Chapter Text
It says a lot about Percival Graves that not a single person who comes into his office asks about the new changes to the place. Either that or they're completely blind, except they're not very subtle when they keep glancing at them.
‘Them’ being the two orange kittens currently napping on his desk.
At one point, Auror Johnson stares blatantly at them and looks to Percival, then back, repeats it twice, opens his mouth once, but still leaves without a single word.
The first person to inquire about them is Sera when he meets with her that afternoon, cradling them in the crook of his arm. An eyebrow rises in surprise but she resumes her composure quickly, as expected of the president of an American wizarding government.
They sit across her desk from one another, both retaining their silence in an unspoken battle of wills, but Sera eventually gives in.
“I didn’t think you were the type to pick up anyone except to spend the night with them,” she drawls, chin resting elegantly on one hand.
“We did sleep together, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Sera’s snort is not quite as elegant. “Don’t be crude, Percival.”
“You started it,” Percival retorts with maturity.
She raises a brow once more as Percival conjures two small bottles and starts feeding both kittens simultaneously. They drink silently, hungrily laying side-by-side on their stomachs in the cradle of his arm.
“I forgot how much you loved animals,” she says almost fondly.
“You would think I'd have gotten myself a pet as soon as I moved out,” Percival sighs. “I regret it a bit.”
“What are their names?”
Percival shakes his head once. “I can't afford to,” he admits reluctantly. “This is temporary until I find someone.”
Someone who isn't in a hazardous, overworked job where he barely has the time to care for himself, nevermind two other lives.
“On the contrary,” Sera smiles, “I think you should. Then you’d have some excuse to leave here on time.”
Percival frowns, biting back the honest words that he had hoped a wife or husband would be the one to ground him to a home by now. “I’m certain a pet is an unacceptable excuse, Madam President.”
“Well, I say so.”
“Sera—”
“Percival,” Sera interrupts, “You’ve only been a director three years and somehow within that span you managed to isolate yourself from proper human connection outside of professional context. Not even forty and you’re already driving yourself towards a lonely, bitter life.”
“Thank you, you always have such a way with words,” Percival responds with a straight face, vanishing the finished bottles before gently lifting the kittens upright against himself to rub their bellies. He suppresses a smile at the protesting mewls. “Sentimental, much?”
“From a concerned friend to a sad one,” she says with an equally straight face. “I would let you keep them. Here.”
“I know,” Percival says, acknowledging her kindness. “But enough of that; I need to make some changes to the department and I’d like your input.”
The kittens burp.
Despite their conversation, Percival knows he won’t take them for himself. He can’t justify it. Harsh words they might be coming from anyone else, but Percival has always appreciated Seraphina's disposition for speaking the truth to him ever since their days in Ilvermony. And the truth is that this is his reality: his job is his life, and he hasn’t the time or mind for anything else.
The second day gains more of a reaction from his aurors, as if what they had thought was an illusion yesterday is accepted as real today, hence the lingering looks and nervous smiles sent his way. They ask where he bought them and he answers ‘some generic pet store’ because he isn’t quite comfortable with letting them know he jumped into water when he saw the things trying to swim across a river instead of being logical and using his magic.
He has a reputation after all, and a bleeding heart for abandoned kittens isn’t part of it.
But he becomes an approachable attraction regardless, and hears them talking about how unexpected it is that he likes cute things. A clearing of his throat shuts them up and sends them hastily back to work.
A good part is that it makes it easier to ask if there are any takers, even if every single one of them reply that they need to ask their family/relative/significant other, the bastards. Surely at least one person in this department lives an independent, adult life as he does.
Unfortunately, it’s a large department and he doesn’t have the leisure to constantly ask around and then a week passes.
The yet unnamed kittens are noticeably larger and it has nothing to do with Percival feeding them high quality foods. They trip over their feet less and recognize Percival by scent—which is a bad thing, he firmly tells himself—and more often than not are found being babysat by one of the aurors in his absence.
He still looks for someone to adopt them.
With even that preoccupying what little free time he has, he isn’t sure if he can be fully blamed for not noticing. But admittedly he had been getting a little attached to the furballs that have taken up temporary residence in his home, more specifically his shoulders, his lap when he's sitting. And well, attachment is blindness of sorts.
