and purred when pet in the right places.
Of course, Paul assumed this meant there were most likely a few strays kicking it on the roofing shingles, yowling all night and delivering their kittens at four in the morning down the back alleyway near the laundry door. He also assumed this meant some tosser kept booting their cat outside, inconsiderate of their fellow living being needing to be fed their dose of daily food and enrichment from them - thus giving their neighbors a bloody scare when their screams of indignance about the new load of babies they now had to help nurse went unheard by the pristine fluffball at their feet.
Paul has never owned a cat in his life, but from what he remembers from the endless hours spent at friend’s places across the street? They’re a timesink. Green-eyed monsters of the physical sense, tearing up the carpeting and pillowcases with nothing to say for it but a small ‘mwrr’ that means everything is forgiven in the eyes of their spineless owner. He shudders at the thought of seeing his priceless bass guitar scratched and snapped at the neck; carelessly leaving it on the ground like always and coming back to find a kitten pawing and chewing through it like a vinyl record on an amateur’s setlist.
Dogs have always seemed more appealing to Paul, anyway. He’s been eyeing those sheepdog pups being advertised on his local feed for a while, now that he thinks about it. The low, low possibility of ever owning a cat is torn to shreds in the gaping maw of the especially-well-groomed dog.png on his laptop monitor.
Back to his longtime friend -- Richard fucking lied, that’s what. Because there are no strays digging through his trash, screaming out for a mate willing to have the sexual equivalent of a chainsaw plugged into their underside; no kitten or two or three precariously balancing on his windowsill, begging to come inside, the reflection in their eyes shining like diamonds in the sky.
It’s been a week since Paul put his arse into gear and sped into his fresh new apartment - and frankly, he feels hurt that Ritchie could just lie to him upfront like this. There’s a text along the lines of ‘you could’ve just said the place was haunted’ raring to be sent any second now. So when it happens--
Mrraow.
--Paul freezes the second his finger goes to send the message, thumb hovering over the arrow.
His brows furrow as he looks up, reclined, from his spot on the old floral couch. Hazel eyes dart around the living space for a moment, the lamplight next to the television flickering with every movement. The setting sunlight, five o’ clock in the afternoon, highlights the pale wooden flooring below his feet.
Mrrraow?
It’s muffled from behind the front door, but unmistakable.
It’s a high-pitched, keening sound that Paul assumes always belonged to the sound effect libraries he’d transfer off George’s shifty external hard-drive. More-so, however, it reminds him of someone trying to impersonate a cat; and the thought almost makes his lips quirk in amusement. Almost.
Mrrr.
Getting to his feet, Paul answers the mystery door-knocker with a dry groan of “hold on, hold on”, pacing across the loungeroom to the right, socks dancing on the birch floorboards of the main hallway. There the front door of his apartment stands, and the bassist can clearly hear the tell-tale scritch-scratch of an astray animal outside in the hall.
Paul reaches for the handle, remembering Ritchie’s most recent text he’d received on the drive up to London: ‘No Pets are Allowed Peace and Love Geo says Hope you like it 😎✌❤☮🥦🎶💝❤’. He doesn’t want to forcibly kick the probable-cat out of his living space if it chooses to run inside, so with hesitance he props his leg near the entry and carefully twists the knob.
“Mrrraoww.”
Paul pulls the door open by a smidge. And then opens it a touch further when he is met with a giant talking ball of fur.
“Mrraow.” The cat says, its brown, lengthy fur mixing upon strands of white and sheens of scarlet.
He stares down at the extremely-fluffy cat - an understatement, speaking honestly -, blinking. “Uh. Hullo.”
Seriously. This thing’s huge as well. It almost surpasses his calfs in height, preening up at him as its long, majestic tail wavers on the ground behind it. “Mrrrmph.” It replies, blinking its soft, brown eyes at him in return.
Brown. Huh. Paul finds himself thinking, what a strange eye colour for a cat.
Then he blinks, narrowing his eyes at the little kitty. He doesn’t see the glint of a collar around it’s neck, but there’s no need to assume things. “What’re you doing here? Where’s your owner?” He asks the miniature beast, peering at it from around the door.
“Mrrraow?” The cat appropriately meows back, tilting its head slightly. He sees specks of amber glimmering in its almond-shaped gaze, teasing with all the emotions a cat can display. “Mrew.”
