Chapter Text
Port Townsend was sliding into the foggy, damp clutches of fall. The lot around the cannery was a jigsaw of dreary, oil-slicked puddles, and the air was thick with the taste of the sea. The birds had gone south for the winter, the warm puddles of sunshine - already rare enough in Washington - had dried up, and the damp had crept steadily and relentlessly into his throne room.
So Thomas was already in short temper when his Captain of the Guard, Casper, a grumpy old Tom himself, slunk into the throne room and said, bored, “New cat in town. Trapped over by the Widow Guthrie’s place.”
“A new cat,” he said sweetly, absently swinging the belt from his robe in a circle. He flashed a sharp smile, “And how did this new cat cross my borders, Casper? Did you think that patrol of the Crossings was just a fun little hobby I asked you to take on?”
The Captain licked his paws, unruffled. He was on his ninth life, probably the longest lived of all his subjects, and despite the fact that Thomas still had several centuries on him, acted like he was a mewling kitten with his eyes half open.
“Not a mortal cat, highness,” he said, stretching. “He’s one of yours.”
Thomas’ eyes narrowed. “One of mine ?” he said slowly. “The Widow Guthrie isn’t a witch. You’d like me to believe that one of the Royals tripped over their feet into a TNR trap from a well meaning old lady that smells like menthols and moth balls?” He tipped his head, arching an eyebrow down at Casper. “Do you really think that any of mine would be so stupid as to -”
And he stopped. He let the belt still, staring at a glittering reflection cast on the wall. “Shit.”
Casper gave him an unimpressed look. “Think he’s your brother. Hamish?”
~*~
It was disgraceful. The yard behind the Guthrie house was unkempt and sprawling, full of overgrown flowerbeds and bowls of dry food bloated and mushy with rain. Thomas stalked through the overgrowth, burrs and thorns catching on the ripped fishnets that showed between the top of his docs and the hem of the heavy kilt he’d adopted in the face of the creeping chill.
“Honestly,” he drawled, dropping into a crouch by the trap. The Widow was a soft hearted old broad - the trap was covered with a tarp and lined with fresh saw dust. There was an empty can of premium cat food licked clean in one corner. But most of the space was taken up by a very familiar, bright orange cat who didn’t even wake until Thomas had flicked the metal bar with a messily painted nail. “I should leave you here,” he mused, “Letting her castrate you might actually make my life less difficult in the long run.”
The cat chirped happily, batting at his fingers through the bars. Thomas rolled his eyes beseechingly up at the low ceiling of clouds and unlocked the trap with a snap of his fingers. The cat rolled out, and in the time it took to leap at Thomas, transformed into a frankly ridiculously oversized ginger that looked far more at home on a rugby team than he ever had on a throne. He hit Thomas at the waist and sent him sprawling back into the grass.
“Thomas!” he said happily, butting his head into his sternum. “I missed you.”
“Hamish.” Thomas instantly sunk into an image of put-upon tolerance. He spent a few moments unsuccessfully trying to dislodge him before giving up and letting his head fall back into the grass, carding his hands through his mop of red hair. “Get off me.”
His brother looked up at him with slitted, bright yellow eyes, and pouted. Like a child. “Call me Hamhead.”
“I will not .”
~*~
“I like this town,” Hamish said an hour later, happily devouring a cup full of whipped cream he’d convinced a barista to serve him. “The air is tangy.”
Thomas slouched a few steps behind him, trying to gauge whether Hamish was about to get distracted and run into traffic. “That, brother dear, is the effect of the ley lines. The Crossings here are...complex.”
“It smells like fish.”
Right. Well, that level of magical insight was likely too much to expect. As he always ended up doing when speaking with his brother, he recallibrated his expectations several levels lower. “Ah. Then you mean the smell of the docks. Lots of places have docks. Which raises the question, if you like the smell of the docks, and many places have docks, then why are you here, Hamish?”
“I told you, my name is Hamhead,” Hamish said, unbothered. “I chose it myself.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
“I missed you!”
