Work Text:
Erik names it Charles, after the one ex he can't quite get over and will never speak to ever again; the cat has the same way of looking into him like he knows what Erik is thinking and is reserving his opinion until he can flay Erik with it.
Anyway, the cat is a sort of brown tabby with a white shirt front and gloves, and reminds Erik of the person who shattered his heart to pieces, but, he explains to Emma drunkenly, in a good way.
"Oh, Erik," says Emma, not on a sigh, but she pats his cheek as she gets up. Charles-the-Cat squints his eyes a little but he doesn't move from his spot on the couch beside him.
"He does," says Erik, "he really does."
"I don't want to know about it," says Emma, kindly but firmly, and picks up her white coat and presses a cool kiss to his cheek before she lets herself out. Erik wishes he could be attracted to her at least three times a week, but if the cat reminds him of Charles in a good way, Emma is every reason why he and Charles broke up. Erik tries not to think of why he does it to himself.
After Emma leaves, Charles-the-cat stands up, hooks his claws delicately in the expensive upholstery and stretches from his wide ears to his feathered tail, and steps, light as a feather, into Erik's lap. He turns, once, twice, and another half turn and settles into a little round mass of warmth, tail curled around his face. He puts a proprietary paw on Erik's arm and begins to purr.
"You really do remind me of him," says Erik, but he doesn't expect an answer.
To fill the original prompt correctly:
Erik thought, I should feed the cat.
He walked into the kitchen and Charles was there, sitting on a tin of food.
"HOW DO YOU DO THAT," he said.
Charles purred.