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Chapter Text

karma is a cat,  purring in my lap 'cause it loves me

- Taylor Swift

Don John hastens through the dank passage. If he can make it to the other side of the villa without being discovered, he can secure a ride into town and board a ship out of Messina and his half-brother's clutches.

Though he is too far down the brick tunnel for outside sounds to reach him, he swears he can still hear the wails from the ruined wedding. Don John has to give Borachio credit, he never would have thought of such a devious plot on his own. Claudio's reaction to his beloved's perceived betrayal had been more terrible than either of them predicted; throwing down his bride, hurling abuses, ripping down the decorations, not appearing to care if the falling poles injured the cowering onlookers.

He was a beast unleashed, the same beast Don John had witnessed on the battlefield, slaughtering his men. Satisfaction coiled in his chest to see Claudio's true self exposed to the very household he would make his home. But even as Claudio raged and rampaged, his poor fiancée weeping in her cousin's arm, no one intervened. Not their benevolent prince, not quick-witted Benedick, not a single one of their noble soldiers nor the humiliated bride's own father lifted a finger to defend her. Don John's lie had not just exposed Claudio, it exposed them all for the gutless hypocrites that they were.

As the brutal scene played out, Don John felt a twinge of pity for the girl. Claudio and Don Pedro's vicious castigations were enough to condemn her to ruin. Her reputation will never recover. But Don John had not fed Claudio his lines or told him how to act, had never suggested he take her before a crowd and denounce her as a wanton; this public slaughter was all Claudio's concoction.

Don John stood stoic through the altercation, curious to see how far Claudio would go before someone — surely — stepped in. The taste of triumph souring in his mouth, with each anguished sob from the battered bride, as if she truly were being murdered. When the toil of the ordeal caused her to faint and Claudio lunged forward as if to tear apart her helpless form, Don John had had enough, restraining the irate count and bidding they leave.

He kept a careful watch on Claudio as they marched from the scene, leaving devastation in their wake. As soon as he was able, Don John gave an excuse and slipped from his half-brother's side, making his escape. Now he bounds through the passage, pumping his fist with a laugh. Don Pedro and Claudio have been made to look like fools and Aragon's alliance with Messina is on the rocks. It will take some effort to recover from this fiasco and while they are distracted Don John will snatch his freedom.

Wind howls through the tunnel, whipping up around him, lashing at his ears in an enraged scream. He stumbles, the ground shuddering beneath him. An earthquake?

The passage walls shake, stones rattling. Don John sprints for the exit, anxious not to be buried alive. But the wind pushes him back, ensnaring him in its coils. He feels as if he is fighting against a hurricane, struggling to escape. The rumble of the earth, the screech of the gale, are deafening, splitting through his skull. In them he hears Hero's agonised cries.

He crumples to the ground, crawling forwards. Tendrils of darkness cover his eyes, his screams silenced.

:-x-:

Don John stirs back into consciousness; his bones ache and his head spins. As he regains his senses he is overpowered by the smell of damp and dirt, rust and wine. He opens his eyes, jolting when he sees the passage has grown ten-times in size, its walls looming around him.

He pushes himself from the ground and staggers, his limbs responding wrong. He becomes aware of a low hiss filling his ears and realises it is coming from him. He looks down and sees a pair of fuzzy paws where his hands should be.

He jumps, the hissing becoming a howl, landing on his side and scrambling back to his feet. He glimpses a sleek black-furred body as something swishes in the corner of his vision. He turns and rolls, trying to get a better look at himself and — and — there — a long black tail.

Heart hammering, he scurries down the passage, watching in terror as the black paws stretch out before him, running on all-fours. He turns a corner, skidding into the light. His nose tingles with the smells of grass and pollen and a strong whiff of manure he had not noticed before.

On the wall beside him, he sees the shadow of a four-legged creature, two points protruding from its head and a tail whipping back-and-forth. Ahead, he spies a bucket and bounds towards it, reaching up over the sides to look inside. The bucket is the same size as him and full of water, as he looks he sees the ripple of his reflection — a black cat stares back at him.

Don John yelps and hears a hapless "MEOW."

The bucket tips over under the force of his distress. He recoils as the water splashes his fur — his fur — seeping across the ground.

He is a cat. A cat! How is this possible?

A woman steps out of the villa, looking like a servant judging from her garb, and wielding a broom. "WHAT IS ALL THIS RACKET?"

She spots Don John and brings her broom down on him. Don John leaps out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit.

"MANGY FLEABAG! GET OUT OF HERE!"

Don John flees.

He streaks across the villa grounds in blind panic. WHAT IS HE TO DO? WHAT IS HE TO DO? HE IS A CAT.

He careens to a halt, skirting being tread on by a set of servants carrying in crates. Shouts and curses arise as Don John weaves between their legs, dodging the fall of their boots. Just as he thinks himself in the clear, his skin prickles and he springs out of the path of a wheelbarrow. Landing on all-fours, he scarpers from the scene, his blood roaring in his ears. Not even in battle has he felt so under siege.

A thunderous BARK, BARK has him jumping from his skin. He sees a huge dog snapping its jaws at him, straining at its chain to reach him. Don John hurls himself up and over the garden wall to escape the great beast, tearing down the dirt track from the villa. He is never one to admit he needs help, but right now he needs help.

But who? Who can he turn to?

His ears twitch as he hears a familiar voice ahead. Without hesitation, he flies towards them, relief flooding him — and is almost trampled by a horse.

Don John flattens himself to the ground, waiting until the clamour of hooves has faded to open his eyes. Discovering he has not been pulverised into the dirt, he picks himself up and dashes towards the voice and scent of his brother.

Don Pedro startles from his conversation with Claudio as the black cat runs up to him, howling and pawing at his boot.

"Ooh, hello, little one." He bends to pet the cat and Don John bites his fingers. "Ah!"

Don Pedro frowns over his punctured hand while Don John knocks his head against his leg, insistently.

Claudio kicks at him. "Off with you, dirty stray!"

Don John scurries back, hissing.

Don Pedro restrains his companion. "Leave it alone, Claudio. Tis a harmless cat."

Don John is about to sink his new claws into Claudio's calves when the clanking of chains steals his attention and he looks around to see a group of officers marching up the road with two prisoners between them.

"Officers," Don Pedro calls out, approaching the group. "What offence have these men done?"

As the officer in command lists off their crimes, Don John gets a better look at the prisoners and recognises his co-conspirators, Borachio and Conrade. He had not thought much of their absence this morning, now he understands…

"...Don John, your brother, incensed me to slander the Lady Hero…"

He has the satisfaction of watching Claudio's face crumble as Borachio outlines their plot. But as his half-brother's face turns grim and wrathful, Don John shrinks from his legs. Borachio's next words stop him cold.

"The lady is dead upon mine and my master's false accusation."

Ice trickles down Don John's spine. The lady is dead?

A grieving Leonato's appearance on the scene, alongside his brother, confirms the fact — Hero is dead, her eyes never opened after she fainted at the wedding. Nausea seals Don John's throat as he crouches low, tail curling around him.

He never meant to kill the girl — though he knew his accusations would cause her harm. He had not known Claudio would publicly, and so violently, revile her — but he should have anticipated it. The truth is he had not cared about the lady's suffering, so long as he achieved his revenge. Now an innocent woman is slain by his tongue.

He releases a low hiss as Claudio kneels before Leonato welcoming punishment while still proclaiming himself guiltless of sin. As if Hero's blood did not stain his hands as much as Don John's own. It sickens him how little Leonato demands of his daughter's killer, how quick he is to offer up a niece when he saw how the count brutalised his last bride. Did Hero mean so little that her murder was so easily forgiven? Another of her kinswomen given in her place? Don John may have cheapened her, but he would not have valued her so low.

He slinks from the crowd, tail literally between his legs. There is no one here who would help him, even if they could. He is a villain and he has earned his punishment.