Cats typically got on like....cats, really, even the quasi-divine variations. There was a whole lineage of feline royalty strewn around the world, Princes and Viscounts and Dukes of all kinds, and for the most part, they kept off one another’s toes. When they didn’t, things got gorey. Fast.
Hamish, however, was ever the exception. He’d never founded his own court, had taken the part of a drifting ball of - here, Thomas shuddered - guileless affection wandering through the world like some sort of knight errant.
“You’re down a life,” Thomas said, sighing as he snapped his fingers to change the crosswalk sign before Hamish meandered into the road. “What happened?”
“Oh - that.” Hamish shrugged, like Thomas had just noticed a stain on his collar. “I died.”
Thomas gritted his teeth. “Yes. I gathered that. How?”
Hamish kicked at a loose cobblestone. “I was friends with a girl. Tavleen. She was eight.”
“Did she tie firecrackers to your tail?” Thomas asked, bored. “Human children have a cruel streak that would - “
“She died,” Hamish said quickly. “There was an earthquake. We got trapped in her building. I - I just decided to stay with her. Until...”
He dimmed slightly and shrugged. “It was good to see Death, though. She’s so nice! It’s been ages since I saw her last.” He fiddled with the hem of his flannel. “She was very kind to Tavleen. Saw to her.”
“You -” Thomas took a slow, controlled breath. “You just - how many does that leave you?”
Hamish gave him a sunny grin. “I don’t really bother keeping track!”
“And, with the miracle of your rebirth, the world at your feet, and a life in front of you, you chose....Hamhead.”
Hamish gave him a wry smile. “It’s what she called me, when she was trying to get me to leave. And anyway, you’re down one too, I can see it. What happened?”
“Love lost, brother-mine, I died of a broken heart.” He spread his hands. “And a crowbar to the temple.”
Hamish tossed the empty cup into a trash bin and looped his arm through Thomas’, tugging him towards the cannery. “Who was it this time?”
~*~
Hamish, for all his oafish transparency, had the good sense to show up with gifts.
“Where did you get this?” Thomas said, delighted. “It’s terrible.”
They were in his boudoir, and it was a full handle of knock-off Bailey’s that Hamish had produced along with two tin mugs. It tasted like rotgut and cream and fire, and they were both on their fifth glass.
“I made friends with a moonshiner in Galway,” Hamish said, settling back on the lush sheets with his eyes half closed. “Tell me more about him - so he kissed you, hm? And you let him go?”
“Safe, sane, and consensual, brother-mine,” Thomas sighed. “He fulfilled his pact and made his choices.”
Hamish turned and gave him a soulful, sad look, brow creasing. “It hurt you, though.”
“It was a minor diversion. Hardly worth my time in retrospect.”
“You died. You hardly ever do that.”
“It’s not like I threw myself in front of a train,” Thomas said, looking down at his nails. “Wrong place, wrong time. The man is a magnet for the supernaturally absurd.”
Hamish drained his mug and tossed it aside before reaching out to tug Thomas down against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He really got his claws in you, hm?”
Thomas huffed a breath. “I do always pick the ones with terrible taste, don’t I?”
Hamish made a soft, pained noise. “You should find someone that wants to be nice to you.”
The truth was, Thomas was tired . The sort of weariness born out of boredom and heartache and the relentless gray weather of Port Townsend. It was always worst once a passing fancy had…Passed. This ennui had stubbornly persisted, something he was willing to chalk up to the melancholic onset of fall.
“Oh,” said his brother, and stroked his hand through his hair, massaging the pad of his fingers just behind Thomas' ear. “Oh, Thomas…”
“Don't you dare pity me, you ham-headed idiot,” said Thomas, and Hamish, bless him, ignored the quake in his voice.
“I knew you liked my new name!”
~*~
Ghosts, as a rule, did not have nightmares. They didn’t sleep for starters, and when their existence became unhappy and harsh and violent, they tended to become nightmares. Edwin thought of the poor airman, who’d spent whoever knew how long burnt and wretched behind that gas mask. He never squandered a leaf or a tree. Do you think He would squander souls?