“Go on then, toddle off,” Paul tries to wave it away, to no avail. “No pets in the building, kitty cat. Shoo.”
The adorably-fluffy burden just stares up at him. It’s as if Paul can hear it clearly; I’m not a pet, y’know, take me in and feed me and I’ll just hole meself up in yer wall. Despite his suspicions of strayness (source: the cheeky little bugger itself), the cat is very friendly, seemingly unwilling to scratch the human looking down upon it like a stain on his carpet.
Though, it’s not moving. Still sitting and gazing up at him. “Mrrow.”
Paul sighs in exasperation, his door creaking open just a little more wider as he sees the game it’s playing. While he’d love to close the door on it, the idea of the cat being taught early on to stay away niggles into his brain.
Whoever this cat thinks it is, it sure as hell isn’t his, and the bassist isn’t willing to have his landlord come down upon him for hosting a cat in this pet-free apartment block. The cat must go.
He shifts, standing up a little straighter. “I don’t want to ask you again. Go find someone else worth bothering.”
Says the cat, “Mraow.”
Locked into a checkmate, Paul is stuck glaring at this stupid little creature. What does it want, really? He shouldn’t be thinking so rationally about this. The cat can’t understand him, for chrissake. This is why he never had pets growing up; he remembers his mum clearly worrying whenever he’d wander on the sidewalk, talking to birds and beetles like they were old mates at the bar.
Paul taps his fingers on the trim of the wall, before scoffing at the animal. He kneels down, reaching out for it, making obnoxious kissy noises quite alike one who’s never had to call for a cat’s attention. “C’mere, I’ll get you home.” He coos, eyeing the little thing in-case it tries to decapitate him or something.
The cat flares up, it’s half-lidded glance instantly twisting into unamused haught at the sight of this stranger trying to get their dirty hands on it. As Paul reaches closer for it - pale hands twitching somewhat -, it darts off down the hall, its claws distantly digging into the carpet.
The second-story hallway falls quiet. Paul blinks, doe eyes staring dumbly at where the cat once sat.
Then he sighs in relief, shakily, smiling to himself as he gets to his feet. “There we go,” He mumbles to himself-
“...mrrr.”
There comes that sound of scratching again, though not at his door. Paul stops, midway through swinging it shut. Scritch-scritch-scritch. “Mrraow.”
The bassist scowls. If this is what he has to put up with…
He leers next to his door, looking to see the same furry, long-haired kitty scratching directly at the door to his neighbor’s apartment. Right next to his. You’re kidding me, he thinks to himself.
“Mrrrr.” But the cat continues to paw at apartment 910’s door, hind legs stretching to give the creature purchase in its efforts. “Mrrraow. Mraowww!”
Claws fail to dig into the hardwood, finding instead an uncomfortable sensation when the cheap paint rakes off onto its claws. The cat’s cries grow louder, more distressed, calling for the person Paul is starting to suspect isn’t inside at the moment.
The man stares at the creature, an insistent tug stirring feelings within his stupid good-for-nothing heart. But he’d be worse off if he didn’t feel for the poor bugger, really. Even as a self-proclaimed dog person with no experience, Paul feels the need to leave the safety of the doorway for a moment in order to help this little annoyance - disregarding how his neighbor is illegally smuggling their cat in alongside their own discardance for the little creature’s care. Maybe it just wanted his help after all.
He strolls over, his door creaking quite loudly behind him much to his chagrin as he slightly pushes it closed. The cat notices, peering up from where it leans on the neighbor’s door, meowing at Paul’s entrance.
“Yes, yes, it’s me,” Paul sighs at what is probably just a pile of sentient fluff, the evening sun reflecting on his deep, dark locks and tired hazel gaze. The cat, its colourful fur groomed and unmatted, slides down from the wooden paneling, trotting up to the bassist and nudging its head against Paul’s trouser leg. Again, he commentates. Help me in, would you? I’d appreciate it, you ungrateful sod.
He may as well try, he supposes. It’s also possible his dear neighbor doesn’t care enough to listen for their cat. Paul knocks on the door, the furball at his feet waiting patiently. “Excuse me, are you in there? I’ve… well… you’ve left something outside your door, y’see.” Paul raises his tone of voice, trying to twist the charm he so confidently screws on otherwise, while consciously gesturing to the troublemaker sitting on the carpet like it owns these pet-free walls. “Might get stolen if you... leave it out here, y’know.”
