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“Joxter, wake up.”
An involuntary sound left the cat’s throat as he felt something tap his chest. He withdrew his hat from his face and glanced up, seeing the Muddler stand over him like a willow, crooked smile meeting his eyes. “It’s noon, dear,” hissed the Joxter, pulling his hat back over his sleepy face. “Prime time for napping, hm?”
“But I got you something.” The Joxter paused and then held out his palm, hat still shielding his face. The Muddler’s gift met his hand and he pulled back his hat again to view it. His eyes fell on a small brown piece of plastic. “A button,” he said.
“I found it near the dock,” said the Muddler shyly. “I was going to put it in my collection but...I thought you may like it instead.”
The Joxter smiled. Possessions were not a virtue of his, especially as a vagabond: where you own what you see. But he pocketed the button anyway and heaved himself to a sitting position, stretching. Then he felt a light switch on in his head. “Oh! I got you something too.”
He sprawled across the sofa and reached down from the arm rest. The Muddler was anticipating, but curiosity turned to lowkey disgust when the Joxter pulled a dead bird from under the sofa. The Joxter shuffled to him and pried open the Muddler’s paw, placed the bird in his palm and then closed it, like a beloved grandparent keeping a secret. “For you.”
“Ah.” So that was why the ship was starting to smell. The Muddler tried not to look directly at the dead creature. "Oh dear, um..." He bit his tongue, careful not to cause offense. “How thoughtful of you.”
“Indeed.” The Joxter was now sitting up. “Soon I shall bring you half-dead ones, so that I may teach you how to kill them.”
“That will not be necessary,” jittered the Muddler. He pocketed the dead bird and sat beside him, feeling a surprised flush within him as the Joxter leaned into his shoulder. “You will kill all the vermin for us.”
If only he could count the amount of times the Joxter had somehow managed to find unsuspecting families of mice and dust bunnies in the ship, despite the Hodgkins’ many attempts of sweeping the area clear of pests. It gave the Joxter some use around the ship, outside of keeping the sofas warm.
The Joxter made a low purring sound. “It’s so tiring though,” he whinged. “And I would assume you would find pests for yourself as you’re painting the ship.”
“Maybe.” The Muddler petted the Joxter’s soft black hair. “But I’m nowhere near as good as you. All I do best is add things to my collection of findings.”
“Perhaps you can collect all the pests you find.” The Joxter’s eyes widened as though he just baked the greatest idea of his dreams. “And I can kill them.”
The Muddler laughed; that quiet, jagged sound that was like pure orchestra to the Joxter’s ears. His composure was kept, and he leaned closer as the Muddler continued to pet his hair. For a while the two creatures sat there in comfy silence, with nothing within earshot but the whimpers of water below the ship and the shrill of gulls.
Finally the Muddler spoke up again, in a voice so hushed the Joxter had to crane to listen, “Where do you think this will take us?”
The Joxter closed his eyes. “What will take us?”
“The ship.”
“Oh.” The Joxter shrugged. “I'unno.” He paused for a few seconds. “Perhaps at an island where a quilter lives.”
“Why you propose that?” said the Muddler.
The Joxter opened his eyes and the Muddler felt pierced by two blue chips of eyes. “So you can give me more buttons,” the cat responded, a sneer evident in his voice.
The orchestral laugh came again. “I do not steal, Joxter,” the Muddler gasped.
“I'll do it then.”
“No!”
The Muddler shoved him with play which only earned him a raspy laugh from the cat. Then before he knew it the Joxter seized his elbows around the Muddler's neck and nestled a clumsy half-kiss, half-nuzzle on his cheek. He was always grabby like that, especially towards ones he most cherished. There was a hot pooling in the Muddler's stomach as he attempted to embrace back, in whatever literal position the Joxter had now got him in.
He resorted to patting the Joxter's elbow. “You're the best gift to come out of this.”
The Joxter tucked his muzzle into the crook of the Muddler’s neck. “I know,” he purred.