So begins the downfall of Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security.
Someone finally volunteers the next week to take them to a new home. Percival does a good job of not letting his reluctance show as he hands the kittens—now larger than his hands—over to Auror Perkins whose sister has revealed interest in adopting. She’s trustworthy herself, so technically Percival has no qualms about the new ownership.
In a moment of weakness, he thinks that he should never have brought them with him, that he should have dropped them off at a shelter or a hospital, and if he feels the solitude of his home after a late night the next day, that’s his secret.
He tells himself that it was only a few days, and it shouldn’t make a difference, and he shouldn’t be concerned when Auror Perkins shows up at his office a few days later appearing unsettled.
“They’re gone,” she tells him bluntly.
He doesn’t react—doesn’t ask who's 'they', doesn’t scold her as to why she thinks it necessary to inform him in the first place.
“I see,” is all he says, signing off on another paper and setting it onto the growing pile.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Percival raises an unimpressed brow. “They are undomesticated animals, Perkins. It’s something that could have happened anytime.”
The auror visibly slumps, downtrodden, and Percival’s heart twinges in guilt and sympathy.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he tries.
It isn’t what she seems to want to hear, and with a respectful nod, Perkins leaves the room.
Percival puts the news and exchange from his mind for long enough until he lies in bed with no other company than silence. It’s only in this dark, quiet place where shadows reside in the corners and silhouettes flicker in the candlelight and winds that he lets himself be honest: he worries.
They might survive, they might not; Percival knows cats are much more resilient than what people usually assume due to their size, as well as cunning and fierce. They’re hunters, survivors, and he has no reason to concern himself further regarding a couple strays. Which is apparently why he’s imagining the distant mewls and sounds of scratches against the door in desperate hopes that they found their way back to him.
Percival opens his eyes and sits up, holds his breath. Impossible—
He doesn’t actually hear anything, but there’s some kind of presence nudging against the magic of his wards and he hops out of bed, summons his robe and wand on the way to the front entrance. It’s nothing malicious, that’s for certain, and the presence is so very weak.
With his wand at the ready, Percival opens the door.
Nothing.
Then he automatically looks down at the soft ‘plop’, finds a familiar kitten-pile at his feet. His breath catches as he watches them stumble the rest of the way to wind themselves at his ankles. The sight causes a chip in his carefully-built wall of neutrality. It's quite unusual that they found their way back here, somehow having established an attachment in that short a time to even recognize that he was missing.
All the more reason that they need to separate from him as quickly as possible.
But it's late and he's tired and he shouldn't stress the little critters any further after their no-doubt long journey, so he feeds them and lets them sleep by his head.
He returns them to Perkins in the morning, ignores her wide-eyed stare and the hushed chatter amongst the aurors.
“I suggest a barrier spell to prevent this from happening again,” Percival says. “You may not be so lucky a second time.”
“Right, of course, sir,” Perkins nods, then shoots him a grateful smile to which he responds by shooing her and the rest of the lot back to work.
A troublesome bunch, but good at heart. He shakes his head.
Despite his warning, the kittens do escape a second time some days later, and that's when he picks up on how unusual that is. Perkins and her sister would have taken his advice, and yet here they are again. He regards them carefully as they sleep, curled together as always, significantly bigger than the last time he saw them. A few diagnostic spells reveal nothing, but they triggered the wards again earlier, stronger than before, and he needs to know why that is.
On the outside, they look harmless (and cute), in need of protection. From his observations, they’re far more intelligent than he has initially given them credit for, have an unnatural growth rate, and seek his presence for some unknown reason.
Percival puts a tracking spell on them before bringing them back once more, so he isn’t surprised at all to see the balls of orange fur already waiting for him at the door the following weekend. They come to him easily when he bends down, climb up his arms and settle across his shoulders.
He’ll have to apologize to Perkins on Monday, and tell her to find another pet. There are some good, reputable places he can recommend, so hopefully it won’t be too much of a problem.
“I bet you come here for the food, you spoiled brats,” he sighs as he lets himself in the house.
As wary as he is of the unknown, Percival doesn’t fear them. Suspicious as they may be, they carry no ill will towards him that he can sense; rather, they’re quite affectionate when they want to be.
“What do you want with me?” he wonders aloud, watching over them as they eat.