No answer. Paul knocks again. “Hello?”
The cat stays silent. It stares up at Paul, expression unreadable. It’s white tail, a patch of brown on the side, swings side to side.
Probably doesn’t help he hasn’t met his neighbor yet. Screw him for just moving in a few days ago.
Paul looks back down at it, chewing his lip. What’s he supposed to do? As much as it gets on his nerves, he doesn’t want to leave the cat out here for the night. What happens if it really does get stolen? Or worse, taken to the pound when his landlord decides tonight is the perfect opportunity to keep an eye out for no-gooders, searching for that cacophonous monster wandering these pristine floors?
Stray or not, it’s just a cat, and it doesn’t seem to be aggressive - just playfully, insistingly needy. Booting it out of the building itself is too much of a risk. The receptionist’ll see right through Paul’s wondrous charisma when the bundle hiding in his jacket starts squirming around, wanting to stay indoors and away from the brisk autumn weather.
“Mrr.” I wonder if anyone is home, Paul imagines it saying. Poor thing. (that, or the little arsehole is the sarcastic type.)
Misunderstandings are abound. Unless.
The bassist gives. He draws his gaze up to his half-open door, the numbers 909 winking in the fading sunlight. Then he turns back to the cat, huffing at it. “Just for tonight.”
It runs off without a sound directly into his apartment space, tail swishing on the outer skirting of the wall as it silently scampers through the door.
The time being spent with his temporary roommate, at first, was the opposite of what Paul was expecting.
As soon as he walks back into his apartment, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, his calls for the kitty go unanswered. While not out of the ordinary, as Paul is beginning to realize, he thought the cat would’ve been leaping over his furniture, batting photographs near and dear to his heart off the drawers and tearing at the strings of his guitars. Instead, his apartment is as spry as always, at least to his untrained eyes.
When clicking his tongue once more doesn’t work, Paul begins to worry at where the cat has gone off to.
“Where have you gone?” He calls between the noises he makes, met with silence and a spark of his own anxiety. This better not actually be his neighbor’s cat, lest he loses the damn thing.
As he walks across to the loungeroom, pacing in-between the hallway, he finally hears a small “mrrrew” coming from below. Paul stops, looking around, eyes tracing every piece of furniture he has.
“Mrew…”
Then he realizes. His eyes grow wide as he kneels down, seeing the little cat’s face hidden underneath the shadows of the old floral couch. “Ahh! There you are,” Paul beams without meaning to, crouching down to its eye-level, though he resists reaching out to it when he sees the visible whites of the cat’s chocolate-hued, wild-eyed stare.
It looks stressed. And when Paul looks closer he sees it’s claws stabbing into the carpet, fur brushed up against the underside of the vintage lounge. It’s big, triangular ears are pinned back against its head. An additional “ maooww” escapes the cat’s jaws, meek in prospect to what it should sound like. All bark and no bite, ironic as it seems.
Paul frowns. Just before, it seemed quite delighted at the prospect of being invited in. Now it wants nothing to do with him. Maybe this is just normal for cats, but…
“What’s wrong, kitty cat?” The bassist whispers gently, using the soft tone of voice utilized for the most delicate of situations. He carefully raises a hand, slow and steady, beginning to slide it under the couch while softly clicking his tongue again. “Come on out, I won’t bite.”
The cat stares warily at Paul’s incoming hand, pupils dilating by the second. It looks as if the little beast could launch and tear it off the man’s wrist at any second, though it doesn’t growl or make any sudden movement that suggests I don’t want comfort, dickhead, now fuck off before I amputate your stupid hand.
Paul’s heart quickens as he lets the cat sniff his hand, seeing its ears prick and twitch with every sensation. He stays quiet - he may not be around cats much, but he knows from the silly videos he’s seen online how much they admire the peace and quiet. The cat itself looks like it’s struggling to fit under this old bastard of a couch - it really is a big, fluffy thing, not usually the stray cat of any English street. The tall height and lack of flattened features, even to a man who can't tell most cat breeds apart, reminds him of an... elongated persian. It looks like a typical kitty, he supposes; except very tall, and coated in endless mounds of fluff.