Nights like this, Edwin felt squandered. The rain was pelting down against the warped glass in the office window. The office was warm, and smelled comfortingly of books and ink. One of the few places in boarding school where he’d felt safe was the library, the rich smell of leather, the quiet padding of feet between the stacks. It was hard to feel awkward and wrong when no one was permitted to speak. There, he’d been able to retreat behind the walls of his intellect and look out with a sneer at the rest of the world.
The football pitch, of course, was a different story entirely.
But...nightmares. He was glad of his immunity. It had been three months since they’d taken up The Case of The Blooming Rose. It had started innocently enough: a strange, verdant garden that had bloomed overnight in the concrete courtyard of some council housing. He’d been looking forward to a charming case, one that was likely down to some wayward fairies or dryads. What no one had expected was that, when they peeled back the carpet of crocus and myrtle, that they’d find the flayed heart of a missing 16-year old boy.
“C’mon Edwin, come with us, yeah?” Charles wheedled, startling Edwin enough to make him jump. He’d been fussing with the collar of his shirt for the past twenty minutes, and now he was idly tweaking his hair to give it a manicured, tousled appearance. “You’ll be missing out.”
Edwin gathered himself, forcibly stuffing his ruminations behind a tight-lipped smile. He turned, sitting back primly onto the bench at the window. “It’s the cinema, Charles. Not precisely a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Yeah, sure,” Charles said, spinning on his heel and grinning. “But it’s got that actor you like, yeah? And the trailer Crystal showed me, your man was barely wearing a shirt, right?”
Edwin tipped his head up and picked a spot on the wall to stare at while he fought back a blush. Oh yes, this was something they talked about now. Charles was being supportive . He was reading books about homosexuality and telling Edwin useful things that he thought he might not know, like the importance of safe sex (theoretical at best for Edwin and entirely non applicable as he was already dead ), and what a twink was (which made no sense, given the number of times that word had been used to describe Edwin), and the problematic tropes related to queer baiting (Edwin had put firm limits on Charles’ websurfing privileges after that tirade).
“This may come as a surprise, but overdeveloped musculature is an inadequate replacement for plot.”
“So not true,” Crystal called. She poked her head into the room, looking well...lovely. Happy and smiling and wearing Charles’ patched jacket. “You never know until you try, Edwin.”
That sounded far too like something the Cat King had once purred against the shell of his ear, one hand spread low at the base of his spine.
Edwin noisily cleared his throat and, casting around for something to occupy him, snatched up the unopened stack of mail. “I am busy.”
“You, mate, are sulking ,” Charles said, leveling a finger at him. “Best word for it, innit?”
“Stunningly, we do have to do work in order to have a detective agency ,” Edwin said mulishly. He glanced up to find the pair of them trading a speakin g sort of look.
“Look, mate...” Edwin said, coming over and clapping Edwin on the shoulder. “I know you’re still worked up about Baugh, but he’s dead, right? Done and bloody well dusted , yeah?” He spoke in the tones of someone who’d said it more than once before.
Edwin arched his eyebrows down at the mail. More advertisements for discount holy water and wyvern teeth down at the local apothecary - he really was going to have to complain to someone. If you looked at the fine print of the holy water, it was blessed by an avowed Scientologist, something that Edwin doubted the Judeo-Christian unholy beings of the world were likely to be moved by. And he’d seen the wyvern teeth up close and unless “MADE IN TAIWAN” was an ancient incantation he’d yet to come across, their origins were deeply suspect.
“Yes, I’m aware that’s your position.”
“There was no way he was walking away from that little implosion you threw at him - still super scary by the way,” Crystal said, crossing her arms over her chest. He’d been emotional when he lobbed that spell; it detonated with far more ferocity than he’d ever intended. Crystal had been deaf in one ear for days.
“I didn’t see a body,” Edwin said, for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Probably because you decimated the bastard,” Charles said happily. Proudly, even.
“And ,” Edwin said, speaking up to cover their half-hearted groans, “I didn’t see Death, nor the light that marks her work.”
“Maybe you missed it,” Charles said patiently. “You know she can be hard to spot. And after your little light show, I don’t think one little pulse of light was gonna make an impression, yeah? He was just some human.”