:-x-:

Hunger compels Don John to leave the shelter he has taken in a vacant crate and seek his supper. The thought of hunting and eating a mouse stirs an odd confliction in him — the man disgusted, the cat intrigued. Instead, he sneaks into the kitchen in search of something to content his stomach. The tables are piled with food intended for the wedding banquet, now gone to waste. Don John snatches a cooked salmon, escaping as one of the kitchen maid's cries out. He returns to his hiding place, gorging down the fish.

As the sun sets, the funeral procession for Hero gathers. Don John joins the solemn march, following them to the mausoleum where the lady has been untimely laid to rest. He had not looked long at her but remembers she had been a high-spirited chick, smiling and laughing with the others, young and full of life. It is wrong that she now lies, encased in cold stone. He put her there.

Don John's insides crawl, as if he were a miscreant brat, who ripped up a garden rose and crushed its petals between his fist, then wailed when it fell broken and brown. He knew what he did and he had not cared. He had not cared. What use is this guilt when the lady is already dead? What good is a conscience if it only shows itself after the deed? He will not indulge these feelings as Claudio does, weeping before the tomb. Murderers have no right to mourn their victims and Don John will not insult the lady by assuring his ego that he would have done it differently if he could. What good are such pledges to her now?

He remains at the tomb, even through Claudio's obnoxious sobs and the minstrel's abhorrent crooning. After the song, Claudio rises, cursing the lying bastard and swearing revenge, while Don Pedro clasps his shoulder and says little. Don John watches as his fellow killers stride off into the night, their hands washed clean with the recital of a few scripted lines. The last of the mourners trickle from the mausoleum, but he remains.

He stares into the shadowed tomb where the dead are housed, where Hero sleeps, never to wake. He does not venture beyond the threshold, but remains outside in the flickering torchlight, staring at the plaque Claudio hung. The chill wind whistles through the night, icy talons rake along his spine. Once more he hears Hero's despairing screams, sees her bloodless face as she goes limp. He shivers, curling up in a crevice, his tail folded around him.

Perhaps this is all a bad dream. Perhaps if he closes his eyes he will wake and be a man again. And Hero will be alive…

Yes… that is what this is… nothing but a bad dream…

:-x-:

Don John stirs, dragged into waking by a crescendo of bird song. He growls, opening his eyes to discover he is still a cat. Not a bad dream then.

The hour is so early the sky is half night; lavender clouds gather across deep sapphire as an amber glow crests the horizon. Don John stretches out his legs, arching his back with an unrestrained meow. Some of the birds fall quiet, recognising the predator amongst them. The cramps in Don John's stomach tell him he should hunt for food.

Don John does not know how to hunt (not as a cat, at least). He tries listening for the twitter of birds, his sharp gaze searching for a rustle in the bushes. He prowls towards a shrub. A noise startles the birds, sending them whizzing into the trees. Don John releases a mournful meow, his stomach grumbles.

He looks across at the sound of footsteps approaching and freezes. A phantom floats towards him dressed in a white gown. A veil conceals its ghoulish face but Don John knows it must be some spirit of vengeance, here to claim his wicked soul in recompense for his sins. He trembles, shrinking back. But the phantom does not glance at him, its attention drawn to the plaque hung upon the tomb. Bone-white fingers draw back the veil, revealing the loveliest corpse.

A mewl tears out of him at the sight and Hero turns to face him. He recoils.

"Oh… hello, sweetie," the dead woman coos, her voice soft and coaxing. She crouches down to his level, voluminous skirts pooling around her. "Hello, darling."

Don John arches his spine, hissing as his body is wracked with tremors. He has heard tales that cats can see ghosts, but never believed them true. Now, however…

The phantom's face falls. "I see… you think me rotten too." She sighs, directing her gaze back to the tomb. "Oh Mama, I wish you were here. My heart is torn. Can I do it? Can I bind myself to a man who left me bruised? He was gentle before, his love so tender. How could he abuse me as he did? Was all his rage a spell cast over him by Don John? His image as warped as my own…"

At his name, Don John lifts his head, daring to prowl closer, lured by her sweet voice.

She shuffles, her feet disappearing under her skirts, her chin resting on her knees. "Father is adamant this is the right course. He says I must marry Claudio to cleanse myself of all tarnish. The Friar believes Claudio will love me all the better for having thought me lost. I hope this is true but then why does my heart feel so heavy? Yesterday's wedding feels like a dream — a nightmare — but I bear the proof here." She holds out her hands to the tomb. "Could love be so cruel? Which is the true Claudio?"

Curious, Don John creeps closer. If the phantom were to kill him now, it would be fitting. As he edges nearer, he sees the red scars where the gravel gashed her palms when Claudio threw her to the ground. He frowns, nudging her hand with his snout. She does not disappear, but remains solid and flesh, her scent of lavender and orange blossom permeating the air.

"Ah, you have come to say hello after all." She beams down at him, her smile ushering in the dawn, and reaches out to pet him.

Don John stiffens, but she rends no violence upon him, her touch is gentle and warm as she strokes his head.

"Hmmm… are you a good omen or a bad omen?" His stomach answers for him, rumbling, and he gives a bashful mew. She giggles. "Ooh, you are a hungry omen. You had better come with me…"

She wiggles her fingers at him, rising to her feet. Don John meows, staring up at her. She slips the veil back over her face, becoming the ghoul once more and he falters.

"Come on, kitty-kitty," she gestures for him to follow, her voice sweet as a siren's song. He finds himself padding after her, half convinced she is leading him to his doom.

She returns him to the main house, entering through a backdoor. Don John hesitates on the threshold, but Hero calls to him and he pads inside. She pours out a saucer of cream and places it before him, smiling reassuringly. He inspects it, cautious of a trap, before taking a tentative sip. It tastes divine and he laps it up.

Halfway through he becomes conscious of Hero sitting on the floor beside him, watching him drink. Her smile is kind, wistful. Nothing to suggest malevolent intent. He looks at her and she lifts her hand, fingers spread, hovering mid-air, a question in her gaze. He shifts forward, under her hand, and she lowers it to stroke him, her smile blooming.

It is a pleasant sensation, her palm across his fur, a soothing touch. He hears a soft rumble, noticing a vibration through his chest, and realises he is purring. He jolts, staring at Hero with startled eyes.

"It's alright…" she coos, reaching to pet him more, "I won't hurt you."

Don John retreats and her smile wilts.

"Hero," a new voice exclaims, golden curls bouncing into the kitchen. "There you are. Ursula panicked when you were not in your chamber."

Beatrice hurries to her cousin's side, taking her elbow and helping her stand. She shows no shock at Hero's mysterious resurrection. The cogs in Don John's head whir.

Beatrice's storm blue eyes fall upon him and he tenses. "Who is this?"

"A visitor," Hero replies with a smile that frays at the edges. "I have not decided if he bodes good or bad."

Beatrice turns to her cousin, clasping her hands. "Whatever happens next is your decision. Say the word and I shall have Benedick run him through."

Hero quirks an eyebrow. "Benedick?"

Beatrice draws back, looking flustered. "Ah…"

"Beatrice… have you some news?"

"None! Come, come, we must prepare for the morning's revelations."

She hustles her cousin from the room. Don John is left alone in the kitchen. He sips the cream, ears straining for any approach, feeling exposed now Hero has departed. At the creak of floorboards and the murmur of voices, he scarpers outside. The sun has risen above the hills, illuminating the green and gold valleys of Messina. Don John wonders at the world he has stumbled into, where he is a cat and ghosts walk the earth.

This time as he traverses the villa, he is careful to keep his distance and remain out of sight, watching the labourers as they set about the morning's work. As the light grows, he notices more people arriving, gathering outside the chapel in expectation. He creeps closer, catching parts of their conversation…

…poor lady… innocent… dead… did not deserve…

…the bastard… liar… villain… fled…

…good Claudio… much deceived…

…comes to marry… Antonio's daughter…

…Antonio has a daughter…?

