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You can do this. You’re Quinceton Vincent Andrei Gustav Ivan Balthuman, the heir of two mafia clans and close personal friends with the Tiger of Ares Street. People have literally pissed themselves just hearing your last name before. So it’s time to suck it up, buttercup, and put your game face on, because even if you desperately want to puke right now, you’re the only one who can help.
Quincey sucked in a deep breath. He could do this, he would do this. A life was hanging in the balance, and the next words out of his mouth would tip the scales one way or the other. Alright, you’ve got one shot at this, make it count.
He snapped his arm out, pointing straight and true as he imperiously ordered, “Gentlemen, I command you to unhand that pussy.”
Oooh, yessss. Nailed. It.
Damn, that was a good line. He’d have to remember that one. It certainly wouldn’t even be close to the first time he’d created an entire story based off a double entendre, he thought with an internal smirk, striding closer to the reprehensible activity he’d just discovered in the dark alleyway.
Heh, little Miss Editor would probably have a thing or two to say about that particular idea. Once she found her voice again after profusely blushing and sputtering at such suggestive language. Tora was right - the sweet voiced woman’s over-the-top reactions to sexual references just made it too easy to tease her sometimes. Both he and his big brother still found it endlessly amusing that the feisty but easily flustered woman had wound up editing for one of the most prolific erotic romance authors currently on the market.
A weak, piteous sound had Quincey’s brief amusement curdling into a sour, burning anger, his mouth flattening into a thin line. He settled his hands on his hips as he took stock of the awful scene in front of him. The disgusted indignation bubbling up in him helped push back any fluttering nerves at what he was about to do.
Screw the Halloween parties he’d been in the middle of hopping around to tonight. He had to put a stop to this. He’d heard a kitten crying in pain, and couldn’t bring himself to just blithely continue on to his next stop, a very exclusive affair at The Fallen.
Tora would kill him if he found out his younger brother had blindly stepped alone into an unlit alley like that, even if he was completely incognito and nowhere near Ares Street just then. Well, the grumpy tiger could take his shot if the four rough looking rapscallions crouched around a tiny, battered feline didn’t manage to do so first.
Quincey set his jaw and took a steadying breath. It couldn’t be helped, even if he was entirely on his own, there was no way in hell he was leaving a black cat to such a cruel fate on Halloween night.
Though of course his big grump of a brother and sometimes bodyguard would be absent for such a fantastically clever line delivered in an absolute showstopper of a costume. Tiger Boy unfortunately was fully preoccupied with other matters that night, currently fretting over his poor little busty hamster puking her guts out with a bad case of food poisoning. Certainly not the way they’d hoped to celebrate their first Halloween together.
Tora would have likely chased off the pack of unsavory characters with nothing more than a snarled, terse command, his dark scowl a supremely effective weapon in its own right, as Quincey knew well from personal experience. If his brooding brother’s large size and commanding presence wasn’t enough, the Balthuman crest on his neck was usually enough to chase off any roustabouts who had even a passing sense of self-preservation.
Ah well, no sense in dwelling on what the Tiger might have done in this instance, since he wasn’t here now. At the very least, Quincey was standing there and had gained the full attention of the four degenerates, their heartless torture of such a poor, defenseless creature mercifully interrupted before it was too late. The little kitten still had some fight left in it, weakly struggling to get away, its plaintive whimpering cutting straight to the blonde man’s core.
Ugh, Quincey absolutely despised the sorts of heartless lowlifes who used this month as an excuse to endlessly abuse and murder black cats. Sure, he might be the sole heir to the most ruthless and power hungry clan in all of Narin, but even his old man didn’t encourage stooping to such senselessly cruel behavior.
Well, he does if it brings in a solid cash flow or solidifies his power base even more, he thought with an involuntary shudder. He pushed back the memories of the kinds of things Vincent had forced Tora to do before Quincey claimed him as his bodyguard. Definitely not the person he wanted to be thinking about right now while staring down the pack of miscreants gaping incredulously up at him.
Out of anyone in the clan, Quincey would channel Big Bro Tora tonight, and not Big Boss Balthuman. His father’s casual disregard for snuffing out others’ lives over unintentional, passing slights was not a legacy his only son cared to continue. Not even these black hearted blaggards deserved that kind of treatment.