“He killed three young men just - just because -” Edwin took a breath. “He wasn’t human.”
“Right in like a poetic sense, sure,” Charles said quickly. “But in terms of how easily it is to smatter his insides all over a block of west London? Totally, boringly human.”
And they’d also never quite worked out what he’d been up to. The heart had been a mistake, certainly, just dropped as he sped from the crime scene. If Baugh hadn’t made that error, heaven knew how long it would be before anyone would have caught on. Some kind of huge magic had been done. You didn’t embed the souls of three young men in cast iron for something good. Freeing them took almost a month of research and deft manipulation. That was another problem - the imprisonment had lasted through Baugh’s purported death. That sort of magic was rare.
“It’s been weeks at this point,” Crystal said. “We would have heard something by now.”
Edwin took a breath. They’d gone round and round this a dozen times - it wasn’t worth spoiling their night over. “Yes, I know.” He dredged up a smile. “I’m certainly just over-thinking the matter. But, please do not let me keep you from whatever spandex-fueled frivolity you’re off to.”
“Have it your own way,” Charles said. “But we’re dragging you out next time, yeah?”
“I don’t appreciate threats!” Edwin called after them, smiling slightly to himself. Just as he settled back with an old grimoire, Crystal poked her head back into the room.
“There’s a mirror right there, you know,” she said, nodding at the gold-framed gothic monstrosity tipped against an overburdened bookshelf.
Edwin blinked at her. “Yes, and a desk is right there, and your dishes from dinner are right there , and our case log is there-”
“Oh so that’s how you’re gonna play it?” she asked archly. “Because before this case, you seemed like you were working your way up to something. Maybe you should get back on that project.” When Edwin stared at her blankly, she rolled her eyes. “If you need an excuse, you said you were going to drop off that basilisk anti-venom with Tragic Mick. Go .” And then she pushed off the door jamb and jogged down the hall.
He really did try to immerse himself in the grimoire after that parting sally, but now it had been pointed out to him, his gaze kept sliding to the mirror. Crystal’s absurd insinuation aside, perhaps a change of scenery would help reset his circling thoughts. Afterall, he had promised to deliver the serum to Mick; it was reasonable to maintain strong relationships with his cohorts, yes? No one could possibly find fault with him for that. It was good business practice. And Port Townsend was a fascinating arcane ecosystem. That had been difficult to appreciate when trapped there, Edwin conceded to himself, idling circling his wrist with the fingers of his other hand, but it was...ah, compelling, yes. In an academic sense.
In the end, he changed three times before readying himself before the mirror, but that was entirely down to the unpredictable weather in Washington this time of year. Edwin raised his hand to the glass, tracing his fingers through the quicksilver. Without a reflection, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he must look.... adequate. It wasn’t as if Mick would care. And if he ran into anyone else around town then - well. They probably wouldn’t care either. He fussily straightened his bow tie one last time, smiled thinly, and strode through the looking glass.
Several minutes later, he charged back in, strode to the desk, swiped the antivenom off the blotter, and stalked back through the glass.
~*~
The throne room at the cannery was empty. Well, that wasn’t quite true. There were two dozen cats lounging around, watching Edwin with the idle sort of curiosity of lions that just weren’t hungry right now, and were studying the gazelles and making notes for later.
When several moments ticked by without anyone acknowledging him, Edwin stuffed his anxiety firmly away and strode up to the throne. In a pinch, brusqueness could do the work of confidence, if you were quick enough about it. “I was hoping to speak with the Cat King,” he said to a grizzled old white cat lounging at the base of the throne.
“Oh?” said the old bruiser. He had a tatty left ear and his coat was truly more yellow than white. His voice was disconcertingly deep, tinged with an unexpected cockney accent. He sounded like a bouncer. “And is he hoping to speak to you ?”
“I - “ That brought Edwin up short. Surely the cats in the court knew him, he’d been followed around by a good number of them during his time in Port Townsend. “I’m Edwin Payne?” he said.
The white cat pointedly began to lick his genitals, one leg stuck up in the air.
“That is entirely uncalled for,” Edwin said. He stuck his hands on his hips and then snatched them rigidly back to his sides. “I’m a - friend.”