Then, when the cat decides it’s got enough of Paul’s scent, it catches him off-guard by nudging its face into his fingers. Paul feels a slight vibration rattling against his touch - alongside a warmth in his chest as the cat begins to purr, it’s tail waving to-and-fro.
He can’t help but grin in relief, petting the little rascal’s head as it purrs with every touch. “Aww, hello there.” He chuckles as the cat lets out a little “maow” in return. Hello to you too, twat.
The cat eventually crawls out from underneath his couch, rubbing itself up against every inch of Paul he can purr against. He’s heard many things about how cats are ‘ much unlike dogs’: they take forever just to trust someone. But the bassist finds himself mistaken once more as the cat’s whiskers tickle his palms, pretending not to mind when the little monster sheds its fur all over his clothes. When it settles on his kneeling lap, it begins kneading its paws, stretching out and flinging its tail up in Paul’s mouth much to the latter’s disgust.
While Paul washes the cat hair off his tongue, the aforementioned beast of burden follows him to the kitchen sink, wiggling its ginger butt before leaping up onto the counter next to him. It watches with curiosity as the water drains into the sink, evening light tinging the silver counter orange in hue. In the glow of the falling sun, the darkest parts of its fur shean a surprisingly bright red.
Paul jumps when he finally notices the cat sitting there, and even more so when it begins playing with the tap, somehow having enough strength to pull the hot water down. “Oh, stop that!”
“Mrraow.” The cat looks up at him, and Paul swears it’s proudly wearing a smirk. The bassist pouts as he twists the water off, his expression giving way to wonder as the cat prances across the counter, hoping onto the ground and trotting into the loungeroom.
For a moment, the back of Paul’s mind reminds him no pets are allowed in the apartment - I’ll make sure it’s not too loud then, he tells himself, the forefront finding the cat’s company to be a new, intriguing experience worth indulging in instead.
Wandering back from the kitchen, Paul sees the little bugger rubbing his face into the crate of records he’s haphazardly thrown next to the television stand, meowing loudly to catch his attention. His turntable, vintage but clean in its sound, sits on the stand right next to the TV and accompanying speakers. George would be disgraced with the speaker placement - “but the vibrations! it’ll scratch the record!” Paul can hear him protesting like the days of their youth.
Paul smiles as the cat peers up at him. “Like any of ‘em?” He jokes - and splutters when the cat hops into the crate, nicking its teeth on an Elvis compilation from the 70’s that he’d “borrowed” from his old friend back in high school.
And so that’s what he spends the rest of the evening doing; as he brushes the record, drops the needle and shuts the protective dust cover, he shoos his furry visitor off the stand. “Just don’t want you scratching that record,” He grins, half-jokingly because Ritchie would kill him if it was damaged come the day he gives the album back (never).
The cat glares at him, somehow, as if to say like I’d ever touch the sanctity of a vinyl record, what am I to you? And Paul would like to interpret more, yet the crooning of Elvis Presley singing the blues distracts him as effortlessly as it’s always done. He sighs softly, akin to an obsessed schoolkid from the 60’s, as the opening bars begin to waver through the speakers nestled to his right.
The cat, too, seems taken with the music as it sits with its tail curled around its paws. Its ears twitch to the sound of the guitars and deep lovestruck vocals. Paul swears it sways to Can’t Help Falling in Love, almond eyes slightly squinting in delight. At one point, the bassist has to shush it when it starts yowling to the chorus of Hound Dog , disbelief done away at in favor of fearing this stupid cat’s discovery.
“I’ve never heard a cat sing along to Elvis,” He prods the cat when the last song on Side A fades out, flipping the record and giving it a quick brush before setting the needle down once more. “...or any other artist, really.”
“Mrrr.” The cat trills.
“Maybe you’ve been trained to, kitty cat.” Paul talks as if it can respond, catching himself and shaking his head in befuddlement. Singing animal or not, it doesn’t understand him no matter the coincidental answers it gives.
The cat seems to enjoy his confusion, an appropriately-catty smile on its snout as Elvis fades in to cleanse their ears again.
When the album finishes up, Paul checks the time - six. Gesturing to the cat, it follows him without hesitation back to the kitchen once more for mealtime.