The pieces spread out in Don John's mind, jagged and disjointed. The conversation falls quiet as Leonato, Antonio, the Friar, and Benedick appear. No longer are their shoulders bowed as they were yesterday.

Don John smells his half-brother before he sees his approach, Claudio at his side, followed by his troops. Neither of the pair look as if they passed a good night's sleep. Don John would take satisfaction from Claudio's haggard appearance but something feels off. He remembers how Claudio swore to marry Leonato's niece, Antonio's child, in recompense for the daughter he slew. But as the chapel doors open and four veiled brides step out, he goes rigid.

Antonio leads his "daughter" forwards, the smell of lavender and orange blossom reaching Don John. All the pieces fall into place.

Claudio kneels before his bride. "Give me your hand before this holy friar. I am your husband, if you li—AAHH!"

Claudio screams as Don John pounces upon him, piercing his uniform with his claws and sinking his fangs into his shoulder. Claudio swears, crying murder as he tries to dislodge the feral cat. Don John mauls his neck, his face, determined to make him bleed—

Claudio's hand clamps around his neck and he is flung upon the stones. Don John's reflexes have him landing on his feet, but he does not react in time to avoid Claudio's boot as it drives into his side.

Don John howls, bright pain forking through him.

"VILE BEAST!" Claudio shouts, stamping his boot down on the cat's ribs. Don John hisses, thrashing under the brutal onslaught. "FOUL VERMIN! DEVIL TAKE YOU BACK—!"

"ENOUGH."

Hero's voice cuts through the commotion and there is a ripple of gasps as she whips off her veil. Claudio stares, frozen.

Through the blood in his ears Don John hears Don Pedro's amazed exclamation, "Hero that is dead!"

But this is not the same Hero who died, for through his throbbing his vision Don John sees the fury which hardens those delicate features, the fire crackling in her doe eyes, transforming her into the vengeful spirit he believed her to be.

"Would you kill another in this same place?"

"Hero—" Claudio gawps, making to touch her.

She recoils, barring him from her, voice dripping with disgust. "Once more by this light you show your true colours. I need not witness a third offence. You are a brute. A barbarian. Hiding your violence behind a gallant disguise. I will have none of you."

"Hero, " Claudio persists in reaching for her, "You live?"

"I may be dead as far as I am to you."

She moves around him to Don John. Claudio goes to grab her but Beatrice catches his wrist, glaring at him.

Don John yelps as Hero touches him, sharp pain spears through him. Her face is soft with concern, her voice returned to a kinder pitch. "I am sorry. Please, I do not mean to hurt you. Please trust me. I will take you somewhere safe. Please, sweet."

Don John growls, never liking to put his trust in others, especially when vulnerable and injured. But he sees sincerity shining amidst the flecks of her eyes. He knows as he stands and his legs buckle that he cannot heave himself from this place. He leans back, signalling his acquiescence with a mew.

Hero smiles and, with care, picks him up.

"HERO! GET AWAY FROM IT!" Claudio yells, shoving around Beatrice, only to have the heavy paw of Antonio latch upon his shoulder.

Hero pays Claudio no mind as she smiles at Don John, standing with him cradled in her arms. Mutters rise from the crowd as she walks from the scene but her steps never falter — not at her father's stammering, nor Claudio's bellows. Don John gazes up at the woman he sought to ruin, who saved him from Claudio when he threw her to his wrath, and realises what he mistook in her for porcelain was marble all along.

Chapter Text

Hero carries the cat to her room where she sets him down on a cushion. She pats along his side and Don John's howls as pain flares.

"Sorry, sorry," she soothes as Don John snaps his jaws at her, "I will be done soon, but I need to check your injuries. Nothing feels broken or out of place. Thank God." She withdraws her hands, rising to stand. "We are both now survivors of — of Claudio."

She strips the veil from her head, plucking out flowers and hairpins. Her sable ringlets unfurl around her face. Don John hears her quiet sniffles and shifts, the pain preventing him from rising. He meows instead and she glances over at him, eyes tinged pink and glistening.

"Oh… I am well… truly…" She sinks back down beside him. "You showed me what a beast I would be binding myself too…" She strokes behind his ears. "Since you saved me, perhaps I should call you Knight. My own black knight."

He wrinkles his nose, meowing against the suggestion. He is no valiant knight, no saviour. He damned her. And if she knew who it was beside her, she would damn him in return.

"Hm… no? Then what about… Midnight? Shadow? Soot?"

You only name things you intend to keep. But Don John cannot stay here. Not with her. Not when he needs to become human again. He pushes himself onto his paws; some of the ache has lessened though he still feels it in his teeth. He is no stranger to pain; he faced the battlefield, he can survive this. He turns so his back is to Hero.

"Oh…" He grinds his jaw at her despondent murmur. "I understand… humans have not been kind to you… I can tell… you have suffered much hardship…" Don John twitches, her voice so sweetly soothing, like sinking through honey, bees swarming beneath his fur. "But I promise, you will be safe with me. I will look after you. I will never hurt you."

"HERO!" He flinches at the crash of footsteps, the door thrown open, and once again Beatrice's voice interrupts. "Hero! Oh coz — how are you?"

"Beatrice… is father furious?"

"He has yet to recover from his shock. That was quite the show." Pride croons in Beatrice's voice. "I have never seen you so fierce."

"Ooh… my heart is racing. I cannot believe I spoke like that. In front of EVERYONE."

"You… do not regret it?"

Don John's ears prick and he shifts, angling to observe the women. Hero turns from her cousin, moving to her dresser and the abandoned veil.

"No." She fiddles with the lace. "I meant what I said. He is a brute. I could not marry him after seeing how he abused the poor, defenceless creature."

Don John tenses as Beatrice's gaze lands on him. "Poor he may be. But defenceless? Not by Claudio's face. I think it may scar." She grins, flourishing a bow to the cat. "My gratitude, Signior Whiskers. For striking my enemy, you shall have all the fishes your stomach desires."

"Beatrice. You call Claudio your enemy?"

"Any enemy of thine, is an enemy of mine. I was prepared to make peace with him for your sake, but I cannot pretend I am not relieved you refused him."

Hero sighs, "I am too. Though I fear the consequences."

Beatrice shields her cousin in her arms. "All will be well. Any who seek to rebuke you shall have to reckon with me."

Hero offers a fragile smile and hugs her. "Thank you, Bea. God, what is the love of a count to that of a sister."

Beatrice combs back Hero's hair. "You are worth a thousand counts. Though perhaps you would prefer a stray." She looks in Don John's direction, amused. "You have always taken the most pitiful creatures into your heart."

Hero giggles, approaching Don John. He meows as she kneels down and strokes his head. "Perhaps he will bring me luck."

"I pray he does. You deserve good fortune."

"My lady," Margaret appears at the door, wearing an anxious expression. "Your father wishes to speak with you."

Beatrice's gaze flies to Hero, the latter swallows, mastering her expression into a blank mask. "Thank you, Margaret. I shall come presently."

"I shall accompany you," Beatrice insists, shoulders squared.

Hero's smile is faded and she brushes the cat once more before rising. "I will be back soon."

Don John waits until all the women are clear from the room, then he heaves himself to his feet. His ribs throb as he moves, screaming their protest, but he must escape while he has the chance. He cannot stay here and be coddled by Hero. Not after all he has done. He needs to look out for himself. He needs to become a man again. With this resolve, he hobbles from the room and out of the villa.

:-x-:

Before Don John was called prince, he was first called beggar, bastard, feral, a child of the streets. When his father brought him into his golden palace the courtiers wrinkled their noses, sneering that he was more beast than boy, and dubbed him the prince's pet. Ever since he was a child, there has been something wild lurking inside him, a heart of claws and teeth. Now, his outward appearance reflects the animal within.

When it was just him and his mother, food was scarce. At an early age he learnt to pickpockets and pilfer from the market stalls — to out run his pursuers. If he was unsuccessful and his mother did not earn enough coin, they would not eat. In a manner, becoming a cat is like returning to those days, fending for himself.

