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The sun is setting, lush and vibrant, when Jacket walks out of another building. That's all it is, really- just another of a long line of buildings. He's tucked his mask under his arm, planning on going by the movie rental store the bar the corner shop where he would have wanted where Beard works for some surprisingly early dinner. Sure, it's not great food, but he hasn't made plans with Jill to get anything better, and if he doesn't remember to get food they both won't eat.
It's hard for Jill to request things. It's hard for Jacket to remember things. Best to do it when he can.
He ducks through the alley on his way to his car, but something stops him. Jacket frowns, unsure of what it is, feeling watched- did something make a noise? He turns slowly, expecting to see someone creeping up behind him, but comes up with nothing. He blinks slowly, brain full of confused static, before he shrugs and walks on. Must be in his head, he thinks, until it happens again.
It's punctuated by a bottle smashing on the bricks, then a heavy thud, the yowl of a very angry cat, a slamming door.
Jacket blinks at the pitiful creature quivering on the concrete. It's curled in on itself, damp and ragged.
Jacket frowns.
He pulls his mask on, and his mind fills with new static, the kind that drives out all other noise.
///
The sun has set, and Jacket is opening a can of tuna with his keys. He doesn't really want to go back in and look for the can opener, so this is the best he can do. The lid of the tin pops open after some struggle, ripping some of the bandages on his fingers. At least they protect his skin, he supposes, setting the can down a few feet from the dumpster and the boxes piled around it.
He sits down on the stairs leading into the building, elbows on his knees as he watches the shadows. Slowly, carefully, a paw reaches out, followed by a nose. One yellow eye stares at the can, then Jacket, then the can again, and he waits patiently. The cat picks its way out of the hiding spot it's made for itself, looks at him again, then shuns him in favor of the fish. Jacket starts opening another can while the cat eats, and he takes in the messy little scrap.
One side of its face is all pink skin and no fur- no eye, either. Both ears are next to shredded, twitching constantly to pick up sounds on its blind side. Its brown and orange fur is decorated with scars, ending with half of a tail missing, and Jacket feels a vague twinge in his chest, a resonance in the scars that cover him from head to toe. He sets the second can just in front of himself and sits back a few inches, reaching for the stolen bowl and water bottle so he can give his new friend something to drink.
When it's finished with the first tin and sees that Jacket hasn't moved, it creeps forward, taking a quick bite of fish before jerking away. He remains placid as ever, a solid lump on the stairs, and it takes another bite, then another, slowly settling in. Its short tail is still flicking, but its ears are up, its fur lying close to flat. He takes this as a good sign, sets the bowl next to the tin.
Of course, it bats at his bloody fingers, and he hums softly, wiggling them at it. It bats again, again, then drops its paw abruptly to lean in and sniff at his bare fingertips. He slowly turns his hand over, palm up, and after a long, tense moment, it shifts closer to lick at the stains on his fingers. He finds himself smiling, as much as he ever does outside his apartment. No one else would call it that, but it feels like it, just a calm smile that barely changes his face. It grows to something more visible when the cat rubs against his hand, and he starts to pet it lightly, just brushing over its head and shoulder on its good side.
It pulls away after a minute to drink water, but it doesn't stop him from petting it, and Jacket takes the invitation at face value, stroking its fur between scars and bald spots. By the time it's had its fill, the cat is purring loudly, nosing at his hand.
Jill is going to kill me, but she's going to love it, he thinks, as the cat hops into his lap. Carefully, letting it see his hand coming, he picks up the little scrap, cradling it close to his chest. Jacket likes to think that not snapping at it when it bites at his dogtags makes him kind of a good person.
When he gets up, it crawls up his front, dragging itself up onto his shoulders and purring so loud he can feel it down his arms.
Jacket smiles his barely-there smile all the way home.
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