He shares with it a little bit of the leftover salad from yesterday’s dinner, as the lack of cat food in his apartment is made quite obvious by the cat’s presence. It’s surprisingly willing to tuck into the carefully-sorted mix involving heavy use of lettuce and tofu, making quite the mess of things much to Paul’s ongoing suffering. The loud ‘nyam nyam nyam’ as the cat chows down doesn’t help things; although he would’ve thought for sure the lack of meat would’ve bothered the animal, but maybe it’s like an equal exchange; stay here illegally, eat vegetarian for the night.
And a little while later, when night has fallen and his routine is seen through, Paul yawns as he curls up on his couch for a little late-night TV with the kitty cat.
With the lamp off, the television glows in the darkness, shrouded in black. The couch creaks under their combined weight, though the warm, patchy-patterned stray doesn’t seem to mind. It stretches in-front of him, curling up and lying near his chest most unlike the wild nature it presents. Paul doesn’t even notice he’s petting it until it begins to purr again.
There’s a game show on, featuring a traveling bus and stops for games along the way. When he switches channels, he finds an episode of an old, famous cartoon, starring a group of mustached musicians from a far-away land. While Paul admires the military-like suits of each member, the cat mmrrrs lazily and stretches a paw out over the remote, pressing down on one of the buttons and changing the channel.
“Hey!” Paul scolds it, rolling his eyes at its self-satisfied look, though he realizes there’s nothing to complain about when he finds himself watching a movie about a dystopian revolution, a concept he usually wouldn’t be drawn into now that he thinks about it. The cat seems particularly into it, however, meowing at the screen as the protagonist falls in love with a mysterious new character. Even Paul is drawn into the plot, though the avant-garde score hurts his ears.
By the time the credits are rolling, the bassist’s yawns have grown as deep as the notes he plays, and he sits up on his old, springy lounge. The cat jumps from his chest and off the ground, meowing up at him from where it sits on the floor. It’s time for bed, Paul imagines it saying. The television tinges the kitty’s fur with a blue, alien hue, the creature watching him perfectly even in the waning light.
Paul chuckles a little, rubbing the corners of his eyes. “Heading off then?”
The cat meows in response.
He grabs the remote, pulling the cord of the lamp on the coffee table and turning the television off. The loungeroom is flooded with cozy waves of yellow light, the cat looking less like an invader and more like a cuddly stuffed toy as Paul makes his way down to his room, flicking on the lightswitch as he opens its door. He doesn’t question the second click of the pull cord from out in the loungeroom.
Once he’s in his bedroom Paul undresses and toddles off into the bathroom next to his wardrobe. When he comes back out, breath minty and appropriately fresh, the cat is nowhere to be seen. Not on, around or under his double mattress.
The bassist yawns again, blinking blearily. He’ll worry about it in the morning - he’s sure that silly ball of fur is just curled up on the old couch. Possibly situated in the record crate even, he thinks with a comical smirk.
The lightbulb flickers as he snaps the switch off. Throwing on the covers, sheets ruffling under his touch, Paul sinks into the familiar land of dreams. He sleeps easy tonight.
...until it hits three in the morning with the sound of a creaking door.
Paul jolts awake, eyes wide, his heart skipping a beat as sparks trace his spine and wriggle into his shoulders.
He sits up, the covers folding to his touch as he looks around the room. Nothing’s out of the ordinary; no ominous shadow standing over him with a hammer, like that strange dream he had once; no warm long-awaited reunion with a loved one taking place at his bedside. Stray, almost-black locks of hair fall into his gaze, and he tucks them behind his ear as clammy palms grip the sheets.
The musician listens.
Of course, he hears light footsteps, the panic rising in his stomach as it knots around his throat; but he glazes over the dim, orange lighting stretching down the hallway of his apartment space, angular and somewhat unnerving this early in the morning.
Frozen in fear, he waits until the footsteps stop alongside the pounding of his heart in his ears.
Could be hearing things. Paul blinks, silently exhaling.
There’s no footsteps.
He rubs at his eyes, feeling his heart slam against his ribs ten-million miles per minute. He hasn’t had a good shock like that in a while; a leftover of some night terror, maybe? He sighs contently, no further noise drifting into his ears.
Paul goes to lie back down, more than ready to sleep despite the actual horror he just subjected himself to, before he finally spots the light in the hallway.
Hallway. Coffee table. Lamp. His brain helpfully supplies five seconds later. Only then does the real adrenaline kick in.
Instantly, the bassist springs out of bed, cursing to himself. There’s no way he’s paying extra rent for a sudden increase in his electricity usage - he must’ve forgotten to turn the loungeroom lamp off.