Quincey set his jaw as he continued to unflinchingly stare down his adversaries, waiting for them to make the first move. Time to be a seemingly creepy bastard who made people piss themselves with nothing more than a dark smile and an ice cold look. And some effectively delivered violence, if it truly needed to come to that. Tora certainly made sure every single blow he landed hit right where it mattered most.
“The fuck are you supposed to be?” one of the reprobates said, finally finding his voice and quickly rising to his feet. As the man, well, teenager now that he had a better look, moved forward out of the dark shadows, Quincey almost had to laugh at the way the group’s leader so obviously tried to pitch his voice lower and more threatening. Apparently he hadn’t needed to worry that much about facing off against this lot - the guy honestly looked more like a vagrant circus performer than any kind of intimidating street thug.
Quincey couldn’t help but preen a little as the louses all took in his outfit. He cut quite the impressive figure, a brilliant, glittering vision appearing out of the darkness like some kind of avenging, musical genius angel. His shimmering white Elton John costume was positively smashing - anyone with eyes would agree that was just an objective fact. He cursed the bad sushi yet again that poor Poppy had unwisely ingested for lunch that now prevented her and Tora from seeing the museum quality replica in all its shining, feathery glory. Phillipe at Fawkes Tail, Quincey’s go-to for any and all costuming needs, had really outdone himself this time, he thought with a pleased, internal smile.
Quincey leveled a flat, entirely unimpressed look at the mangy, tastelessly attired scoundrel now standing in front of him. Oh god, was the sad crusty bedside sock wearing mismatched socks with shorts and sandals? Tch, the quality of the criminal youth had really taken a nose dive since he and Tora were running with the Ares Street Kingz if this was the best the Narin underworld had to offer now.
“Oh, who, moi?” Quincey said, steepling his hand over the center of his chest and batting his eyes with an innocent, earnest expression before he let his face fall. He was pleased to note that he actually stopped Sandal Sock Boy in his tracks with the threatening glare he leveled.
“I’m Elton John, you uncultured omelet. And I’m about to fuck your shit up if you don’t hand over that little puss and go on your way,” he said darkly, putting as much icy venom into his voice as he could. That was a Tora line if he’d ever heard one, though Quincey couldn’t help but throw in just a little extra sass. “I do believe trick-or-treating hours have been over for a while now, so you lads should probably head home to bed now.”
Goddamnit, why did his brother have to be MIA tonight of all nights? He was absolutely crushing it with his intimidation game right now. The Tiger would be so proud, he was sure of it.
Well, maybe not quite crushing it, Quincey realized a moment later as the four mangy ruffians all laughed. One of them carelessly tossed the poor, limp kitten down onto the pavement as the other three scoundrels rose to their feet to join their friend.
To a man, they looked like they’d rolled out of an absolute fashion disaster dumpster, not a properly fitting piece of clothing in sight. Sandal Sock Boy cracked his knuckles, who Quincey suddenly realized was almost as tall as he was, while one of his lackeys snapped his head from side to side and excitedly bounced on the balls of his feet. The shortest member of what honestly looked like the grimiest boy band in the world leered and gave Quincey an unimpressed once over as they lined up to face him.
Perhaps he might’ve been more scared if he hadn’t spent his whole life in the company of men ten times more dangerous than all four of these yokels put together, his father being the worst of all.
Quincey sighed and made a show of shaking his head at the entirely unimpressive sight before him. For goodness sake, could these knuckle dragging troglodytes be any more transparent that they’d never actually faced off against an opponent who could properly fight back? He didn’t consider himself anywhere near as skilled of a street brawler as Tora, but his years of rugby and karate competitions in college hadn’t been for nothing. He’d have to be practically blind not to see the way the goon squad was telegraphing their next moves plain as day.
“Gentlemen, I’m only going to tell you this once. Head back to whatever D-grade clown store sold you those unfortunate excuses for outfits and request a refund at once. Because you’re done torturing innocent animals tonight,” Quincey said firmly, eyeballing the four stooges in front of him. He’d never taken on four opponents by himself before - three had been the most he’d ever dealt with at once, and Tora had been there for that. Though he supposed he could really only count this as 2 ½ at the most judging by their poor fighting form and lack of weapons.
“And how about if we decide to fuck you up, sparkle boy?” the leader sneered as he brandished a profoundly cheap looking switchblade. Tch, the thing looked about as threatening and dangerous as a Happy Meal toy. The salad forks in his silverware drawer would inflict more damage than that poor excuse of a knife.
