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A small mmrp! is the only warning Martin gets before something very fluffy and very orange jumps onto the kitchen counter beside him.
“Hey, no,” Martin chides, scooping the as-yet-unnamed cat into his arms and lowering him gently to the ground. He points a stern finger at the small, curious face staring up at him and says, “I know you’re new here, but you’ll have to learn the house rules eventually. And I know I’ll have to be the one to enforce them, because the moment Jon sees your cute little face he’s going to just- just let you do whatever you please.”
The cat lets out another mmrp before rubbing his face affectionately against Martin’s leg.
“Right,” Martin says with a soft smile, crouching down and scratching underneath the cat’s chin. “You haven’t met him yet, but Jon’s going to love you. You’re just going to have to- to look at him and he’ll love you.” Quieter, to himself, Martin mumbles, “I hope he’ll love you.”
A cat isn’t a typical anniversary gift, sure, but it’s not like they hadn’t been talking about it. They’d looked into a few shelters, made a list of the things they’d need to buy in order to make their flat pet-friendly, but Jon’s workload had increased drastically a few weeks ago and discussions had fallen to the wayside. Martin had spent a frankly ridiculous amount of time scanning through Jon’s meticulous notes about preferred breeds, ages, and dispositions before spending an even more ridiculous amount of time visiting every shelter within a 50-kilometer radius of them.
He may also have two cardboard boxes full of cat toys, food, litter, and other items stowed away in the back of the linens closet. He’s nothing if not prepared.
The quiet thump of paws on marble drags Martin out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see the cat stood atop the counter again, tail swishing back and forth with excitement.
“No,” Martin says, standing and lifting the cat carefully up so he can look him firmly in the eyes. “We do not jump on the counter. The counter is where we cook, and Jon stress-cleans enough as it is—we don’t need to give him the extra incentive.”
The cat stretches his mouth open in a wide yawn, revealing rows of sharp teeth, before blinking passively at Martin.
“Right,” Martin says again with a resigned nod. He tucks the cat against his chest experimentally, feeling the rumbling purr against his skin, and presses his nose into the soft orange fur on the nape of the cat’s neck. “Did you know that Jon and I got married a year ago today? Oh, of course not, you're a cat. Well, we did. Honestly, though, it- it feels like yesterday. Things since then have just been… nice. Christ, so nice, and- and I love him, you know? You’re going to love him too—he’s got this, like, this thing where cats just adore him on sight. Tim likes to call him the ‘cat whisperer,’ and Jon pretends like it annoys him because, heh, you know, otherwise it would go right to Tim’s head, but Jon adores you guys. With your- your little paws, and your little ears, and your- ow, ow, your claws—"
Martin gently, yet gracelessly, lets the cat spill free from his arms and onto the lino. He rubs at his arm, gives the cat a stern look, and says, “Is that any way to treat your father?”
The cat looks up at him and meows loudly.
“Don’t talk back,” Martin says with faux disappointment, crossing his arms across his chest. After a moment, his resolve breaks, and he bends down to scratch between the cat’s ears gently, a fond smile spreading across his face.
Martin’s halfway back to standing when the doorknob rattles. His first thought is oh, Jon’s home early. Then: wait, Christ, nothing’s ready yet. Then: shit, the cat!
Martin’s reflexes are, predictably, less acute than those of the fluffy apex predator who’s currently making his way to the front door at breakneck speed, meowing loudly enough that Martin’s sure Jon can already hear it through the still-closed door. Martin has just enough time to take a few, anxious steps toward the door before it swings open and Jon shoulders his way through, arms laden with stacks of folders and books and papers. Martin decides that he'll chide Jon for bringing work home on their anniversary later and instead prioritizes coming up with a speech he thought he still had several hours to prepare in approximately five seconds.
“Oh, hello,” Jon says, kicking the door shut behind him and rearranging the pile of work in his hands so it doesn’t slip. “Elias let me go early—albeit with a mountain of paperwork, good Lord—so I thought I’d…”
He trails off as a small, insistent mmrp! cuts through the air. Martin squeezes his eyes shut and says, quietly, “Ah, right. That’s… that’s nice of him?”
“I… I suppose,” Jon says, sounding a bit lost. There’s a shuffling noise, and Martin opens his eyes a crack to see Jon depositing the stack of papers on the side table by the couch before turning, slowly, back to the cat. “Is… sorry, I- I’m not… is there meant to be a cat in our flat?”
The cat meows, and Martin says weakly, “Happy anniversary?”
“Oh,” Jon says. Then, after a moment, his mouth curves into a small smile, and he repeats, softly, “Oh.”
Jon crouches down and shifts so he’s kneeling on the ground, sitting back on his heels in that way Martin’s never been flexible enough to do. “Hello,” he says quietly, holding out a hand for the cat to sniff. “And who might you be?”
“He doesn’t have a name yet,” Martin says, still reeling from the abruptness of the last thirty seconds. “I- I thought… you might like to name him?”
Jon hums in thought, letting the cat push his head into his hand before beginning to scratch gently underneath the cat's chin. “I… I don’t really know,” he says. “Georgie was always the one who was good at naming, I- I just sort of went along with it for the Admiral.”
“Could always go generic,” Martin suggests, feeling his heart swell with affection as the cat yawns again and Jon’s face lights up. “You know, like- like Whiskers, or…”
Jon gives Martin an unimpressed look. “Certainly not. That would be like naming our child… Leg, or something equally ridiculous.”
Martin tries to ignore the way his heart stutters at the words our child and says, in a small voice, “Yeah, that… that would be silly.”
Jon’s expression folds into something soft and fond, and he says, “I’ve… I’ve always been partial to Clarence, if… if that’s all right with you, I suppose.”
Something must show on Martin’s face, because Jon quickly clarifies, “For- for the cat, that is, not, er- not for a… an actual child—”
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Martin says quickly, his cheeks growing hot.
“—because- because Clarence isn’t really- well, it’s, it’s not bad, it’s just, I don’t—”
“—absolutely, yes, I- I agree, one-hundred percent—”
“—just, just for… for the cat.”
“Mm-hmm,” Martin says in a high-pitched voice, fully giving up on pretending like his face isn’t flushed a bright red. His mouth twitches into a smile, almost against his will, and he says, “For the cat. Of course.”
“Of course,” Jon echoes. The moment of silence between them is broken by an accusatory meow, and Jon’s laugh at that is something that Martin wants to bottle up and treasure forever. “My apologies, Clarence,” he says, scooping the cat up in his arms and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I wasn’t giving you nearly enough attention. A grievous error on my part.”
“You’re going to spoil him,” Martin says teasingly. “He’ll be insufferable.”
Clarence lets out a happy chirp of agreement.
Carefully, Jon stands, Clarence still tucked securely in his arms, and steps closer so he can press a soft, lingering kiss to Martin’s lips. “Thank you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough that he can rest his forehead against Martin’s. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Martin says.
There’s a disgruntled mmrp, and Jon’s mouth curves into an amused smile. “I love you as well,” he says, giving Clarence another kiss on the top of his head. Then, teasingly: “Maybe even a bit more than your father.”
Martin lets out a long, exaggerated groan. “I can’t believe this. Less than five minutes in our home and you’re already stealing my husband from me.” He reaches over and scratches Clarence’s belly fondly. “Disrespectful. Utterly abhorrent.”
Clarence makes a pleased little noise before starting to purr audibly.
“We’ll need food,” Jon says absently, one hand scratching underneath Clarence’s chin. “Litter, bowls, toys…”
Martin grins, a bit giddily. “Oh, way ahead of you.”