If they were merely seeking a good home, any of his aurors would do which clearly that isn’t the case here, bit it seems he's worthy of them one way or another.
It gets a bit crowded on his bed but Percival’s fine with that
The murmur of voices nearby as he wakes has him stilling. Percival pretends to sleep while he makes note of the unwelcome change in number to his home—two at least, if the conversation he hears is anything to go by. Wizards? No, he doesn't sense magic, not really; but an energy of sorts, not the kind he knows, at least. The kittens aren't around—ran away, he hopes. After confirming that, Percival wills his wand to slide from underneath his pillow into his hand beneath the covers, curses inwardly at the sudden silence.
“I think he's awake, Thes, 's breathing different,” one voice says, male, light in pitch and cautious in tone. English.
“I've got this, don't worry,” says the other, also an Englishman, rougher, warm as he addresses his partner.
Well, he can’t let that happen.
A peek shows two figures by his bed and he starts by whipping the bedsheet towards them wandlessly— hears yells, meets a startled pair of green eyes just before the fabric covers them—and sits up quickly while shooting a disarming spell. He follows it up immediately with petrification and a binder.
The snarl from elsewhere warns him too late and the wind is knocked out of him by the tackle. A stray spell goes crashing into a wall, his knee connects with nothing as he’s pinned down on the bed—strong, this rugged-looking man, ridiculously so, and Percival isn’t physically weak by any means—and a twisting, crushing grip on his wrist has him crying out and relinquishing his wand by force.
“Don’t hurt him, Theseus!”
“I’m not trying to, but he shouldn’t be attacking us, either,” growls this 'Theseus'.
Percival takes advantage of the momentary distraction to summon his wand again, panics a little when it doesn’t come. A look reveals the other man, now out from the tangle of sheet, holding onto it. Fucking—
“Look, mate, you need to calm down,” Theseus tries.
Easy for him to say when he isn’t the one trapped under a, well, admittedly handsome and relatively unclothed man; the possibility of his life in danger makes it difficult to appreciate it, however. Percival glowers up at him.
“Let him go, perhaps?” the other calls, coming over to them, and Percival tenses further because now there are two against his incapacitated self.
But surprisingly, the weight lifts off him and he scrambles up and back until he's against the head of the bedframe. The one called ‘Theseus’ crawls backwards away from him while keeping him in sight, perches himself at the other end of the bed. The other man—messy auburn hair, freckles, teeth gnawing on a plush bottom lip—rises from the floor until he’s standing.
Merlin’s balls, he’s trapped.
The one standing then slowly points the wand towards him and Percival braces himself until realises that it’s the handle directed his way. Without another thought, he snatches it back once it’s within reach and doesn’t show the same courtesy out of defense by pointing the tip forward at them.
The three of them stay in their respective positions at a standstill, although Percival has the distinct feeling that he’s the one at a disadvantage in spite of holding the wand. The two men share a look.
“Who are—” Percival starts at the same time Theseus goes, “So, this is—”
A pause, then...
“Awkward,” the third one remarks.
“Hush, Newt,” says Theseus, not taking his (bluer) eyes off of Percival.
“Tell me who you are and what you want,” Percival snarls.
He should attack again, but something stops him and it’s not only that he has been thwarted once already; something he can’t quite place.
“About that...” Theseus trails off, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden and rubbing at the back of his neck.
“We’re your kittens,” this ‘newt’ pipes in.
“For goodness’ sake,” Theseus groans, hand covering his face.
Percival looks between the two, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
Theseus shifts, then raises his hand in placation when Percival whips the wand towards him. “Easy, mate. We have something to show you; nothing dangerous, honest, but might be a bit strange.”
He moves from sitting cross-legged to kneeling as if in preparation for whatever he’s saying, but remains at that distance.
Though it doesn’t relax him, it gives Percival enough peace of mind to observe them closer. Their expressions don’t hold any sort of animosity; rather, they seem nervous for some reason as they carefully watch him. There’s a similarity between the two that indicates a relation, the newt appearing younger than Theseus. He’s also leaner compared to the well-muscled torso of—
“Are you wearing my clothes?” Percival asks incredulously, suddenly realising.
A pair of his pants are stretched tight over Theseus’s thighs, and his shirt loose on the other one’s shoulders but short at the arm, underwear hanging on narrow hips.