Quincey tsked and slid his jewel encrusted glasses off his face, pointedly taking his time to fold them up and carefully tuck them away into the interior pocket of his pristinely white jacket. Phillipe would have an absolute aneurysm if he brought those back with any damage, or, god forbid, broken. The whole ensemble really wouldn’t be complete without the Swarovski crystal studded glasses. How could you pay proper homage to Elton John without wearing a giant pair of colored glasses?
Quincey purposefully heaved a loud sigh that he knew Tora would call far too dramatic before he answered with nothing more than an entirely bored look. He’d seen starving alley cats that were more intimidating than this troupe of clowns.
“Well, I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent,” he said dryly, arching a brow when the absolute bagel looked down at his poor excuse for a weapon and then around at his buddies who shrugged. Yup, they were about as sharp as a box of plastic butter knives.
“Playtime’s over, children. Take your toys and head home now, m’kay?” Quincey said as he gave a small dismissive wave. He was either going to rile them up enough to get stupid and sloppy or freak them out enough with his seemingly indifferent confidence that they’d leave. God, he was really hoping for the latter, just to save some time.
While Quincey hated throwing around the Balthuman name or flashing his clan crest, he wasn’t above using it at times like this. He just wanted to cut this short and get that little black kitten some help. Who knew how long the poor thing had been in their clutches that night?
Unfortunately, the last thing he needed was it getting back to dear old dad that a stylish, blonde man with the Balthuman crest on his chest had been swaggering around like a common street thug so late at night. Not that his old man gave a shit if he intimidated others to get his way - that part would please him well enough. He could practically hear the mob boss back handedly complimenting his son for finally deigning to embrace his birthright after snubbing the family business for so many years.
It was the bit about being out here alone on the street that would be the problem, bringing down an immediate, pitiless hammer onto the one person he wanted to protect the most. Anytime Young Master Quincey went anywhere in public, Tora was supposed to accompany him. He and his brother had worked together for months to convince Vincent that Quincey needed such a highly skilled and loyal bodyguard, that not just any Balthuman lackey sporting the clan crest would do for the Young Master’s personal security detail.
Not that he needed the protection any more than Tora would, but it’d been a surefire way to free his brother from the soul sucking work his father used to regularly assign him. They’d carefully kept the charade up for the past few years, and Quincey would be damned if he so carelessly ruined things now.
So he would have to resolve this without the easy protection the Balthuman name brought, because it would mean Tora in all likelihood suffering a great deal later, and he was done allowing that to happen. Some bruised knuckles was a small price to pay for the lovestruck tiger being able to tend to his sick girlfriend that evening. Quincey had the skills to deal with these sad excuses for street thugs, he just needed to end it as quickly and effectively as possible without revealing who he was.
Tora’s voice echoed in his head from the years of sparring they’d done together, his brother one of the few people who didn’t hold back out of sniveling fear of his father’s wrath should they land a hard blow on the Balthuman heir. “Quit showin’ off, princess. Save the fancy footwork and lovetaps for yer competitions. Yer shiny trophies don’t mean shit if ya get jumped. Keep yer mouth shut and even the odds in yer favor before they can. Strike hard and fast and don’t waste yer energy doin’ it. If they take a hit from ya, the first strike should bring 'em straight to their knees. If they can get up from that, the next hit needs to drop ‘em right to the ground.”
Quincey cocked an eyebrow at the cads not backing down, clearly intending to have it out. Sandal Sock Boy pulled out another pathetic looking knife with a flourish, the skinny, shiny blade catching the light of a passing car. Even if the weapons looked like childrens’ toys, they could still do some decent damage if he wasn’t careful. And he sure as hell wasn’t getting an earful from Phillipe for returning such a spectacular period piece with slashes in it. Or Tora ripping him a new one for being so careless.
Hard and fast it was then.
Before any of them could do much more than blink, Sandal Sock Boy was sprawled limply on the ground, both his knives already arcing away into the open dumpster across the alleyway.
The remaining triad made the mistake of turning their gaze to their leader’s weapons flying through the air instead of on the glimmering vision of vengeance swiftly descending on them. Shortstuff was the next to go down, out like a light from a hard, targeted blow to the side of his neck.