It is a struggle, inexperienced as a cat and recovering from Claudio's assault. Most of his prey spooks before he can pounce. When he does launch forward, pain lances through him, vision blurring, his dinner escaping. His luck does not improve.

He dives after a mouse and lands in a thorn bush.

He slips into a henhouse and is pecked and scratched.

He sneaks in through a kitchen window and almost loses his tail to a carving knife.

Children jeer and pelt him with rocks.

Country folk sign the cross and call him demon.

Farmers brandish their pitchforks, while hounds chase him across fields, snapping at his heels.

Being a black cat, Don John discovers, is much like being a bastard. Despised and unwanted.

In addition to these troubles, there are the other disturbing urges to reckon with; too often he gets distracted licking himself, chasing after insects or rolling in the grass. He is no closer to becoming a man again. Whatever forces cursed him are not satisfied with his suffering. In seven sunrises, he only manages a few meagre meals, mostly on bugs and berries. Hunger is the same, whether he is a cat, a man, or a boy; his stomach clenches like his ribs have grown teeth, devouring him alive.

Chance leads him to the jail. He is stalking the night, hunting for scraps, when he hears a familiar warbling. Following the sound leads him to a barred window. In the cell below he sees his former companions, Borachio and Conrade, looking the worst for the wear.

"Must you carry on that caterwauling," Conrade snipes, slumped against a wall.

In defiance, Borachio belts the bawdy tavern song louder. Don John sticks his head through the bars and meows.

"Oi! Who's this?" Borachio stands, moving to the window.

"Great. Your yowling has attracted a fleabag."

Borachio crooks his finger at the cat. "Hello, puss-puss — AH."

Don John bites down on his finger, though not hard.

"Lord," Borachio shakes his fingers, "I am beset by crosspatches."

Conrade scoffs. "At least your punishment is deserved. I am innocent of all wrongs. And the lady lives. I do not know why we are being kept here, forced to listen to the inane prattle of that imbecile constable."

"You did call him an ass."

"HE IS AN ASS."

Don John slinks through the window bars and hops into the prison cell, landing on his feet.

"Throwing your lot in with us, are you?" Borachio muses. "Sorry, puss-puss, we've no scraps to spare."

Conrade cringes back from the cat, pressing himself against the wall. "Keep that mangy creature away from me, I am allergic!"

"Aww, come on, Conrade. Black cats are good luck."

"They are bad luck, you buffoon!"

"As if our luck could get worse. Ah, that's what we get for bragging about our misdeeds out in the open."

"At least Don John escaped," Conrade mutters.

Don John howls at his name, pouncing on Conrade's leg.

The man screams, kicking out, trying to dislodge the cat's claws. "GET IT OFF! IT'S RABID!"

"It's hungry."

"IT CAN'T EAT ME—UGH!" Conrade uses the heel of his boot to shove the cat from him.

Don John skids across the floor, regaining his footing with a hiss.

Borachio chuckles, "It is like having the master with us. I cannot decide if I am pleased he evades capture. Or if I would prefer the bugger to rot with us."

Conrade sniffs. "Doubtful we shall ever see him again. We have served our use."

Don John goes quiet. He considers these men who had been his sole companions, the accomplices in his villainy. He paid them for their service (with what a disgraced prince could), but they had chosen him — bastard traitor that he was — and lost their freedom to obtain his own. It was not his fault they had run their mouths and gotten caught. But, he owes them something…

He wriggles through the prison bars.

"Even a mangy cat wants nothing to do with us."

"Shut up, Conrade."

Don John pads along the corridor, hearing a loud rumbling. He turns a corner into the main room and sees a constable slumped in a chair, snoring. No one else is around. On the table is a plate of cooked vegetables and a half eaten chicken leg. On the constable's belt hangs a ring of keys.

Don John drops the keys at Borachio's feet.

With a grin, Borachio scoops them up, clapping Conrade's shoulder. "A cat-burglar. Did I not say they were good luck."

Don John wolfs down the chicken leg and follows the men out of the jail, the night concealing their escape.

"Come on, we best make haste if we want to be out of Messina by sunrise."

Borachio stops short. "I… I can't. I… I need to apologise to Margie."

"What!" Conrade rounds on him. "You fool. You will be caught for sure."

"That the lady lives does not absolve me of the wrong I did her. And Margaret… she did not deserve to be used like that. I shall never have true peace until I have made amends for the harm I did her. I do not expect you to understand."

"I understand you are a fool. I shall not be sticking around to be slapped in chains. Farewell, Borachio. Better we do not meet again."

With this said, Conrade dashes off into the night.

"Ass," Borachio mutters. He glances at Don John. "Thanks for your service, puss. Looks like this is where we part. Good luck with the rat-catching."

Don John watches as Borachio heads off towards the home of Leonato, reflecting on what he said about making amends. He looks in the direction Conrade disappeared. He had been unable to communicate his predicament to either of the men and it seems unlikely he will find anyone who can help him. He could try catching up to Conrade and forcing the saturnine fellow to help him. But maybe Borachio has a point. If this curse is punishment for his transgressions against Hero, then perhaps his absolution lies with her too.

He hesitates, then scampers after Borachio, back to the villa.

:-x-:

Don John is not far into the villa's grounds when a ferocious barking has him in flight, heart pounding as he sights the great hound chasing him. He races over earth and stone, shrieks sounding as servants lurch from his path, the big black dog and its gnashing jaws gaining on him, so close he can feel the hot spray of its spit.

The cat leaps up onto a window ledge. The dog jumps up on its hind legs, barking furiously as it tries to reach him. Even with its great size, Don John is too high up, huddled against the window shutters, searching for an escape.

His skeleton jolts from his fur as the shutter beside him is thrown open, almost sending him toppling from the ledge and into the slobbering mouth of death.

"BARKIMEDES? IT BETTER NOT BE ANOTHER CRO—OH!" Beatrice gawks at him as he shivers. "Hero! Your stray has returned! And he is exciting my dog!"

Don John's pulse stutters as a familiar voice sings from within and then Hero appears at the window, wedging into the space beside Beatrice.

"Oh, Beatrice, your dog is scaring the poor dear." Hero motions to Don John. "Come on, kitty, inside."

With the window open, Don John can smell the breakfast on the table. His stomach throbs and he hops down from the windowsill into the family dining room.

"Daughter, you are not letting that filthy animal into our home," comes the stern voice of Leonato from the head of the table.

"But father, he is hungry."

"That's what you said when you let that darn fox in."

Don John winds his way around the chair legs, settling in front of Antonio. The large man pauses, a sausage halfway to his mouth. "Ah…"

On the other side of the room, Hero and Leonato engage in heated debate.

"You are not feeding that stray. We shall never be rid of it if you do."

"Father, the poor creature is starving."

"And? It is no kin of mine that I must feed it."

The cat stares at Antonio.

Antonio stares at the cat.

"We must be kind to all God's creatures."

"Cats are the minions of the devil!"

"Oh, that is nonsense."

Antonio picks a slither of bacon from his plate. Don John perks, rising up and pressing his paws against the large man's leg.

"If not for it you would be married now."

"And the worse for it. Oh, do not be so heartless, father! We have plenty to spare now Don Pedro and his soldiers have departed."

Antonio drops the bacon into the cat's mouth and Don John gobbles it down quickly. Grinning, Antonio picks up another piece.

"I will not have a dirty stray wandering around my hom— brother, what are you doing?"

"Uh," Antonio freezes. Don John snatches the bacon from his fingers. "The poor creature is starving, Leo."

Leonato groans. "Mutiny from all sides. Fine, daughter, if you are bent on keeping the wretched creature you had better ensure it behaves."

"Thank you, father," Hero pecks him on the cheek.

"And make sure it has a bath. It is filthy."

Don John stiffens.

Hero smiles, "Of course, father."