“Oh, I knows who you are. Dead Boy Detective, ain’t you? I could smell you a mile off. Been four months since you lot fucked off back to London town. What do you need now?”
Edwin was taken aback. “What makes you think I need something?”
The cat snorted. “ Friends visit. Hangers on and users wash up when they got favors to call in.” The cat regarded him coolly. “Which do you think you are?”
Edwin glared. “That is entirely unfair - and I’ll remind you it was your master who trapped me -”
“Ain’t my master. He’s my king ,” the old rogue said sharply. “You want to see him, he’s in his boudoir .” The cat nodded at a door frame that had been propped against a haphazard pile of pallets. “If he wants to see you , then that door’ll work. If he doesn’t want to see you, it won’t. And if that’s the case, you'll leave here - quickly, if you’ve any sense.”
Edwin tugged at the bottom of his jacket, drawing himself up. “Well, then, we shall see, shall we?” He strode quickly over to the door, reaching out to grip the handle.
And stopped. Because that had been quite a chilly reception, and - four months? On some level, he’d known that was the case. The first few weeks of their return had been a pleasant blur of activity as their newly legitimized status opened up whole new swaths of business to them. Even so, amidst that cheerful chaos, he’d thought about visiting Port Townsend, and on those nights he was able to be more honest with himself, visit the Cat King in particular. But then they’d found that strange garden, and by the time they’d been able to come up for air, weeks had passed. Would the Cat King have noticed?
He didn't think so - he was half-way certain that the Cat King had been behind the mysterious items turning up outside their offices the last few weeks. A jar of rare dried herbs he needed for his alchemy kit, an original copy of a draconic codex he’d been wanting, some chalk pigments useful for summoning circles. Edwin hadn’t gotten around to telling Charles about them yet. He thought, maybe, they’d been gifts, a plea for attention....
Unwillingly, he glanced back at the white cat, and found himself being watched quite keenly. The attention of the other cats had shifted to him as well. If this door did open just to show the old pallets behind it, Edwin would have to beat a hasty retreat.
“Right,” he murmured to himself. He took a breath and in one swift moment, pulled the door open.
Beyond it, a moody, half-lit bedroom was visible, along with a familiar neon sign. He straightened up, and couldn’t resist giving the white cat a triumphant look.
The cat just sighed, shaking his head. “Silly old fool,” he muttered, but he didn’t seem to be addressing Edwin. “Off you go then.”
~*~
Much as he would like to deny it, Edwin was buoyed by the success of that little test. Perhaps he hadn’t tarried too long afterall. He had forgotten, however, about the time difference between London and Port Townsend, and that morning had stepped out into Mick’s shop just shy of 6 am. That little errand took little more than an hour, most of which was spent listening to the old walrus’ story, one he’d heard so many times by this point that he could mouth along with the words. So by the time he’d arrived at the cannery it was just past 7; he wasn’t surprised to find the Cat King still deeply asleep.
Charmed, certainly, but not surprised.
The King was sprawled out on his bed face down, the shimmering sheets pooled at the base of his spine. Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the long, muscled expanse of his back was awash in pink light, making the shadows of his spine and shoulders stand out in deep shades of mauve. His hair was a mess, long enough now to fan out on the pillow in a halo. In his slumber, one of his hands twitched against the mattress, and he shifted, nosing deeper into the plush pillows.
It occurred to Edwin that this was dangerous. Not that tight, nervous excitement in his rib cage - he well knew that feeling after years beside Charles, and so much more acutely under the radiant, alive interest the Cat King showered him with. No, this was dangerous for the Cat King. How many others had permission to use that door? How could he sleep so peacefully knowing that anyone could waltz through, some that might mean him harm? Edwin drew a breath to rouse him and demand answers but -
Another door in the boudoir opened. Edwin had never paid much attention to the room’s layout. The one time he’d been here, it had been impossible to notice anything other than the taut skin of the Cat King’s chest and the warm, inviting expanse of the bed. It was cluttered, yes, and messy, speaking of attention moving quickly from one project to another. There was a chest half open and spilling out clothes, a secretary piled with gemstones and jewelry, and yes, in the corner, a door that presumable went to a bath.
