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There’s cat hair on Jon’s shirt. At least, Martin’s pretty sure that’s what it is. Dark strands are clinging to the pale fabric, which hangs loosely from his thin shoulders. Martin’s pretty sure he was wearing the shirt yesterday, too, but he hadn’t noticed the hair on it then. It is, he supposes, possible that Jon owns more than one of the same shirt, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept since yesterday, either. That’s not unusual, though. The hair is… new.
“Is that, uh…” Martin hesitates, uncertain. He notices a thin red line tracking down Jon’s cheek— a scratch? Has he been attacked?
“What is it, Martin?” Jon sounds exhausted, and the usual exasperated tone he adopts when talking to Martin has softened slightly. There are scratches on his hands, too, thin lines that have risen into angry red welts.
“No, I, it’s just, uh,” Martin stutters, tearing his gaze back to meet Jon’s. “Are you… okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jon says, shooting him a withering glare as he shuffles a stack of statements.
“No— no reason.” Martin slides into the chair on the other side of the desk to Jon, earning himself another exasperated look. “Only, it, uh.” He lowers his voice. “It looks like you’ve been attacked?”
“What? Oh,” Jon says, contemplating the backs of his hands. He lets out a dry chuckle. “Yes, I suppose I do, don’t I?”
“Well?” Martin says, shuffling forwards eagerly in his chair and glancing around the empty office.
“Could you try to sound less excited about it?” Jon says, giving him another look. Martin tries to look suitably contrite, but he can’t quite manage it. “Look, it’s really nothing.”
“What was it?” Martin asks, leaning against the desk, his eyes wide. “Did you have… an encounter?”
“What? No, of course not,” Jon says, huffing a sigh. “No, that’s not— look, okay it’s really— promise you won’t… tell anyone?”
“Of course,” Martin says, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I swear. I’m great at keeping secrets.”
Jon shoots him a sceptical look, but he sighs again, setting down the stack of papers. “I got a cat.”
“You got… a cat?” Martin’s gaze runs over the scratches again, lingering on a particularly nasty gouge under Jon’s jaw, uncomfortably close to his throat. “Is it… a demon cat?”
“No, no, it’s just— just a cat,” Jon says, shaking his head. “He’s, well, he’s a bit feral-”
“A bit?” Martin interjects, his tone incredulous.
“I, uh, sort of, well, rescued him.” Jon’s hand reaches up to touch the scratch on his cheek. “He wasn’t very grateful about it.”
“Are you sure it’s a cat?” Martin asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Martin, I know what a cat looks like.”
“Right. Yes. ‘Course you do. Only…”
“He just didn’t take kindly to being scooped out of the river,” Jon says. “Or being wrapped up in my coat.”
“No, well, I guess you wouldn’t.” Martin can’t help the scepticism that seeps into his tone.
“I don’t care if you believe me,” Jon says, returning his gaze to the papers in front of him.
“Sure you don’t,” Martin says, a cheerful grin on his face, as he stands up. “Watch out for demon cats.”
Jon doesn’t respond, just making a quiet hmm of agreement as Martin leaves the room. On his way out, he notices that Jon’s coat is missing from the hook on the door.