Two down, two to go, though the fight wasn’t necessarily half over just yet. As much as he would’ve liked to drop some well deserved smack talk for their poor performance so far, Quincey did pay attention to his brother on things like this, and bit back any smart remarks. Gloating was only allowed once you’d taken out all your assailants and double checked they were truly down for the count, and not a single second before.
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb had a bit of muscle to them, needing a little more effort on his part to take out since they’d had more time to mount a defense, pitiful as it was.
Quincey hated the sound of bones snapping, but he took a grim satisfaction that at least one of them wouldn’t be able to inflect further animal cruelty anytime soon while nursing a broken hand.
The sickening crunch of a face meeting the unforgiving alley wall signaled the brief scuffle’s sudden end, the last adversary dropping heavily to the ground like a wet sack of old potatoes.
Quincey flexed his fingers and shook out his dominant hand, feeling the throbbing in his knuckles as his chest heaved, his body catching up to the quick flurry of violent activity he’d just put it through. Tora might not have worked up a sweat or gotten remotely out of breath with this fight, but Quincey certainly had, not in the habit of getting his cardio in for the day by beating up multiple opponents.
He swallowed back some bile when his gaze landed on the blood now painting the grey brick wall, his brain suddenly registering the coppery iron scent hanging in the air. Ugh, something about that smell always made him feel queasy.
Quincey blinked hard, shook his head, glanced down at his chest, and immediately groaned. Goddamn it, there went his damage deposit for this rental. A small, bright red spray of blood stood out on the wide lapel of his sequined shirt.
“So sorry about the mess, Phillipe,” Quincey muttered under his breath as he patted down the unconscious men and relieved them of their remaining stabby weapons, The fact that none of them had guns testified to how low in the criminal hierarchy they really were.
“Do have fun figuring out how to get blood off of iridescent sequins. Unfortunately, it really couldn’t be helped. Though you should really see the other guys,” Quincey quietly continued as he chucked the handful of low grade knives into the overflowing dumpster and brushed off his hands, eyeballing the now prone miscreants.
“You see, I had to rescue a black cat from the clutches of a pack of ne’er-do-wells on Halloween. It was practically my civic duty,” he said more lightly, searching along the wall where he recalled they’d been crouching. Black fur in dark shadows was not an easy thing to pick out, but if there was one thing Quincey had a well trained eye for, it was differentiating subtle textures.
“Ah! There you are, my little battered creature of the night,” he softly crooned a few moments later, his thankfully still breathing quarry located. Quincey carefully scooped up the far too small thing, the kitten easily cradled within his cupped hands. “How about we get you somewhere safe and far more luxurious tonight, hm?” he murmured, checking it over as best he could in the low lighting.
One of the men groaned and began to stir, Quincey taking that as his sign to make a hasty exit. No sense sticking around for a second round.
Though Quincey couldn’t stop himself from a final parting shot once he reached the mouth of the alley. As he stepped back onto the brightly illuminated sidewalk, he called out, “Gents, you respect the pussy, or you don’t get to play with one. Justice is done!”
Oooh, that was a good one too! Damn, he really was on a roll tonight.
o-------------( o )-------------o
“Ow! Damn it, stop biting! For goodness sake, it’s just a littler further, you thrashing grumpy trout! Jesus, you’re even more impatient than Tora. And that’s saying something, because that man is certainly not known for his accommodating attitude,” Quincey grumbled less than ten minutes later.
It was a good twenty minute walk back to his penthouse, and the kitten had quickly revived in the bracing fall air...before almost immediately setting to the task of savagely attacking his rescuer’s hands every chance he got. Well, Quincey wasn’t quite sure of its gender, but he’d been switching between “it” and “he” because in his experience females weren’t usually such resentful, vindictive assholes. Especially once the little black ball of spite had cracked its eyelids open to angrily glare and hiss, the flashing golden eyes had settled it. He’d seen that same look more times than he could count from another pair of strikingly similar colored eyes.
Quincey lifted the indignantly mewling feral soot goblin up to his eye level. “Listen you tiny terror, I might not know anything about cat care, but I’m going to try if you’ll stop being an ungrateful little bastard! Quit chewing on my fingers long enough for me to make a phone call, okay?”