“Borrowed!” the newt hastily corrects, hunching in on himself. “Sorry, we went through your closet because, um, we didn’t think you’d, ah, appreciate the...” he trails off, waving vaguely at himself. “We can take it off.”
“Newt, for the last time let me do the talking,” Theseus shoots at him.
Newt must be his actual name, Percival absently notes.
“You scared him, Thes,” Newt retorts. “I don’t think he likes you very much.”
Theseus snorts. “Don’t be a brat because he gave me more scratches than you.”
What the fuck. Percival has had enough and he fires off a spell into an empty area which makes them flinch and stop.
“Shut up, both of you,” Percival snaps, “and explain before I throw you in prison. Which I will do anyway because you’ve broken numerous laws at this point—”
“You go first,” Theseus cuts in, and Newt nods quickly in response.
Then Newt strips off Percival’s shirt much to his shock, makes him look away automatically with cheeks burning when the man starts reaching for the underwear as well. Percival’s head spins with the possibilities of why he’s doing this and Mercy Lewis, does he need to add another crime to the growing list—
“You can look now,” he hears, and no, he’d rather not.
He jolts when something nudges at his hand leaning on the mattress—something soft, furry—and there’s wet, rough scrape at the tips of his fingers. That finally prompts him to look and he sees a familiar orange kitten with green eyes blinking up at him. He lifts his head further and only his clothes remain on the ground where Newt had been standing, the man himself nowhere to be seen.
Theseus is grinning at him.
“Where—”
“Right there,” the man points at the animal now climbing onto Percival’s knees, claws pinching into his legs.
“What the fuck,” Percival says, because that can’t be. His hand moves by itself to start petting the kitten who nuzzles at him.
“Alright, it’s my turn,” and Percival turns away a second time when Theseus starts removing his pants as well and it’s public indecency, his mind yells.
But in the next moment, there’s another kitten, the other one with blue-tinted eyes also climbing into his lap. His pants lay bodiless at the corner of the bed and there’s no naked man to be found. And all Percival can do is stare down at the felines who are showing their usual affections, mewling.
Generally, Percival is a quick-witted, relatively intelligent individual who can gather a reasonable amount of information from observing a situation and put the pieces together to form the correct picture. It’s one of the ways in which he is successful as the Director of Magical Security, and has gotten him out of danger more often than not.
Whether it’s due to the caffeine he has yet to consume this morning or the disorientation from it all, he’s missing something crucial about his current predicament. There were two kittens in bed with him last night, he woke up to them gone and two strange men in the room instead; now the men are gone and the kittens are back.
A story suddenly comes to mind; legend, more like, but it speaks of wizardfolk—usually dark in nature—who gained a transformative ability through unethical means.
“Skinwalker,” Percival breathes, heart pounding.
And before his very eyes, one of the kittens grows, transforms, pushing the other off in the process and he finds himself with a lapful of a naked, human male.
“Oh, not quite—”
His hand moves first, fist connecting with the face in front of him, and Newt goes tumbling backwards with a cry. Percival only vaguely registers the pain in his hand, too busy processing what he just saw and severely startled to say the least. He’s brought out of his daze by a roar of laughter, sees Theseus who is equally naked and bent over laughing, right next to him where the other kitten would have landed.
Instincts kick in and Percival binds the both of them with a spell. He leaps out of bed and ignores the sounds of shock and outrage that follow him, locks himself into the joined bathroom.
He stays there for a long time.
“‘Shapeshifters’,” Percival repeats sceptically.
“If you don’t know, that’s fine,” Theseus shrugs. “Can’t say too much, sorry; we're staying low for the time being.”
He and Newt are both properly clothed this time (still in Percival’s clothing which don’t fit nicely), sitting across from Percival in the living room and complaining about the coffee he brewed them. They are no longer bound because Percival felt relatively calmer after an hour of questioning his eyes and sanity and everything else; but truth be told, it was that when he had exited the bathroom, he found them lying still in their captive state and pleading silently with their eyes, remarkably reminiscent of when the kittens would beg for food and treats. And they had not approached him without permission even after their release which made their intentions a little more believable.
And now, he’s having coffee with them; a pair of brothers, he just learned.
