Chapter Text
It’s around one in the morning when he stumbles through the door carrying a duffle bag that’s seen better days. You work in an old greasy spoon diner in the middle of corn country, Illinois, completely devoid of customers, as it is most nights. You perk up, straighten your back, try to pretend like you were cleaning instead of just leaning against the counter half asleep. He looks like death warmed over, like someone who hasn’t had proper sleep or a proper shower in days, if not weeks. His clothes are pieced together rags; a coat that looks like it had been fished from a thrift shop’s trash, fingerless gloves that you would bet any money didn’t start that way, and shoes that are rotting off his feet. You’re instantly taken with him.
He plops himself down at a booth despite the bar being completely empty and just stares at the menu, not saying a word. You put on your brightest smile and walk over to his table, saying in your brightest voice, ‘Hi mister! What can I do fur you today?’ He looks up at you, squinting at your nametag, and you get a better look at his face. He looks to be in his early twenties, which puts him pretty close to your age. You notice his face has streaks of dirt across it, and you decide he definitely hasn’t showered in a while. The poor thing, he must have been out on the road for days! He’s probably searching for a place to stay, a nice small town, perhaps, maybe even with a nice girl who can take care of him and bakes the best damn pie in town if you do say so yourself. ‘Cut the fucking cheerfulness... Nepeta. Just get me a black coffee and a grilled cheese. Actually...’ he starts, fishing around in his pockets and coming up with one dollar bill and a few quarters, ‘forget the grilled cheese. Just the coffee.’
You smile even wider and tell him you’ll be back in a moment. Everyone knows that people who tell you not to be cheerful really just need someone to cheer them up! You go behind the counter and busy yourself with brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Suddenly you get a little idea. At the end of your shift, you’re allowed to take home a free piece of pie. You usually accept this gift with gusto, (after all, you bake some of them!) but he really looks like he could use something to eat. His cheeks have the hollow look of a man who never knows when his next meal will be, and the fingers poking from his gloves are little more than bones. Anyway, your mother always told you the best way to get a guy’s attention is through his stomach. Your mind made up, you pour him his coffee and grab a slice of the blueberry pie you made this morning, your personal specialty.
As you set the pie and coffee down in front of him, he looks up at you in confusion. ‘I didn’t order any fucking...’ he begins, before you cut him off. ‘It’s on the house,’ you say, still smiling brighter than the sun. ‘You look like you could use something to eat.’ As an afterthought, you go back and grab the whipped cream and put a healthy mound on top of the pie. If that doesn’t get his attention, nothing will.
He stares at the pie like a man who’s just seen the second coming of Jesus. He mumbles something that you take to be thank you before grabbing his fork and attacking the pie like it had killed his mother. After the first bite, his eyes light up, and after that he doesn’t pause until the entire piece is gone and there’s not even a crumb on the plate. The only thing to signify that there was a full piece of blueberry pie there mere moments ago is a small smear of whipped cream on the plate, which he quickly wipes up with his finger, licking it off. You beam and sit down across from him.
‘So, mister, what’s your name?’ you ask as he picks up the sugar and begins to pour a copious amount into his coffee. Black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss, you think with a smile.
He stares at you for a moment with wide eyes before answering, as if he’d forgotten you were there. ‘Karkat,’ he replies after a moment’s hesitation, ‘Karkat Vantas. Thanks again. For the pie, I mean,’
‘No problem,’ you laugh, thinking of how adorably flustered he seems. You get the feeling people aren’t nice to him much. ‘It’s always good to see my baking appreciated. Nepeta Leijon,’ you say, reaching out your hand to shake.
‘You baked that?’ he replies, his eyes widening, ‘Don’t these places usually have cooks or something?’
‘Of course! But that’s fur hot food. Fur the pies, me and one of the other waitresses just bake them before our shifts! Al’s a great cook, but he can’t bake at all,’ you answer with a wink. ‘So, what brings you to our little corner of nowhere?’
‘Well, that’s invasive as fuck, but I guess I owe you for the pie, so I’ll let it slide.’ He looks a bit nervous, and you begin to think you may have overstepped your boundaries a bit, but just as you’re about to say something, he continues. ‘I dunno. I just sorta fucking... drifted in,’ he says, with a vague wave of his hand. ‘That’s kinda what I am. A drifter. I know, you never expected a drifter to dress in the fucking finery I sport, but you’d be amazed at the fucking treasures people throw out. Some shitheads have no god damn clue how valuable things like this coat can be. So what if it’s got a few holes? It still keeps you plenty fucking warm. And lord knows I need it when I get stuck in fucking Illinois in the middle of winter. At least I had the good sense to not stray any further north. I’ve known too many guys that tried to sleep outside in the winter up north and never saw the sunrise.’
At this he goes silent, and starts staring into his coffee again. You’re dumbfounded. Half of you wishes you’d never asked. Sure, you figured he was a drifter, but you always thought of the drifter’s life as somewhat glamorous. Going where you please, free as a bird, nobody to tell you what to do. You never thought about the fact that some people actually died because they couldn’t find a warm place to sleep. It suddenly occurs to you that nobody has coffee at one in the morning. It also occurs to you that the diner is the only open place with central heating for miles.