The kitten unblinkingly stared him down before having the gall to bare its teeth at him, but it relented in its attack, curling up into a tight little ball next to his thumb. The wind picked up, gusting down through the towering skyscrapers, and the poor thing immediately shivered, whether from hunger or pain or cold Quincey wasn’t sure. He slowly unzipped his jacket to pull out his phone, carefully balancing the suddenly suspiciously agreeable kitty in one palm.
After an awkward moment of fumbling with his phone one handed, Quincey looked down to gold eyes unamusedly watching him, entirely unimpressed scorn written plainly across its dark face. “Oh, now you really look like Tora, you judgy little asshole,” he grumbled before huffing a sigh and stuffing his phone into his pants pocket.
“Alright, how about this? You look tired and cold and worn out, and we still have another ten minutes to home. I can’t really call for a ride, since I’m trying to stay on the down low tonight. You probably know a thing or two about that, being a target through no fault of your own. I bet people assume the worst about you all the time too, huh?” he asked softly, gingerly running the tip of his index finger over its downy, black head. “That’s way too much for a little thing like you to handle all by yourself so young. This city’s not an easy place to survive, even if you’re lucky enough to have friends watching your back.”
When the kitten didn’t react with more than a flat look at the physical contact, Quincey slowly trailed his finger down its back, following the curve of its tiny spine. “So why were you wandering out here alone tonight? Don’t you guys usually come in litters? You don’t look that old, I’m guessing you should be snuggled up somewhere safe and warm with your mom and siblings. Or are you the stupidly brave one who just had to go out exploring the world tonight of all nights?” he asked with raised brows.
The kitten seemed to scowl, giving a very huffy sounding “mew” as if to say, “Look buddy, I might be small, but I’m not a dumbass. It sure as shit wasn’t my choice that I wound up in that alley with those assholes tonight.”
Quincey lifted up a placating hand, somewhat amused that he heard a young Tora’s voice in his head. “Yeah, I guess I’m being the judgy one now, aren’t I? Sometimes it doesn’t really matter how we wind up in a bad situation, but we can choose to accept help to get out of it. So why don’t you curl up in my nice, cozy pocket for a bit to get out of the wind, and I’ll see about getting you some help,” he offered, pulling his jacket open to show off the large pocket his phone had previously been occupying that evening. “That’s totally not a sex joke either, promise,” he lightly added, breathing a sigh of relief as the kitten blinked up at him and then relaxed a little more in his hand.
“Alright, I’m going to take that as a yes, so don’t go biting my nipple now. Cordy’s the only one allowed to do that, and she doesn’t like to share,” he teased as he maneuvered the floof ball into his coat. “That was a sex joke this time FYI.”
God, if his father or any of his sniveling ass kissers could see him now, Quincey had a feeling his old man might honestly just shoot him to save their great family name from such everlasting embarrassment and shame. Young Master Balthuman standing out on the street talking to a black kitten while dressed like an angelic musical icon. Tch, if it wouldn’t get Tora in so much trouble, there was a part of Quincey that honestly wanted to say fuck it, let them see him not giving a shit about living up to his unwanted mafia legacy. He was just as much in a cage as Tora was - the only difference was his bars were gilded, and he got better treats.
The kitten insistently mewed at him again, the sound muffled where the tiny fluff ball curled snugly inside his jacket, pulling Quincey from his unhappy musing. “Yes, yes, sorry, just got distracted for a moment there, grumpy pants. Let’s get a move on, shall we?”
He started for home again, pulling his phone back out to open his contact list. An immediate no to reaching out to any high society or clan affiliated acquaintances. He already knew Gyu was pretty much unreachable tonight, Tora's right hand man likely doing back to back to back bartending shifts to rake in the holiday tips. Sugarplum was currently out of town for work, and they had a tacit agreement not to intrude into that side of their lives.
Miss Editor would have likely been an entirely agreeable and helpful option if she wasn’t currently in the midst of puking her poor little guts out. Though how long did food poisoning last? Maybe she was sleeping it off now at least.
Well, Tiger Boy it was then. Tora was a night owl, and had an instinctive knack for handling animals, seeming to always know how to take care of them, even if he acted like he was put out the entire time. Though of course the grumpy puss would deny it up and down, likely commenting that he was only doing what anyone with half a brain cell should be able to do.
The call rang twice before his brother picked up and Quincey got as far as, “Booboo, I need--” before Tora swiftly cut him off.