He doesn’t know much about skinwalkers—no one does, really—so he can’t say if an adult transforming into an infant creature or growing in size as time passes is the norm for such folk. Seeing as there are very few cases documented, he can’t determine whether they are one in the same or different based on Theseus’s claim alone. Considering their English accent, it can even simply be a difference in name and nothing more.
“Let’s say I believe you. So, why am I involved in this?” Percival asks not for the first time, eyeing them in turns accusingly. “I gave you away to someone and yet you kept coming back here. If your plan was to lay low, playing at the perfect house-pet should have been sufficient.”
“You saved us,” Newt answers, having spoken for the first time they started this conversation.
Percival carefully observes that the bruise on Newt’s face he didn’t mean to cause doesn’t appear as bad as it did a mere hour ago. Or he’s just seeing things out of guilt. Should he heal it or is that too shameless? And the better question is: why hasn’t the man done it himself?
Newt puts down his cup of coffee which had him grimacing this whole time and twists his hands together. “It’s—” he pauses—seems to do that often—looks up then back down at his hands. “It’s the safety with which we associate you. We were vulnerable back then, not up to shifting yet because—” He starts when Theseus clears his throat. “Right, anyway, you’re strong. Quite noticeably, in fact. And so very kind, adept at caring for animals.”
He says the last part so earnestly that Percival struggles not to flush in embarrassment.
“It was the best option for us in terms of security and protection while we were recovering,” Newt finishes.
“Still recovering, actually,” Theseus picks up from there. “I’m hoping you’ll be kind enough to let us stay a couple more weeks and then we’ll be out of here.”
Percival feels himself frown at the words, wary and uncertain of the request. It’s one thing to have them under his roof while ignorant of their true nature, but this new development changes many things. It sheds a new light on his previous interaction with them while they were only kittens at the time, and he can’t deny that there is some discomfort in his chest when he considers what they saw of him, what he had unknowingly shown of himself to another person. Two persons.
“Percival.”
The low, gentle calling of his name snaps him out of his thoughts, and then he’s looking into an apologetic face.
“Hope it’s alright to call you that,” Theseus asks, waits for him to nod before sighing heavily. “I apologize. We apologize, for having violated your privacy. We would’ve told you earlier if we could; there are reasons for that, but still... I realize what it must be like for you to think that you were living with two complete strangers these last few weeks without your knowledge.”
“Sorry, truly,” Newt adds remorsefully.
That’s... unexpectedly considerate of them to say. He’ll have to do further research on these ‘shapeshifters’ since the two here are reluctant to share anything, but Percival feels agreeable for the moment after having heard their apologies. It's not that he trusts them, but he figures they would have killed him already if they had wanted to given the many opportunities they had had.
“Alright,” he sighs, tries not to notice how they visibly perk up. “Just until you recover, whatever that means.” Because they don’t look physically harmed in anyway (except for that bruise). “I have a guestroom that you two can share—”
“Oh, no need for that,” Theseus waves his hand as Newt shakes his head. “We’ll be in our other forms, mostly. Easier that way, faster recovery.”
“Clothes are not our thing, really,” joins Newt. “Feels like a confinement of sorts.”
Percival narrows his eyes. “You still have the room available to you, regardless. We aren’t sharing mine again, if that’s what you were intending.”
One of his brows rises when the two men visibly deflate, eyes downcast and shoulders drooping like they’ve been scolded. Surely they weren’t actually expecting their previous arrangement to continue.
“But your pillow is very comfortable,” Theseus mutters.
“And you smell nice—ouch!” Newt yelps, glares at his brother who just elbowed him.
Theseus nods at him. “Other room, understood,”
Percival returns to his room after telling them not to touch anything or do something suspicious, whatever that may be.
After the morning he has had, he just wants to go back to bed and sleep through the rest of the weekend. That would have been an option if he didn't have those two out there wandering the house. His wards hadn’t barred them from entering before yet the binds worked, and he doesn't know why that is; doesn't know much other than that they can transform.
This is a terrible idea, he thinks with regret as he paces the room. He should take them to MACUSA and keep them in the holding cells until he can inform the President and question them further.
Decision made, Percival heads out again, wand at the ready.