It wasn’t a huge inference to make, because as the door opened, a gush of steam billowed around the man that stepped into the room.
He was...large. Taller than Edwin, even, and broad enough to make two of him. He was damp from the shower, but even wet his hair was a tawny red. He was freckled, most heavily on his arms and cheeks, and had a beard that was too long to be called tidy. All he wore was a towel knotted at his hip, making it impossible to miss that he was banded with muscle. Not the fashionable sort that Edwin associated with models and muses. He looked like a Highland Games contestant, with the barrel chested musculature that spoke of real work and strength. The kind that came from digging stumps and hauling timber.
He clocked Edwin instantly, but only gave him a curious look, tilting his head.
And then, he snapped off his towel.
Distantly, Edwin saw that he was casually using it to dry his hair, scrubbing it through the messy tangle that hung to his shoulders, but most of his brain was actively restraining himself from shrieking. The man had thighs like tree trunks . And between them...
Edwin only just held himself back from clapping his hands over his eyes, settling instead for training his gaze on the ceiling.
“Ah, I’m ever so sorry, I’ve interrupted you - “
“Who’re you then?” the man asked amiably. “Tho- the Cat King doesn’t leave his door open for most people.” He grinned sunnily, draping the towel over his shoulders shamelessly.
“Ah, I’m just - well, I’m actually just going.”
“I was just gonna put on a pot of coffee, if you like?” he said, padding over to a galley kitchen that Edwin had entirely failed to notice.
“For the love of god , will you shut up,” the Cat King groaned. “It’s not even 8. No day should have two 8 o’clocks.”
The man tossed a fond look over his shoulder. “He’s never been an early bird, really.”
It seemed to dawn on the Cat King that the man wasn’t addressing him. He twisted in the sheets, which did fascinating things to the shadows on his back, and peered back over his shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to remove his make up before bed, and the look was unfairly alluring. When Crystal did it, she just woke up looking like a banshee. The Cat King, however, looked enticingly smudged, his eyes impossibly green. When he saw Edwin, he froze.
“You’ve got company!” the man said happily, clattering dishes around as he set up the pot. “Have you got caramel coffee? I love caramel - “
“For godssake Ham, put your cock away for five minutes,” the Cat King snapped, twisting to sit up in bed. The sheets pooled at his hips and, interestingly, he seemed to have slept in his pants. Edwin’s eyes snapped back up to the Cat King’s face, but clearly not fast enough. The Cat King’s grin went liquid and he snaked forward onto his belly, propping his chin on his hands and kicking his legs up behind him.
“Edwin,” he said, sighing out his name like something cherished. Edwin had always thought the phrase ‘velvety tones’ an absurd artistic license, but here, now, he understood it. The way it washed over his body felt like a luxury, soft and deep and full of promise. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“This is Edwin?!” the man said, spinning on his heel. There was a clatter of glassware behind him and, at a glare from the Cat King, he reluctantly slid the towel back around his hips. “Really?” To Edwin’s surprise, the question sounded transparently excited; if he’d been expecting anything, it would have been incredulity, disdain - or worse yet, laughter. To be fair, laughter would have at least had the benefit of being familiar.
Evenso, this was too much. “I’ll - be going, shall I?” he said weakly, and backed away to the door.
“Wait - “ the Cat King said, flipping himself into a standing position too quickly for Edwin to have parsed the movement.
But Edwin shook his head tightly, giving the Cat King a terse, polite smile, and fled the room as quickly as he could without actually running. The stark light of the throne room was almost blinding, but he barely missed a step, striding to the mirror with his shoulders back. Fake it til you make it, right? Charles' voice said in his ear, but, as he stepped through the glass, he couldn’t help noticing that the old Tom was watching him with deep satisfaction.
~*~
In the ensuing silence, the coffee pot hissed. For a sliver of a moment, Thomas seriously considered running after him, but even longing hadn't brought him that low. In the end, he settled for stomping his foot, rolling his frustration through every joint in his body before he threw himself back on the bed, palms pressed against his eyes. “ Fuck !”