“Quince, this better be a fuckin’ emergency, because I swear we’re dealing with the goddamn Exorcist over here. I’m never lettin’ her get sushi from anywhere beside Alice’s ever again.”
“I wouldn’t call if the need wasn’t dire, Honey. I know you have your hands full tonight taking care of your busty little--”
“Whaddya need, princess?” Tora snapped, the sound of a door sliding open and then some wind telling Quincey the man had just stepped onto Poppy’s balcony.
“Well if you’d let me finish, not even fifteen minutes ago, I bravely fought off a pack of reprehensible street rats and rescued a black kitten they were torturing. A little asshole of a kitty that bears a striking similarity to a certain other dark haired grump I know--”
Tora interrupted him yet again, the man’s famous impatience on full display even as his voice filled with concern. “Fuckin’ hell, ya okay?”
Quincey huffed an intentionally loud, annoyed sigh into the phone. “Yes, Booboo, clearly, since I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I am uninjured beyond a bit of blood on my person. From my assailants, not me mind you, that’ll be a bitch to remo--”
“Ya take ‘em all out? Anyone else see ya or know who ya were?” Tora cut in, his tone suddenly full of a different kind of worry. Quincey knew his brother was more than likely pacing back and forth now, his hand twitching for a cigarette before he stopped himself. The tiger had been making a concerted effort to significantly cut back on his nicotine consumption in recent months, motivated by a certain little feisty woman telling him he tasted like an ash tray.
“Honey, I’m not an idiot. As far as dear old dad and his legion of ass kissers know, Young Master Quincey went to a Balthuman sponsored charity event early this evening, my trusty bodyguard not needed at such a heavily secured venue. I enjoyed a few drinks and schmoozed before retiring home at an entirely responsible hour for the rest of the night. While this costume might show off a tastefully sinful amount of cleavage, my ink has stayed fully out of sight the whole evening.”
Tora blew out a relieved sigh. “Thank fuck. Yer fine, no injuries? Ya need a clean up crew? Gimme the address, and I’ll get Dave and his boys on it before yer even back to yer place.”
Quincey waved his hand as he strode down the sidewalk, blending in with the other late night, costumed partygoers. “No, no, I don’t hit quite as hard as you do, Booboo, though I certainly made my point clear. They’ll pick themselves up, once they can see straight and walk again. I need your help with another pressing matter tonight. What do you know about...the care and feeding of kittens?”
There was a long pause, and Quincey had the strong impression that Tora was trying to figure out how to strangle him through the phone. “Quince, Poppylan is doing her best to puke out a damn lung tonight, and ya want to know how to feed a fuckin’ cat?! Jesus christ, and ya give me shit for not using Google. If it’s old enough to be on its own, just give it some goddamn cat food and put out a box for it to shit in.”
Quincey huffed back, “Honey, do you think I just magically have cat food and a litter box on hand at home? And it’s past midnight on Halloween, everything is closed besides the clubs and a few liquor stores and maybe a couple restaurants.”
“I dunno, give it some fuckin’ fish then! They like meat, and if it’s tiny, it’s not gonna eat all that much tonight anyways. I’m sure ya got a can of tuna somewhere behind all those fuckin’ wine bottles in yer kitchen.”
“How pedestrian. As if I’d stock cans of tuna in my home like some kind of peasant preparing for winter,” Quincey sniffed disdainfully as he finally saw his building come into view down the street. He cupped his free hand protectively over where the kitten rested inside his jacket as he pressed through a crowd of stumbling, inebriated revelers, their tacky costumes decidedly worse for wear.
Tora irritably growled, his patience, little as it was, clearly at an end. “Well, then use that fuckin’ last name of yours for somethin’ useful, and have somebody bring ya some damn tuna and somethin’ for it to shit in! ‘S not like ya haven’t thrown it around for dumber reasons than that before.”
Quincey opened his mouth to protest, but Tora cut him off, the sound of sobbing faintly coming through the phone. “Quince, I gotta go. Just...use that fancy education of yers and figure it the fuck out. It’s not that hard. It’s a cat, it’s probably pretty hungry, just give it some meat and call it good for the night until the stores open up...Aw, sweetheart, it’s okay-shit, how do ya still have anything left in there?!” The call cut out as Poppy clearly started vomiting again, the loud retching growing in volume as Tora ran back to her side.