The house is quieter than expected, no sound of activity whatsoever. He first checks the guestroom he offered, finds it empty, then makes his way to where he left them. The first thing he sees is his clothes folded neatly and stacked on the armrest of one sofa, then his eyes go to the small, orange-furred bodies on the seats. They’re curled against each other, relaxed in sleep.
Looks like they were tired, too.
Something in Percival’s heart tugs at the sight, unfortunately, having given some of his affections to these animals. He stops himself from reaching out to pet, pretends he isn't bitter with the loss of what he had considered enjoyable company.
Sera might think he likes being alone, but it’s really that no one has approached him with anything other than ulterior motives and he couldn’t keep them by his side after discovering that. He has a reputation to uphold and it’s easier to keep himself detached, not let emotion sink its hooks where it doesn’t belong. Yet for some reason, it bothers him that apparently, he can’t even find pets who don’t have hidden agendas.
He turns away and steps towards the kitchen, in need of more coffee.
They come to work with him on Monday morning after an uneventful Sunday that mostly involved Percival avoiding them other than to feed. He warns that it’s mainly to keep an eye on them and they dare not try any funny business with all these aurors around.
No, he doesn’t feel bad when they shrink in on themselves.
It’s unsettling in a way to know that the animals you’re talking to can actually understand your words, whereas before it had felt more like talking to himself.
Theseus and Newt remain quiet throughout the day on the sofa, not a single peep out of them even when his aurors drop by to play.
This goes on for the rest of the week, long enough that finally, one of the aurors ask, “Are they ill, sir? Perhaps you should go see a doctor.”
“Perhaps you should finish that report and have it on my desk within the hour, Kinney,” Percival replies.
That gets him out of here.
Percival sighs, glances over at the pitiful-looking, well, cats. They’re about the size of an adult, now.
“You two, I didn’t mean you should stop all activity. Acting natural also deflects suspicion,” he points out. “So do what you've been doing.”
And somehow to them that translates to immediately running over and leaping up onto his desk—on his papers, damn it—to sit by his hand. Newt even nudges that hand with his head and Percival pets it without thinking. Theseus meows loudly as if in protest and pushes Newt out of the way.
It amuses Percival enough to snort, and he settles the matter by scratching both their ears. The sound of content purring fills his office and it’s almost easy to forget that they are something else under this appearance, that the past weekend never happened.
Almost.
But he finds himself a little more lenient after that, spelling them into his wards so they can move freely, giving the occasional scratch and petting and saying a thing or two when no one else is around. They lounge and stretch and yawn, patter around the room and climb his furniture, all perfectly cat-like.
One eventful day after apprehending a criminal, Percival stays late to wrap-up the case and finish his reports, sending everyone else home. The excitement from earlier in the day forces him to down more coffee and potions in order to stay conscious, but the next thing he knows, he’s blinking awake with his head between his arms on the desk, warmth radiating from nearby. He turns his head to see the two cats, one lying by his elbow, the other by his hand, dozing lightly.
He smiles slightly since they can’t see, wonders with a pang in his chest if this is what it would’ve been like if he could have this for real. Shaking his head, Percival carefully gets up so as not to disturb them, and coaxes Theseus back to sleep when he stirs. He casts a warming spell over them then goes to the sofa and transfigures a blanket for himself, decides to nap for a couple hours before finishing up the remaining work.
Percival dreams about the first time his father told him to throw out the animals he brought into the house when he was nine, and doesn't remember it after he wakes.
Some late nights are at home, at his desk in the study or the dining room, on rare occasions the coffee table in the living room; papers of research spread out across every available surface for a case or three or seven. His aurors are competent, but Percival is admittedly obsessed with details.
He starts bringing his work home after worrying more often than not that the cats might be uncomfortable sleeping in the office, thinking they shouldn’t have to suffer from something unrelated to them.
Not that he’s meant for sleeping atop hard surfaces, either, he thinks with a grimace at the crick in his neck. A potion relaxes the bunched up muscles in his shoulders and neck temporarily, but it can only do so much against accumulated tension and stress.
If he had known that he’d be doing more paperwork in three years as a director than in his ten years as an auror, he might have refused this promotion.
This report has been blurring in front of his eyes since the last five minutes and he read the same line six times already.
“Do you really need to finish that?”