“Git,” Paul mutters tiredly, bare feet padding the wooden flooring below. Storming out of his room in a basic flannel ensemble, he drags a hand over his face, feeling the sleep tickling his lashes. The hallway spins, distant light guiding him to where he needs to go. Shouldn’t have watched TV before bed, he laments, walking past the spare bathroom with its underside aglo--
…
Paul freezes, not for the first time these past twenty-four hours.
The loungeroom lamp is off.
No, instead - because of course Paul doesn’t deserve to feel safe in his new apartment - he shakily eyes his feet, noting that the patch of yellowish brilliance he’s found himself stranded in is, in fact, the light coming from the second bathroom located right next to the main bedroom. His bedroom, if he believes his memory isn’t directly fucking with him this time.
The door is framed in gold, its edges glowing ominously. Paul does hear something, rather - the sound of running water, alongside his own consciousness screaming at him to run over to Ritchie’s right fucking now and yell at him for giving him the keys to his old crummy apartment for no pay other than to ‘stop nagging me about asking George out, I’m not doing it, he just broke it off wi
Two thoughts: haunted; murderer. Both make Paul want to bolt and simultaneously kick down the door with all the grace of a Liverpudlian arsehat who’ll get themselves killed trying. He stares down the brass, golden doorknob of the bathroom door, hazel gaze descending to the floor and across to the other side of the hallway, where the spare bedroom taken up by his instruments lie.
His hands itch. He can feel the callouses on his fingertips.
Then he hears a quiet, miniscule little ‘mrraow- shit,’ coming from inside the bathroom, and Paul does not hesitate.
All is quiet in the newly-refurbished ground-level apartment of one James Paul McCartney, up-and-coming performance artist. All is very peaceful, very lovely, very wonderful. There are no sounds of rock n’ roll, no whine of a newly-purchased amp as its volume is turned low in compliance with the previous tenant’s noise complaint reports, no psychopaths stalking him and making cat noises, trying to learn how to impersonate a domesticated animal for their own sick desires. There is no instance of James Paul McCartney reaching for a replica 1964 Fender Esquire, unplugged and pristine as they come with a custom sunburst pattern to boot.
It killed his wallet, once.
Hands around the instrument’s neck, Paul stands by the bathroom door, trembling wildly much like a stray animal. May whatever’s watching over him forgive him for what he’s about to do to his poor, beloved guitar. He watches the handle, listens as whoever the fuck is inside his apartment shuffle inside the bathroom. Waits. He inhales sharply, holding his Esquire so tightly the strings strain against his grip. Waits. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. His hand grabs the door handle.
Nothing.
A voice inside yawns, and there’s the muffled sound of something metallic dangling against the sink. “Keys are here, at least.” A nasally-sounding mumble ricochets. Dickhead thinks he can just sneak in undetected - does he have his keys?
Paul slams the door against the wall, crying out as he’s met with a pair of brown, half-lidded eyes that widen as their gazes meet.
The stranger stumbles back, slipping on the tiled ground and yelling a loud “FUCK” as the bassist additionally swings the guitar out to the wall, a loud clang followed by a crumble as a wall-mounted tile cracks on impact. “Jesus christ!”
An unfamiliar pair of room keys clatter onto the porcelain flooring, the number obscured by the glow of the ceiling lightbulb.
“Who are you?!” Paul yells down at the man, his voice echoing against the walls of the apartment space.
The auburn-haired stranger scatters on his backside, finding himself up against the edge of the bathtub as Paul inches closer, Esquire held directly in-front of him like a sword against some hapless enemy. The man stammers over his words, pale skin paling further as the bassist lightly touches the body of the electric guitar against his throat, slightly lifting his chin.
Paul has to admit, he’s not bad-looking - not scraggly or mussy, though the leather jacket has a few recent-looking stains on its collar and the shirt looks a little wrinkled. Bloody hell, Paul, focus.
“I-- I can explain.” Says the stranger, a nervous laugh faltering right under his breath as he stares up at Paul with wide, brown eyes.
“Better do it now then.” Retorts Paul.
The man on the floor hesitates - before he groans, trying and failing to get his bearings. He shifts around as he looks up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the uncomfortable steel kiss of the guitar on his neck.