:-x-:

Don John thrashes in the small laundry tub, begging Hero with his eyes as she scoops water over him, washing all the dirt and grime from his fur. He thought he could handle a bath, accustomed to them as a man, but as a cat he finds the water intolerable, certain he is going to die.

"Come on, it is not so bad," Hero soothes, scrubbing his back.

Don John releases a miserable whine, recoiling from her touch. It is enough that he must suffer this wet rinse — his fur matted to his body, paws slick, and whiskers dripping — he does not want her hands all over him too. In retaliation, he flicks his tail, sending a spray of soap in her direction. She shrieks.

By the time he is bathed and bundled into a towel, Hero's sleeves are soaked, and the floor around the tub is flooded with murky water, seeping into her skirt as she dries him.

"You are a rascal, a rogue, a rapscallion."

Don John bears his teeth and a yawn escapes him.

"Oh, looks like you have worn yourself out."

She lifts him into a wicker basket, folding him in with a blanket. Don John gives an indignant meow at being manhandled, but the blanket is soft and warm, he snuggles against them, the exhaustion of the past week heavy in his bones. His eyelids droop, Hero's image blurring above him.

As he drifts, he hears her voice, gentle as a lullaby, "Rest well, my little hellcat. I will look after you."

He closes his eyes. For some reason, he believes her.

:-x-:

"Have you a name for the terror yet?" Beatrice asks.

Hero is attempting to coax Don John with a flower, but he is disinterested, his attention fixed on the birds flitting about the bushes.

"Do not call him a terror, he is a sweetheart."

"He terrorised my poor Barkimedes."

"Barkimedes meant to eat him."

Beatrice flaps her hand, "Maim at the most."

Don John prowls towards the bush where the birds twitter, his paws soft and silent upon the grass.

"What does your dog make of Benedick?"

"Oh, the pandering rogue has been slipping him treats, so naturally Barkimedes adores him."

Hero's voice lilts with a smile, "Of course he does. He sees how happy he makes his mistress."

Beatrice snorts. "The man parades himself like a rooster, one cannot help laughing."

"Beatrice…" Hero's voice is as gentle as footsteps over a frozen pond. "I know you are in love with Benedick. Why do you not marry him?"

"I… it is not… I do not… you know my mind… I shall not repeat myself."

Don John glances from the birds, back to the cousins, as Beatrice trips over her silver-tongue and stands, stalking off.

Hero hurries after her. "Benedick is here every day and though he is a friend to everyone, he only has eyes for you. He has forsworn the company of the prince and lingers on in Messina though he has no purpose here. Beatrice, I know you are neither so cold nor as indifferent as you pretend to be. If it is for my sake that you refuse him, I beg you, do not. For if you break your heart, it will break mine."

Beatrice whirls, gold curls swishing. "If I marry Benedick, we shall depart for Padua. How can I leave you now? After the blow Claudio struck you? Don John still at large."

Don John retreats a step, his tail whipping back-and-forth. But Hero stands taller than before, something defiant in the set of her jaw. This is not the demure maiden who met them in the courtyard all those weeks ago. Her transformation has not been as feline as his own, but there is no doubt she is changed.

"Bea, I am no longer that little girl whose scrapes and grazes you used to nurse. You cannot shelter me from the world anymore, I am a grown woman, and I will not have you sacrifice your happiness for my sake. I would rather you a million miles from me and happy, than by my side and heartbroken."

Beatrice's expression crumples and she reaches for her cousin. "Hero… I…"

A voice calls out a greeting, interrupting them. Benedick approaches, a broad smile on his face, his gaze fixed on Beatrice.

Hero steps back from her cousin. "I shall leave you to talk."

"Hero—" Beatrice attempts, but Hero ignores her, collecting Don John from the ground.

He mews, watching her expression as she cradles him to her. "He is a good man, Beatrice. And he loves you, truly loves you. Do not squander a precious thing. It is rarer than you know."

:-x-:

Benedick joins them for supper, a noticeable charge between him and Beatrice. It is different to their usual tension, punctuated with an excitement that has the others at the table exchanging glances, the room crackling with anticipation. The tension lasts through to the second course, until Leonato, unable to contain himself asks if the pair has any news to share.

Benedick and Beatrice look at each other, then the former clears his throat, such a smile illuminating his face that the congratulations are formed before he has finished, "We are to be married."

Everyone stands, cheering and coming together to shake hands, pat backs, and embrace while Don John watches the merry scene from the windowsill, his tail swishing.

"Naturally, we require time to arrange the wedding," Benedick declares, "and my staff will need to prepare the estate for our homecoming and the new lady. Therefore, good sir, I must impose upon your hospitality a few weeks more."

"Of course, my lord, you are very welcome," Leonato grins, at risk of yanking Benedick's arm from its socket if he shakes it any harder.

Hero clasps her cousin's hands, sporting her brightest smile since her walk down the aisle. "I am so very happy for you both."

Beatrice smiles, eyes glittering, and hugs her tight. "Thank you, dearest."

:-x-:

That night, Hero twirls around her bedroom. Don John ducks his head, hiding his face in a cushion as she discards her day dress for a nightgown. She brushes her hair, thick sable curls cascading around her shoulders and smiles at him.

"I think I have decided what I am going to call you."

Don John meows, braced for the worst.

"I had considered Rascal or Mischief, for you are a troublemaker." She bops him on the nose, provoking a hiss as she giggles. "But you carry yourself with such an imperious air. I have been trying to place what you reminded me of — or rather, who. And it comes to me — you are like the tartly Don John."

At his name, Don John meows wondering for a second if Hero has recognised him and there is ill intent behind her smile, but no, she is all softness and sweetness, leaning on her arms to meet him at his level.

"Now, he was a real sourpuss."

He meows his disgruntlement, even knowing it to be true.

Hero combs back a lock of her hair. "He was a rogue too. I do not know what I did to earn his contempt…"

Now Don John mews, nudging her arm. His revenge had not been about Hero; she could have been anyone, any woman Claudio chose. At most, her and her father had been representations of all the genteel folk who ever treated Don John as other while pandering to his half-brother. He had done it for revenge on Claudio, to spite Don Pedro, and to show the well-borns for the hypocrites they were. But there is no way to explain that with a cat's tongue. Even if he could make her understand him, it would not undo the harm he has done her.

Her fingers glide through his fur. "I will call you Prince." He flinches. "Mm… my dark prince. Do you like it? The title should belong to one noble creature."

Don John darts from her touch. He is not noble. He leaps up onto her dresser, knocking over the various trinkets and ointments. He scrambles across, springing onto her windowsill and peering out the open shutters into the night. He can make the jump to the roof below… maybe.

"Are you leaving again?"

The splinter in Hero's voice causes Don John to glance behind. She hovers in the middle of the room, her smile stolen, sadness sallowing her features. Something stirs within him, a rope constricting his lungs. It is not his fault she has imprinted upon a random stray. If she knew who he really was she would be disgusted.

Coming back here was a mistake. And yet, leaving feels like a worse one.

He hops down from the windowsill, padding over to the basket Hero has fashioned into a bed for him. He stays facing away from her as he curls up on the pillow, but still hears the smile in her voice as she calls, "Goodnight, my sweet Prince."

Don John thinks he is going to be sick. Something rises in his throat, a knot of brambles scratching the inside of his windpipe, choking him—

He retches against the sensation, coughing as Hero's shadow falls over him, concern in her voice, "Prince?"

He heaves and a wad of hair splatters upon the pillow. Hero makes a sympathetic noise.

Don John stares. What. In. Hell—

Chapter Text

As a cat, Don John explores the villa grounds more than he had when he was a human (secluding himself from the others, knowing he was unwelcome). He passes his time traipsing through the garden, startling the wildlife, navigating each nook and corner of the estate, the various rooms and passages, getting underfoot. He likes to stretch out on the warm cobblestones, basking in the Mediterranean sunshine, no matter how much of a trip-hazard he proves. The staff tolerate him for the sake of their mistress, but those who attempt to pet him come away with bites and scratches.