Percival startles badly at the sudden voice but he manages to tamper down any embarrassing reactions like jumping thanks to years of honed reflexes. He slowly looks up to see Newt—human Newt—frowning at him, and it’s almost surreal to see another person in his house at the moment, has him blinking dumbly.
“Are you wearing my clothes again?” is the first thing he says, then berates himself for the thoughtless comment.
It’s a clear sign that he is lacking sleep since his brain is no longer functioning.
“Borrowing,” Newt shrugs. “It’s the only thing we have on hand.”
His eyes are observant, keen on Percival as if searching for something, and Percival recognizes the same sharpness and intelligence from seeing them—both of them—everyday. This time, his mind has little difficulty associating the animal with the person despite his initial rejection.
“Look at you,” Newt mutters, frowns harder, then reaches across from opposite the table before Percival can even react.
Newt lightly brushes a thumb underneath Percival’s eye, and the touch of another is shocking to his system after all this time in absence of it. His breath catches and he almost wants to lean into the contact. He draws back.
Newt doesn’t follow, just takes his hand back; there’s nothing like shame or apology on his face, only that same frown. Instead, he tilts his head slightly and furrows his brows as if perplexed for some reason.
It very much resembles the cat.
“Stop bothering the man, Newt,” Theseus pops in, setting down a mug in front of him. “There you go.”
He really should get them their own clothes, Percival thinks, concerned for the seams of this particular shirt over Theseus’s torso.
The mug is filled with dark, steaming liquid that smells like coffee, but appears similar to the sludge they serve at MACUSA's cafeteria. Theseus looks eager for Percival to try it which he does, and thinks he may die from this toxic concoction. But when he asks how it is, Percival chokes out that it’s fine, thank you, is strangely satisfied by how the man seems pleased with himself at that.
Percival doesn’t get much work done for the rest of the evening, but the lack of progress isn’t as heavy on his mind with the lively chatter of the two who apparently have been wanting to speak to him for a while—mainly, what is his job and why does it make a slave out of him for days on end. They talk at him like they’ve been holding back all this time, loudly vocalizing that he works too much, eats little, sleeps even less.
Their accent is oddly soothing to his ears, and combined with the smooth, flowing tone of voice they both possess, he can easily pretend that he is listening to the calming sounds of a radio when he closes his eyes.
Absently, the thought crosses his mind that he doesn’t remember the last time he had human company outside of work, having forgotten that it can be pleasant even if it’s mostly nagging. Not since his mother has anyone cared for his well-being in such a personal way, and it's that which allows him to be persuaded to turn in early for the night.
They support his exhausted body up the steps and into his room, safely into bed. He barely stays awake enough to mutter a quiet 'thank you’ before passing out.
It's hard to say whether the changes afterwards are a problem or not; he works less, eats enough, sleeps more.
Delegating more of the tasks to his aurors doesn’t result in the implosion of the department (or the end of the world). Going home earlier or leaving work at his office every now and then doesn't necessarily mean he falls behind schedule, either; it's true that Percival might have been going overboard with getting things done as soon as possible so there is no harm in finishing something the next day, occasionally.
He has two cats that are also sometimes people—naggers, really—because Percival eventually relented, admitting to himself the company isn’t so bad and they’ve been well-behaved long enough to earn some of his trust. He buys them their own clothes and teaches them how to make proper coffee, listens to them bicker in the background while he reads the daily news. His house has become much livelier than it ever was since he moved here from the manor after his parents’ passing two years ago.
The biggest challenge is adjusting to their overlapping behaviours when in either form. He had initially thought that there was a clear distinction between the animal and human part, but is steadily discovering that isn’t the case.
Newt and Theseus will just as naturally lean into him and wordlessly ask for a pat on the head as the cats do on occasion, while other times they are the only two in the world and will do nothing but curl up with one another anywhere in the house for hours. They emit noises suspiciously like purrs, sprawl themselves out wherever there’s sun in the room or in front of the fireplace—which he unfortunately finds out after tripping over them a couple times.
The cats, on the other hand, will sit by the coffee pot and push his hand away with their paws if they think he has had too much for the day, meow loudly and give pointed glances at the clock when it’s late at night. When he’s feeling sore, they’ll sit on his shoulder while he’s on his stomach on his bed to apply pressure to the muscles.