Paul doesn’t move, his slowly-darkening stare trained solely on whoever thought it was a good idea to invade his bathroom. He lightly jabs the Esquire against the man’s throat, eliciting a gasp and another swear under his breath as the auburn-haired stranger mockingly throws his hands up. “Unless you want me to hit you with this. And I will, I swear.”
Against all odds, the man smirks, eyeing the fuming bassist from the side . “You shouldn’t, that’s an expen--”
“Shut up and tell me what you’re doing in my apartment, dickhead!” Paul all but shrieks, shoulders hunching as he continues to threaten the poor bastard sitting on his bathroom floor with an expensive, now-partially- destroyed replica of a vintage electric guitar. The side of its radiant orange body is dinted from where he’s smashed it against the wall tiles, a single string having up and died from the stress by snapping in two.
The stranger recoils at the noise, complying with a roll of his eyes. “Alright, alright, look,” He begins, still keeping his hands up as the man before him narrows his eyes and scrutinizes him. “I’ll sound like a complete nutter by saying this, but you have to promise to hear me out first.”
Paul scoffs. “Just tell me right now.”
“We’re already off to a shitty start, no need to get pissy about it.” The stranger scoffs without missing a beat.
“You’ve broken into my bloody apartment. I have every right to get pissy.” Paul spits, leering at the man. His arms are starting to ache after holding his Esquire for so long, but he wills himself to ignore the pain in favor of self-defense.
“Anyway, just-” The stranger takes a deep breath, chest rising, visibly struggling to look the bassist in the eye. “-Enough about that, just fucking… christ, do I have to explain myself?” He tries to chicken out anyway, the coward.
“Yes.”
“Fuck me.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Of course I’m stalling, I’d rather not be here.” He rolls his eyes again, as if the entire reasoning for this mess is dotted upon his lightly-freckled cheeks.
Paul bottles his rage at his careless condescendence, pretending to channel it through his poor, poor guitar instead. Maybe it can kill a living being, what does he know? And then the words hit him, and he finds himself blinking owlishly down at the stranger in his apartment. “...Then why are you here?”
The man’s eye twitches as he scowls up at Paul. What the hell is he doing? The doe-eyed bassist thinks. It’s as if giving up and confessing to him will lead to his death. Maybe it will, if Paul discovers he’s not feeling particularly merciful at three in the fucking morning.
When the auburn-haired stranger refuses to respond, lips pinched together, the musician tries a bluff instead. “Go on, tell me. Makes no difference if I have to stand here all day.”
He snorts, again smirking up at the bassist with something dark lingering in his deep, almond-eyed gaze. “You’ll be asleep in half an hour, just lookin’ at you.”
“Yourself?”
His smirk falls. Paul internally pats himself on the back.
Then, a shake of the man’s head. “Doesn’t matter. Promise me you’ll listen to what I say.” The probable-murderer says, tone twisting into a sharp corner that causes Paul to brake at the turn.
Whoever this fucker is, he’s probably not going to talk unless the bassist just… gives him his word. Sure. He doesn’t have to respect this dickhead at all. Maybe he won’t even have to bash his head in with the instrument in his hands, fretboard soaked in sweat from the bassist’s wrangling grip.
So Paul gives, again; sighs heavily, groaning as he throws his head back. “Fine, fine. I promise I won’t make fun of whatever horseshit you’re about to spit out.”
The man raises a brow, but doesn’t say more. Paul watches him relax slightly, tense shoulders slacking as he carefully raises a hand, lowering the guitar from his chin with ease.
His expression is still veinly draped in steel, and if the flannel-clad musician knew him well enough he’d see right through it.
But, nevertheless, the stranger’s eyes remain trained on Paul’s own. He exhales again, brows dropping for a moment accompanied by a chewed lip - before he whispers a quiet “okay”.
The more he stares at him, the more Paul begins to feel uncomfortable, trapped like aimless prey in a predator’s gaze. Weird comparison, but the only time those really work for him is when he’s in a lecture, bored out of his mind, writing song lyrics down that he’d dare die for before anyone could see them.
Suddenly, the stranger grabs Paul’s wrist and pulls him down, his hands similarly warm and clammy as he wrings it off the bassist’s guitar.
Paul yelps, stumbling forward and accidentally smashing his instrument right against the bathtub as his hand is shoved into the man’s messy moptop-styled haircut.