Quincey shuddered as he tucked his phone into his pants pocket once again. He made a mental note to send over a massive bouquet of flowers and some tummy soothing tea for his editor and a nice, hearty breakfast for his brother in the morning. He doubted either of them would be getting much sleep tonight.
Tiny claws suddenly sinking into his chest had him thinking he might not be resting so well that evening either.
o-------------( o )-------------o
“Alright, you tiny Tora terror, this is the finest bluefin tuna steak available in the entire city. I woke up a five star chef just to prepare it on your behalf. So eat up already,” Quincey practically begged as the kitten continued to suspiciously circle the pile of fish he’d placed on the floor for it in a little saucer, its tail stuck straight up in the air. “You were crying up a storm not even five minutes ago, and now you’re just not going to eat? Is this because you’re still mad at me for the bumpy coat pocket ride?”
He threw up his hands as the stubborn little soot ball hissed and clawed at the plate before looking up at him with an expression that seemed to ask, “This is the best ya can do?”
Quincey made a show of spearing a forkful from his own plate and shoving in his mouth. “Mmm...oh god, that’s really good,” he moaned in delight, quickly eating a couple more bites. “Seriously, how can you not want this?! I’m 100% naming you Tora Junior if you turn your nose up at such exquisite food,” he said, squinting at his small charge as he pointed his fork at it.
The kitten sat down and cried at him, leaving Quincey entirely flummoxed. There was a small bowl of mineral water next to the finest food he could track down at such a late hour. And he’d just placed an online order for one of every single cat item from the high end pet store down the street that would be delivered first thing in the morning.
“I don’t know what else you want from me, little guy,” he said with a confused shrug, sneaking in another bite of tuna. “If you’re not going to eat, that’s kind of a you problem now.”
The kitten marched over and clawed its way up onto Quincey’s socked foot. It sat down and stared intently up at him as it opened its mouth again and shrilly mewed. When he apparently didn’t give the correct response, the kitty determinedly started trying to climb up his bare leg.
“Ow! Ooow! Knock it off! Okay, okay, you want to come up here?” Quincey asked as he reached down and plucked the stubborn ball of fluff off his leg. Damnit, why hadn’t he pulled on a pair of pants over his boxers after he changed out of his costume?
He placed Junior onto the counter and went to pour himself a glass of wine. When Quincey turned back around, he couldn’t help but huff and roll his eyes at the sight of the kitten with its face greedily buried in his meal.
“Seriously? Seriously?! That was the issue? You do realize it’s literally the exact same food, right? Like, it came out of the same box, I just put it on two different plates.”
The young cat ignored him entirely as it messily lapped from what was apparently no longer Quincey’s plate. “Yeah, you’re definitely Tora’s cat child. I don’t know anyone else who would be that insufferably picky,” he said, taking an experimental sip from his glass before pulling a face. “Ugh! No, no, no, as if this night couldn’t get any worse! I thought I grabbed the 2013 French rose’ not the 2013 Spanish rose’ - this won’t do at all. It just completely ruins the flavor profile.”
The kitten looked up at him, it’s entire face coated in bits of tuna, and squeakily burped before it daintily licked a paw. “Ah, at least someone agrees with me on the critical importance of proper wine pairings,” Quincey said as he took another small sip before dumping the rest of his glass down the drain and pulling out the correct bottle. “Perhaps this may be the start of a fruitful partnership after all, my tiny fluffy friend.”
He lifted his glass towards the greedily eating kitten and then sipped, a pleased smile spreading across his face. “Oh yes, muuuuch better.”
Quincey glanced down at the snubbed plate on the floor. “Well, if you’re not going to eat that, I certainly won’t let such excellent food go to waste,” he said as he lifted it from the floor and primly set it on the counter.
Tora Junior lifted his head again and squinted at the new plate of food, and Quincey immediately snatched it high out of reach. “Oh no, you don’t! There’s more than enough for you right there! This is mine, you little greedy guts. No, stay there damnit! Oh, oops, it’s on the floor again, guess you don’t want it now, huh?”
Quincey sat cross legged on the floor in his boxers eating the rest of his late night dinner as his new fluffy overlord contentedly finished his meal on the marble counter top.
“What does Tora say? ‘I think I’m fucked’? Yeah, I think I’m fucked, damnit," he sighed between bites. "Well, at least you’re cute…..oh god, that’s how it started for Tiger Boy with Miss Editor, didn’t it?!”
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