He is striding down one hall, claws clicking against the wooden flooring when the ground trembles and he hears the pounding of footsteps. Dark curls bounce, white skirts swishing.

"Father!" Hero knocks on a door. "Father, may I speak with you?"

The door opens and Leonato appears, beckoning her inside. "What is it, daughter?"

Curious, Don John pushes through the gap of the closing door, just avoiding getting his tail clipped.

"Oh father, it is awful. Margaret has left us!"

"I know."

Hero stutters to a halt. "You know? Did she tell you?"

Leonato picks up a sheet from his desk. "She wrote me a letter. I found it here this morning."

"She left me one too…" Hero begins to pace, wringing her hands. "I noticed she had been withdrawn of late, quieter than usual… but I… I assumed… it seemed natural with… recent events. I thought… I thought… I never thought she would leave without saying goodbye."

"It appears these letters are her goodbye."

"But we were friends!" Hero whirls on him. "If she had just told me her intentions — I would have supported her."

"Dear," Leonato approaches his daughter, taking her hand in his and petting it. "She was a servant and you a lady. I know you were fond of her, I was fond of her too, but the differences in your stations cannot be ignored. Perhaps if I had been more prudent in that matter, all this unpleasantness could have been avoided."

"But…" Hero stares at him, "How can you say that? Margaret is gone… are you not upset?"

"I will miss her cheer, that is true enough. But it is better she has gone… that she made this choice for herself."

"What… What do you mean?"

"Hero… after what occurred… the role she played in your disgrace… I could not keep her on. It would look… suspicious. You need to be distanced from… those sort of rumours. I was waiting for the right time, when it was less… fresh in people's minds. It seems Margaret has made the decision for us and I respect her more for it. In this, at least, she chose right."

Don John bristles at his tone, speaking down to his daughter as if she were a child.

Hero recoils, looking at her father, aghast. "You would have dismissed Margaret?"

"How could I do anything else? There has been enough talk, enough disparagement thrown in your direction, I could not risk her shame rubbing off on you."

"But the Friar's plan… it worked. I am cleared of all wrong."

Leonato shakes his head and sighs. "It worked in part… it is known you are innocent and Don John the architect of your slander. But Don John is in the wind and you are here, unmarried. Wedding Claudio would have protected you from these aspersions, but… as you refused him… I am doing what I must to shield you from further damage."

Hero gapes at him, disbelieving. "But… I refused him. It was his character, not mine, that was shown the worst. How can anyone—"

"A lady does not refuse a gentleman without good reason. Defending himself against a feral cat is not good reason." He directs a blaming look at Don John, who returns a contemptuous stare, turning his rear on him and hopping up onto the chair.

"Of course it is good reason—"

"No. People will assume there is something more going on, unseen. They will whisper."

"But we know it is untrue." Her father is silent as he stares at her. She falters, a tremor running through her. "Father…?"

Leonato exhales, "It does not matter what we know but what others believe. Hero, can you not understand… I do not do this to hurt you, but to protect you. We have to be careful."

Hero's arms fold around her stomach. "But Margaret…"

"Has left of her own accord, which shows good judgement on her part, if too late. After all that has happened, leaving quietly is the best friendship she can show you." He rests his hand on her shoulder. "I know you shall miss her, but this is for the best."

"Excuse me," Hero pulls from him, sweeping out the room.

Leonato sighs.

Don John meows, strutting across Leonato's desk and the various papers, knocking the inkwell onto the floor.

"Ah! Bloody cat," Leonato swears, hastening to clear the mess.

Don John jumps to the ground, padding through the puddle of ink, exiting the room in a trail of black pawprints. He leaves Leonato cursing, scurrying down the corridor and up the stairs.

He finds Hero curled up on a window seat and paws at her skirt.

She smiles, crinkled and worn. "Hello, sweet Prince."

He hops up onto the seat, dropping his head onto her thigh with a soft mew.

"Do not fret for me. I am well. I—" her voice wobbles, "—I will miss… my friend. But—But she said — she wrote… she was in love. That she was leaving with him to build a life together."

She leans her head against the wall, staring out at the courtyard where it all began. He wonders if she is remembering Claudio and crushed hopes.

"I am glad she found happiness," Hero continues, unable to conceal the yearning in her face, "She deserves so much."

Don John clambers into her lap with a meow.

She looks at him, her smile curling towards her eyes. She strokes him, fingers caressing behind his ears. "Thank you."

He does not know why she is thanking him when he has done nothing — nothing but cause her sorrow. But he rests his hand against her stomach and purrs.

:-x-:

"Hero, your cat is a menace," Benedick curses, cradling his bleeding hand.

"He does not like to be touched," Hero replies, welcoming Don John as he slinks across the picnic rug to her side, snapping up the green olive she holds out to him. He purrs, flopping into her skirts, opening his jaw for her to feed him more.

"If he does not like to be touched, then explain what he is doing sprawled in your lap?"

"Do not take offence," Beatrice tells her husband-to-be, bandaging his puncture wound with a handkerchief. "Our fur-rious friend here despises all but our sweet Hero. She is the sole exception to his wrath."

Benedick sighs, "It is no wonder he adores Hero for she is the apotheosis of virtue and loveliness."

Hero shoots him a shy, familial smile. "You need not flatter me so much, Signior. You already have my full approval for the happiness you bring my cousin."

"Do not curb his flattering, dear coz," Beatrice chimes, leaning across her beloved, "It is far better than his grumbling and I am convinced that should he ever stop talking, he will die."

Benedick grins at her, pulling on one of her golden ringlets before looking back at Hero. "I shall sing your praises to the moon, if I could persuade you to call me Benedick instead of Signior."

Hero laughs. "You need not sing my praises so far, dear Benedick."

"I bid you, Signior, sing them as far and loud as you will," Leonato interjects. "The world needs to be reminded of my daughter's virtue."

His staid tone puts a pause to the good humour. Hero casts her gaze down at her hand, stroking the cat's flank. Don John watches her smile wilt and feels a growl rise in his throat.

Beatrice breaks the silence, speaking as if her uncle had not. "Hero has been taking in strays since we were children. Animals adore her and no wonder, she is kindness itself."

"I myself am content to have the favour of my own lioness, " Benedick declares, pecking Beatrice on the cheek.

"Ha," Beatrice makes a clawed motion, "You do not fear a predestinate scratched face?"

He gazes at her adoringly, draping himself across her lap. "Scratching could not make worse a face such as mine."

"Ooh," she cups his chin, "It is not so bad. The beard much improves it."

"I thought, niece, you could not endure a husband with a beard," Antonio teases.

Beatrice and Benedick consider each other. The latter remarks, "Appetites do alter."

"His does not," Beatrice retorts, throwing Antonio a look as she runs her fingers over Benedick's coarse jawline. "Did you see how he wolfed down that pistachio bun? His appetite is beastlier than Hero's stray."

"Ho, ho!" Antonio chuckles. "Take care, Signior, for she has a fierce bite."

"I know it well," Benedick gazes up at Beatrice like she is every wonder of the universe. She returns his stare with a soft smile.

Hero's arms shift around Don John, her fingers carding through his fur, and he meows, batting her with his paws.

The light has returned to her eyes as she smiles down at him. "Do you want more?"

He mews and she feeds him another olive. It tastes divine and he sinks into Hero's lap in blissful euphoria.

:-x-:

"Prince! Prince, come down! I only want to brush you!"

The black cat hisses at her from high atop her bedpost. Hero heaves a sigh and Don John watches as she goes to answer a knock at the door. The smell of cooked salmon steals his attention and he shifts, craning forwards.

"It is too bad you are determined to stay up there, Prince," Hero croons, as she carries the breakfast plate over to her table. "I shall have to eat this all by myself."