‘So... what’s in the bag?’ you ask, desperately floundering for something to say and latching on to the small, worn duffel bag.
He glares at you. ‘Pirate gold. What the fuck do you think?’
You realize that drifters don’t have a house to store what few belongings they have and regret asking. You blush furiously, trying to apologize, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! I don’t mean to be rude! If you don’t want to talk, it’s purrfectly okay, I should really wash some dishes anyway.’ You start to rise, before he stops you.
‘Wait, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’ he pauses for a moment, then gets a strange look on his face. ‘Wait... did you say purrfectly? As in, like how a cat purrs?’
Your face turns even redder, if that was even possible. ‘Uhhh...’ you stammer, ‘yes...’
He looks at you strangely. ‘Earlier, you weren’t saying for, were you? You were saying fur.’
You wish you could disappear. This conversation is going worse than you could have possibly imagined. You manage to squeak out a yes as your face gets so hot you swear he must be able to feel it across the table.
To your surprise, his face starts to go a bit red as well; or, you think it does. It’s a bit difficult to tell under all the dirt. ‘Whatever,’ he says, ‘I guess you like cats? That’s cool. Whatever pops your cork, I guess.’
There’s a long, awkward silence, and to your surprise, he breaks it. ‘So, about the bag... it’s just a few little things. You know, shit from when I was younger and such. Being homeless tends to make one a bit nostalgic. None of it’s terribly interesting. Well, except... no, nothing, never mind.’ He cuts off quickly, as if he were about to say something, but changed his mind.
Your curiosity is piqued. What did he expect, stopping midsentence like that? All embarrassment forgotten, you begin the interrogation. None can hold up under the investigative might of Nepeta Leijon. ‘Hey, what were you gonna say?’
‘Nothing, none of your damn business.’
He’s a tough nut to crack. ‘Come on, tell meeeeee!’
‘No!’
This will take all your feminine wiles. You put on your best sad kitty face, looking up at him with your big, round eyes. ‘Pleeeeaaaaase tell me?’
He pauses for a moment. You can smell when a man is about to crack. You go in for the kill. ‘Please please please please pleeeeeeeaaaaasssseee?’
‘Fuck, fine! It’s just a fucking harmonica. I carry a harmonica. It passes the time.’
None can hold up under the investigative might of Nepeta Leijon. You always loved the harmonica. It’s such a beautiful, soulful instrument, even if some think it sounds like a dying cat. Of course, now that he’s told you, you must hear him play.
‘I love the harmonica! Play a song for me!’
‘No. No. Abso-fucking-lutely not.’
‘Kaaaarkaaaaat, come oooooonnnn,’ you whine, reaching across to touch his hand without thinking.
He blushes profusely, but doesn’t move his hand, just looks into your big, sad eyes for a minute. ‘... Fine. But only one song.’ After a moment, he pulls his hand from yours (and you may just be imagining this, but he seems the tiniest bit reluctant), unzips his bag and pulls out a small, worn harmonica. You can just barely make out the word Hohner across the top. He runs his tongue across it and notices how intently you’re staring at him. He returns your gaze for a moment, then lowers his eyes and begins to play.
The sound is beautiful. The song he plays is low and slow and so so sad and it tugs at your heart strings more than the saddest movie you’ve ever seen. He pours his soul into the song, and you feel almost like an intruder. Like this is something private and intimate which you have no right to witness. And before you know it, it’s over, and you have a tear in your eye.
He looks at you in distress, ‘Oh fuck was it that bad? Why are you crying? Come on, I’m sorry, cheer up.’
You stop him before he can apologize any further, adorable though it really is. ‘No, no, it was beautiful. That song was just so sad. Hey, I've been thinking... do you have anywhere to stay tonight? You said it was dangerous to sleep outside in the cold, and I don’t want anything to happawn to you.’ The last two sentences just burst out of you without a thought. Part of you thinks you’re being an idiot. Sure, he’s cute and sad and adorable and he plays beautiful music and he’s really cute, too, but he’s a drifter. He might murder you in your sleep. But the overwhelming majority of you insists he wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Looking at him, you think you may not have to worry about that. He’s practically fuming with indignation. ‘If you think I’m going to take your fucking charity, you’ve got another thing coming. I don’t need anybody’s fucking pity.’
‘I’m not pitying you! I just thought –‘
‘Save it. The free pie was enough charity. Congratulations, you’re a fucking saint. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.’
He goes to stand up, and you desperately grab at his arm. ‘Wait! It’s not charity! If you do stay ofur, you’ll have to help me out around the house. And get a job as soon as you can. And play me songs on that harmonica of yours!’
He pauses. That’s a good sign, right? Of course, he might just be getting ready to tell you off more. But no, the anger seems to go out of him almost as quickly as it came. ‘Alright, fine, you win. I’ll be your live-in maid and musician.’
You smile at him, a giant grin that put burning magnesium to shame. ‘Great! We close up in about an hour. You can hang around until then and we’ll go back to mine!’
‘Alright, fine. But just so we’re clear, this won’t be for more than a few days. I don’t take charity.’ Despite his harsh words, as you look back at him, you could swear he looks grateful.