The first—and last—time Theseus tries to rub his scent onto him (or so he claims), the unexpected slide of the man's cheek against his own shocks him so much that Percival physically deters (punches) him and explicitly forbids either of them from doing so ever again.
Even the cats stop winding themselves around his legs after that, which confirms some of his theories.
His research on these so-called 'shapeshifters' hadn’t yielded much information, nothing that distinguishes them from what they already know of skinwalkers. But it’s obvious by this point that they are neither fully human nor fully animal which is fascinating, to say the least. Perturbing in some ways, because he has never dealt with a being he can't identify as a single species, but rather two-in-one.
“We’re our own species,” Newt supplies unhelpfully.
Newt is currently at the dining table with Theseus as a cat on his lap, petting him absently while watching Percival prepare dinner.
He asks questions about them, slipping one here and there casually into the conversation to no avail as usual, infinitely curious as to why all this secrecy. But they only ever evade answering or shake their heads, seeming almost sorry that they can’t say. Percival is reaching the point of leaving the matter alone, sympathizing that everyone has something they want, need, to hide.
Dinner is a simple meal consisting of meat, vegetables and bread, and Percival has Newt set the table. They know not to get fur on the surface where he eats but he always does a sweep over it with his wand just in case, this time being no exception. He gives a glance over to where Theseus remains a cat, watching them from the chair at the other end.
“You aren't joining us?” Percival questions.
“He isn't feeling well,” Newt replies instead.
Concern wells up unbidden at that, has Percival frowning. He doesn't realise he stopped cutting into the meat until Newt touches the back of his hand.
“He’ll be alright, Percival,” the man reassures with a smile.
And it’s not that he cares, but Percival takes a few minutes to boil some chicken and watches to see if Theseus is tempted. He isn’t. Not even when he shreds it up and offers a bite. But Theseus follows him with his eyes from a distance for the next hour as he eats, cleans up, pours himself a nightcap and settles by the fireplace. It feels pathetically imploring and provokes his sympathy.
Percival meets his gaze for a long minute, then murmurs, “Come here, Theseus.”
The cat doesn’t move at first, but then he slinks over, slows just before he reaches Percival’s feet. He prods at one with a paw and waits until Percival pats his own lap to leap up on it. Theseus arches under Percival’s hand as he slides it along his spine down to the tip of his tail, and it’s quite strange to think that, in a sense, he has a naked man in his lap this moment. Any other time, the following activity in that kind of situation would have been his preferred way to end the day, but he realizes with some surprise that he hasn’t thought of bedding anyone or sex in general since the arrival of these two rascals. Somehow, something like caring for a sick cat brings him as much enjoyment, if not more, and the thought makes Percival snort quietly.
“You’re spoiling him,” Newt chides, plopping down next to them. “It’s going to pass; he’s just being a big baby.” Ironic, seeing how Newt immediately lays his head on Percival’s shoulder and relaxes, sighs in contentment when Percival starts brushing through his hair.
There is a sense of peace Percival has never felt before with someone other than his family or his friend, sitting here on a regular week night with two essential strangers cuddled up against him. He only knows their names, that they’re partial to poultry and seafood, how Theseus likes to be groomed with the brush while Newt prefers his fingers. That both love taking baths but not showers, that in some aspects, Theseus is more reserved than his brother and Newt likes to bring home injured critters and nurse them back to health.
He knows nothing of their origins, their true intentions, why they ended up in that box on the river, whether they might leave tomorrow or stay another day.
Yet here he is, foolishly opening his home to them and even worse, his heart, because he’s sure that he will miss this when they go. And this isn’t like him, to be weakened by attachments, because he’s Percival Graves. Attachments did not get him to where he is now, at the President’s right-hand being the youngest DMLE in the history of MACUSA, working a noble (and thankless, a little voice jabs) job. Attachments are weights he cannot afford to bear.
It angers him all of a sudden, that this is even an issue due to his poor conduct these last few weeks. But he keeps it to himself since it is nobody's fault but his own for not handling the situation in a objective, efficient manner befitting of a law enforcement officer, a Graves.
It is this professionalism that will not demand that they leave here immediately, and it is this attachment that will allow them to go freely instead of demanding interrogation.
Newt and Theseus sleep soundly, unaware.
Percival watches the fire until it burns out.