Don John meows. When he was a man, he liked seafood a normal amount; since he became a cat, he has developed an insatiable hunger for fish. It is well then that he finds himself so close to a seaport; less that Hero can now use his cravings against him, making loud, satisfied noises as she takes a bite of the salmon. He knows her game, but his stomach is not half as stubborn.

He slinks down from the bedpost, claws shredding her canopy in the process, and scampers over to Hero. He climbs up onto the table, knocking over various items with his tail — including a flower vase Hero darts to catch — as he bends to gobble up the fish.

Hero makes a sound of exasperated amusement. He can feel the comb raking through his fur as she takes advantage of his distraction. He sounds his displeasure through a low growl but does not flee, scarfing down the salmon.

Her hands flit around his vision, he glimpses a flicker of blue, then something wraps around his neck — not restrictive, but secure.

"There, don't you look handsome."

Don John stares into the mirror and sees around the black cat's throat a blue ribbon, tied in a bow. He snarls, straining to bite the ribbon.

"Oh, don't growl. You look very dashing." She picks him up, under his arms, his long body dangling in the air. "My dashing Prince."

Don John glares and wonders how much more of this humiliation he is to endure.

:-x-:

Cheers go up as the groom kisses the bride, Benedick lifting Beatrice into his arms. She tosses her bouquet over her shoulder, grabbing hold of her husband. It lands in Hero's arms, mid-applause; she is bouncing on her toes, beaming with all the joy the last wedding robbed of her.

The jubilation of the watching congregation is abundant and true, but threaded within it is an undercurrent of relief that this marriage was made without any unpleasant disruptions (and a twinge of disappointment). From his perch, Don John noticed the audience's attention shifting between the ceremony and Hero, heads turning to each other. Though he could not hear their whispers, he could guess.

He keeps to the sidelines as the dancing begins, not caring to be trampled. Leonato has thrown open the cellar doors in celebration of his niece's long-awaited marriage, the wine pouring, and already there are a few stumbling feet. Hero twirls at the heart of the throng, arms raised above her head crowned in flowers, her white dress flaring out around her. Don John is transfixed.

It is how the children sneak up on him.

They encircle him, grubby hands grabbing at his fur, pulling on his ears, his tail, his whiskers. They giggle, not intending to be cruel but not trying to be gentle either, making a game out of the hissing cat.

"Children!" Don John whines his relief as Hero appears, dark ringlets haloed by sun. "Please leave my cat alone."

"We are only playing with him," one of the brats retorts.

Hero reaches into the circle and scoops Don John up. He goes gratefully into her arms, clinging to her, realising he is trembling. "You have to be very gentle when playing with animals, you don't want to hurt them."

Their sport taken from them, the children skulk off, though a couple linger, staring up at Hero and the cat. One brazen child takes a step towards Hero and sniffs her.

He pulls a puzzled face. "You don't smell like oranges."

"Pardon?"

"That's why that man didn't want to marry you," the boy explains, "because you smelled like a rotten orange."

"I thought she looked like a rotten orange," a girl says.

Both children peer into Hero's ashen face.

"No, can't be, she's too white."

"Mama said the man got mad because she was wearing white when she shouldn't."

"She's wearing white now."

Don John snarls at the children, baring his fangs, and they scurry away, shrieking.

Hero is frozen, her eyes unfocused as she clutches the cat to her. He mews, calling her back to the present. She blinks, staring at him in a daze.

"Niece," Antonio bounds across to her, a huge grin on his face, "Will you dance with your old uncle?"

Don John spies the fractures in her face before she plasters over them with a smile. "Of course, uncle. I would be delighted."

She sets Don John on the ground, whispering, "Be safe. I will look out for you."

He gazes up at her, trying to convey the same thing but only succeeding in a meow. He watches as Antonio whirls her back into the crowd, nausea swirling in his stomach.

God, not another hairball.

No. Just his guilt.

:-x-:

Don John watches Hero as she pulls the pins from her hair, sable curls falling around her shoulders.

"You were so well-behaved today," she coos as she unties the blue ribbon from his throat.

For a moment she dangles the ribbon in front of him and Don John bats it with his paw.

She giggles, setting it aside and cupping the back of his neck, leaning in to nuzzle him. "Hmm, my good boy."

Don John jolts, skidding off the dresser.

"Oh!" Hero peers down at him, splayed on the floor. "Are you alright?"

Don John scrambles to his feet, crashing into the table leg and knocking over the stall.

"Prince?"

He charges over to the windowsill, leaping onto the ledge and diving out the open window.

"PRINCE!"

The night air is cool. His body is flame.

He lands on his feet. His senses let behind.

:-x-:

Benedick and Beatrice set off for Padua in the morning. There is much commotion as Beatrice clings to her cousin, bewailing their separation and demanding she come visit soon. Hero smiles, promising that she will.

"Well, my fiendish feline," Benedick approaches Don John, "I charge you with the care of our dear Hero. Keep her safe."

Don John growls, ill-tempered from passing the night under a bush in the garden. Benedick nods, satisfied they are leaving a dragon to guard the princess.

After a lot of hugging and farewells, Beatrice is bundled into the carriage with her husband, who struggles to control the excited Barkimedes. Don John is pleased to see the back of the cane corso (instead of its snarling jaws); the slobbering beast can terrorise the cats of Padua. Beatrice sticks her golden head out the window, shouting goodbyes, until the carriage disappears from sight.

"That is one charge settled," Leonato announces with satisfaction. "Now to find you a husband, daughter."

"She will not be as much trouble as the last," Antonio chuckles, squeezing his niece's shoulder.

Hero's returning smile strains at the corners.

"Hmm," is Leonato's response.

Hero's gaze drifts to the ground and she heads into the garden. Don John makes to follow her but the exchange between the brothers causes him to pause.

"The summer's shame still taints her. Having refused Count Claudio, she throws more aspersions upon herself, appearing ungrateful, dissatisfied, fickle."

"You are too harsh, brother. Only a month has passed since… the incident. It will fade from people's memories with time. Hero is young and a sweet girl. Worthier men than Claudio will see that and we will soon be overrun with suitors."

"Hmm."

Don John's ears twitch as he hears footsteps and further voices, one more prominent than the others. He does not recognise the men approaching but Leonato does, releasing a haggard exclamation, "Oh good Lord, grant me patience."

"Good day, sir," the loudest of them greets.

"Constable Dogberry. I hope you are not here to deliver me more trouble."

The constable laughs. Leonato does not.

"Trouble, sir? No, no, sir. No trouble, sir. No. But… ah… as it goes… there is a small matter we wish to devise you of."

Leonato releases a long-suffering sigh, "What is it?"

:-x-:

"Two weeks!" Leonato fumes. "How could they not inform us for two weeks! A whole moon has passed in that time!"

"Perhaps they were busy hunting for the fugitives," Antonio suggests, his voice placating.

"A lot of good that has done! They should not have lost the villains in the first place. Now they are in the wind, the same as their master."

Hero is quiet, sipping her tea.

"Brother, be calm, consider your heart."

"Calm? CALM! How can I be calm? I have a DAUGHTER—" Leonato thrusts his hand at Hero. Her teacup rattles. "—dishonoured by those scoundrels, her name dragged through the mud, her virtue sullied. An evil we may have prevented had those fools at the Watch told me plainly the threat when they visited that morning of the wedding. To think I welcomed that snake, Don John, the orchestrator of all our ruin, into our home. DAMN THE DEVIL."

Leonato thumps the table. Don John slithers under Hero's chair.

Her teacup clatters. "Father, please… we are hardly ruined."

"I am not such a dotard old man that I do not see the looks cast in our direction as we sit in church, hear their whispering as we pass through the streets. When was the last time we received an invitation to an event? Hmm? The summer is not yet at its end. We should be drowning in social invitations. We used to be one of the most respected families in Messina. Now we are shunned!"

Don John cannot see the others' faces, but their silence is thick with tension, his hairs prickling.