“Well!” Hamish said brightly. “He seemed nice! Why'd he leave?”
“Because he thinks we're fucking, you moron,” Thomas groaned, slapping his arms back on the bed and staring up the ceiling.
Hamish pulled a face, which yes, same.
“You didn't tell him about me?” Hamish sloshed a good half cup of cream into a mug and absentmindedly tossed a bit of coffee in on top. He passed the mug over to Thomas, who reluctantly sat up to accept it.
“I was trying to fuck him, not bore him with our family tree.”
Hamish tsked, slurping noisily from his mug. “That's not all though, is it?”
Thomas gave him a saccharine-sweet grin. “Don't know what you mean.”
Undeterred, Hamish plopped down on the bed beside him. “Why's he care?” he asked, which was a damn good question.
“Because his idea of scandalous is a nice set of a wrist bones and an eye fuck across a backgammon board, god I want to…” Thomas gestured vaguely, purple fire dancing briefly across his knuckles. “ Unmake him .”
Hamish tugged him in close, and as much as Thomas would love to be too good for it, the big familiar brazier of affection was better than a space heater against his current mood.
“I thought he was a momentary diversion?” he asked, once they'd drained their mugs. And that was the thing about Hamish, just when you'd thought he was utterly absorbed looking at some pretty lights, he circled back with a question like that.
Half-heartedly, Thomas batted his hands at Hamish’s ribs, claws not even out far enough to leave a mark. But it was a warning.
“You never said why you're here. Was it just to serve as a giant, cock-blocking nuisance?” Thomas slouched onto his side, clapping languorously. “Because, can I say, amazing job. Really. You’re a fucking master.”
Hamish gave him a wounded look. “I told you, I missed you! I haven't seen you in fifty years. I thought you'd be happy to see me.”
This time, the swipe at his ribs left four little raised lines in their wake. “Try again.”
Hamish squirmed, absently kneading his palms into the mattress. But Thomas could be so very patient when it suited him, and he stared at him unblinking for a solid 30 seconds before Hamish caved.
“I want to host the Movable Feast!”
Thomas blinked. That was… Unexpected. He hadn't even been since prohibition, when the Chicago Rat King used it to broker a peace deal that had held approximately long enough for a halfway decent orgy.
He tipped his head at his brother, still waiting. When nothing else was forthcoming, he patted Hamish's chest kindly. “You couldn't host a potluck without the building burning down around you.”
“But you could,” Hamish said quickly.
Thomas pursed his lips. “Ah, I see. You wash up after half a century hoping I'll throw you a party because - what? You'd like to get your dick sucked by one of the Gentry? Because I have to tell you, there are easier ways.”
“There's lots to do at parties besides getting your dick sucked,” Hamish said reasonably, shifting around to grab his rucksack off the floor.
“Oh speak for yourself, what do you want to do, sing carols around the piano? Play pictionary? You're spending too much time with humans. “
Hamish twisted away to dig through his pack. “I did bring you something else,” he said and, like he’d just turned up with a dead canary, proudly tossed a gallon zip lock back onto the sheets: it was stuffed so full of catnip that the seal had popped and the beguiling scent puffed out into the room. Even dry, Thomas had to shut his eyes against the truly lovely wave of relaxation that followed.
“It's the strain you liked, from Indonesia.”
Thomas rolled his shoulders, eyes comfortably settling at half mast.
“Mmmm you could have led with that. I'm very susceptible to bribery.” He opened one eye to give Hamish a stern look. “But a few ounces of nip isn't quite worth the ‘stick your dick in the meat mincer’ level of fuckery the Feast usually churns up.”
For the first time, Hamish sagged and fiddled anxiously with the edge of the sheet.
“I just. It's been a while since I did something fun.”
And Thomas thought about his brother, huddled under rubble with every opportunity to escape, stubbornly waiting at the side of a little girl, while the sounds of the world got slower and dimmer and farther away.
“Ugh, fuck,” Thomas slammed his head back against the sheets.
And Hamish, who knew that he'd won, pounced on him in a huge, enveloping hug.