“Wh-wh--”
“Pet me.” Demands the stranger, in full seriousness, to Paul.
…
Before Paul moved in here, when it was still Richard’s place, he remembers getting absolutely shitfaced with him and George; ending with him recording a drum solo with a tom-tom shoved into the toilet, complete with a microphone and old pair of headphones. All things considered, the three of them unanimously agreed Paul played the drums better drunk than sober.
Not even that can compare to this.
The bassist’s eyes widen, at both the turn of events and the sound of his precious Fender Esquire cracking at the center. The stranger does not take his eyes off him, even as his brown-eyed expression begins to crumble; an embarrassed flush spreads across his nose, filling the rest of his features nicely.
“I…” Paul’s voice cracks as hard as his own guitar.
“Pet. Me.” The man insists. His eyes, unfulfilled terror swimming in the whites, are overshadowed by his clenched teeth and wrinkled nose. “Pet me. And I’ll tell you what I’m doing here and where that stupid cat you love so much is.”
Instantly, Paul’s heart sinks as doe eyes widen impossibly further. Fuck. That wasn’t an impersonation he heard before. He trembles in the man’s grip, knots gripping his stomach and threatening to suffocate him. “Where is it?” He asks anyway.
“He is safe.” The stranger quickly relents, the daggers in his gaze withdrawing just a touch. “You’ll understand. Just-- fucking stroke my head and get it over with, alright?”
Paul wants to run. Hide. Do anything. Definitely smash this man’s face in, yes, but his Esquire is broken now -- he knows it, feels it without having to look to his other hand. He was wrong - he can’t possibly smash this lad’s face in with a broken guitar, especially if half of its body’s been mutilated into a sharp bundle of spikes. He… he…
The stranger seems to care little to none about the bassist’s incoming moral breakdown, fixing him with a deadpan look. “Do you want answers or not? Just move your hand through me hair. Think of me as a cat or something-- don’t glare at me, again, the little prick is right here where you want him. He’s fine.”
“Fuck you.” Paul repeats. But the thought is tempting. Anything to stop this tosser from… what, exactly, his brain hurts trying to comprehend it. But primarily, he wants to- needs to find out where that poor stray is. Then he’ll kick the stranger out with no further trouble and everything will be fine.
While destroying every thought that says “huh, feels soft”, Paul proceeds, with major hesitation, to run a shaking hand slowly through the auburn-haired stranger’s thick strands of dark, mousey hair. All is still, save for their breathing, as he steadily raises his hand and continues to pet the man’s head, fingers combing backwards from his fringe and beyond.
And to his surprise, the leather-clad invader softens at his touch, brown eyes softening as his grip on the bassist’s wrist goes slack. Their cheeks are both red, for reasons they’re both not entirely sure of.
The stranger’s hair, it’s… it’s well-maintained, for some semblance of the word. Paul barely does much but run a comb through his own. Somehow, he’s comforted by these thoughts, the experience of… wh-whatever this is supposed to be, no matter how much his rational side is screaming at him for letting his guard down.
It’s like--
Poof! And Paul cries out, stumbling up for the ten-millionth time this morning as giant, fluffy cat ears magically spawn atop the stranger’s head.
…Cat ears?
The man winces, averting his eyes from the bassist as a poofy, fluffy tail slinks out from behind him. A patch of brown patterns its side, mixing well with the rest of the white fur and contrasting with the brilliant ginger ears that swivel and fold at every noise. They pin themselves back against the stranger’s head as he looks back up at Paul, resignation circling his now-vertical, slitted pupils.
The realisation hits the hazel-eyed musician instantly. The air leaves his lungs.
No. No no no, no!
“Figured it out, did you?” The human, now with cat features, chuckles with no mirth present in his quiet voice. He sighs tiredly, eyes darting to the bathroom door, left ajar in the latter’s wake; and over to the trembling Paul, propped up against the basin with a stare much like, ironically, a terrified kitten. His eyes grow sadder as he chooses to stare at the shower curtain instead, hand slipping down the bathtub’s exterior.
Paul gazes at him, and sees the frightened creature that hid beneath his couch.
Clenching the sink, he straightens himself up. “Do--” He goes to say, losing his nerve for a moment as the stranger glances over at him with cat ears pricking upwards; but managing to recover with a quick stammer. “...do you want a tea?”