"It is not enough that those blundering oafs at the Watch were unable to arrest Don John before he slipped from Messina and off the map. They had to lose his fellow conspirators already in custody!" Once more the dinnerware trembles, the candles flickering. "I bet that loathsome Barrachio fellow is who Margaret ran off with. To think we nurtured that vixen under our own roof."

"FATHER," Hero exclaims, horrified. "How can you speak so of Margaret? She has been with us since I was a girl."

"And I dread to think what terrible influence she worked on you. If it were not for her and her loose ways, you would never have been shamed! If only you had married Claudio, we would not be in this mess."

Don John does not need to see Hero's reaction to know the blow hits. He curls around her leg, wrapping his tail around her calf.

Leonato heaves a weary sigh. "Excuse me. I have no appetite."

The chair screeches as he stands, floorboards shaking as he stomps from the room. Silence resounds in his wake.

"Niece…" the chairs creak and Don John sees Antonio lean across, he assumes to take Hero's hand. "Do not take his words to heart. The escape of those ne'er-do-wells has much distressed him. His temper is borne out of concern for you."

"I… I did not realise our st-standing had been so aff-affected."

There is the slightest tremor in her voice. Though he is unable to see Hero's face from where he is coiled at her feet, Don John can hear how much she is fighting to appear composed. He purrs against her leg, hoping to ease some of her tension.

"Our situation is not as bad as Leonato fears. I speak with the staff, the vintners, and the merchants; we are still loved and respected through Messina. There are a few spiteful tongues who will entertain the rumours for lack of anything better to discuss, but even they will soon grow bored when they see we have nothing to hide. This is a storm we will weather, as we have all others. Soon the downpour shall pass and we will have sunshine again."

"Sh-should I… have married Claudio?"

Antonio's answering scoff shares all of Don John's outrage at the notion. "That vain, fashionmonging boy? I would not have him for a nephew if he were a Prince of Italy. He showed his true measure when he abused you at the altar instead of privately bringing his grievances to us. Misled he might have been, but that does not excuse his violence. That he could credit that villain, Don John's lies proves how little he deserved you."

Hero sighs, slumping back in her chair. "I truly thought he loved me…"

"I am sorry he hurt you, little one."

Don John mews, jumping up into Hero's lap. She startles at the sudden weight, hands lifting to cradle him. "Oh, Prince."

He meows as if her sadness were a mouse he could chase off.

Amusement sounds in Antonio's voice, "If men be found wanting, here you have one valiant defender.

Hero smiles and strokes the cat. Don John's ears go flat, insides slithering in seaweed knots, his mouth flooding with brine. Antonio does not realise how mistaken he is.

:-x-:

Don John cannot sleep, his thoughts restless, grabbing at him like the hands of the children—

Evil

Villain

Bastard

Devil

He sees Hero's bright, tender smile as she is brought before Claudio, her soft "I do" as the Friar asks if she will be married to this man—

"…to think I welcomed that snake, Don John, into our home…"

—hears her shriek as Claudio wrenches her arm behind her back and shoves her forwards, knees cracking against the bench as she tumbles over it and to the ground—

"…the orchestrator of our ruin…"

—sees her tear-stained face, writhed in pain and terror as Claudio and Don Pedro denounce her—

"…that villain, Don John…"

—hears again that agonised wail, like a monster sinking its fangs into her chest, tearing out her throat, her flesh, her heart—

"DAMN THE DEVIL!"

—sees her go limp, pale as a corpse—

Hears. Sees. Hears. Sees. Hears. Sees.

He cannot escape the onslaught, memories like blisters across his vision.

Sniff.

His ears prick.

Another sniff, then a choked-off sob. This is more than his guilt dredging up echoes of the past. Lead courses through his veins as he rises from the basket and pads towards the bed. Through the darkness, he can see the jerk of Hero's shoulders as she weeps into her pillow.

The floor tilts under him, his claws digging into the wood. He hesitates a moment then jumps up on the bed beside her. She does not raise her head, her sniffs and sobs flowing louder now. He crouches at her head, scenting the salt of her tears, feeling the damp on her cheek as his whiskers brush her skin. He leans in, nudging her temple with his head. She whimpers.

He repeats the motion, rubbing his cheek against hers. Her breath stutters but her sobbing continues. He curls into a ball beside her, some of her tears soaking into his fur, and purrs. The low rumble builds in his chest, reverberating through to her — letting her know she is not alone.

Chapter Text

Don John stands in a field, the long grass swaying in the breeze. He looks down at his hands and sees pink palms, eight fingers and two thumbs. He is a man again.

He looks ahead and Hero is there. Disdain warps her features and she spears him with an ice stare.

"You."

Her voice drips with venom. His heart twists on a knife.

"Hero—"

"You did this to me."

Her tattered wedding dress billows in the breeze, mud stains the white lace. In her hand she clutches the limp remains of a bouquet, stems broken, petals torn. Scarlet oozes across her bodice as storm clouds gather, blotting out the sky.

The world tilts and Don John falls back into the wild grass. Is it grass? Shadows devour the green fields, turning them black. The ground swells around him, swallowing him up. He plunges through darkness, hitting hard earth.

Something moves above him, two glowing orbs appear from the void, then sharp white teeth. Don John scrambles backwards from the giant black cat but it picks him up in its claws, tossing him between its paws, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, his head spinning, brain battering his skull.

"What have you there, sweet?" Hero's voice comes and he weeps, turning towards the lovely sound.

She is a giant now too, staring down at him between the cat's claws with a look of frost.

"Oh," her voice comes, cruel and contemptuous, and he squirms, "A rat."

Then, just as he stood aside watching as Claudio raged at her, so does she watch as the cat pinches his flailing form between its claws and drops him into its gaping jaws. Her hateful gaze burns as he plummets down the cat's gullet into blackness—

With a desperate MEOOWWW, Don John springs upright.

"Prince…?" Something shifts beside him, a soft moan, he looks and sees Hero gazing at him through bleary eyes, "What's wrong, sweet…?

He realises he is still a cat, in Hero's bedchamber, the first light of dawn spilling in through the shutters. He has passed the night curled in her bed. Her dark curls splay across the pillow, the rumpled sheets slipping to reveal her bare shoulders.

His panting slows, his throat clogged with sand.

"Come here, kitty," She scoops him against her, stroking his flank, soothing his tremors. "It is alright. You are safe."

He stares up into her sleep-glazed face, rose lips tugged in a smile. There are flecks at the corner of her eyes, wrinkled from slumber, strands of hair spool across her brow at odd-angles. She looks like a dream and he wonders if he is still sleeping, if all of this is a dream concocted by his own guilty conscience.

Hero drags her fingers through his fur and he hears himself purr. "I have bad dreams too…"

His stomach leaves him, a clenching in his kidneys. A whine escapes him and he hunches in on himself, burrowing into Hero.

She hums, lowering her head beside his own, curling in around him, holding him close. "I am here, sweet. I am here."

Though he knows he should not — after all the harm he has done her — Don John takes comfort in her embrace. He is a creature used to the cold and she is so warm, he curls into her.

:-x-:

"HERO! YOUR CAT LEFT A DEAD MOUSE ON MY PILLOW!"

"That is a sign of affection," Hero is quick to assure her seething father. "Prince must hold you in high esteem."

Don John licks his paw and waits for the old man to discover the dead frog he left in his boot.

:-x-:

Hero walks down through the town, to the seaport. She is accompanied by her uncle and Ursula but they keep enough distance so as not to crowd her. She moves from stall to stall, favouring each of the vendors with a smile, talking to them like old friends. Several times, Don John slinks from her side, bored of hearing about so-and-so's third or fourth son and returns from his venture to discover she is still in conversation with the same person, looking as invested as when he left.

Don John observes Hero as she makes a point of greeting everyone they pass. Her kindness is genuine and she seems to take a sincere interest in each person. But he also sees the heads turn to watch Hero, to mutter to their neighbour; sees those who shift to put distance between them and her, as if scandal could catch. He knows Hero sees them too. There is a deliberateness in her actions. She is making a point to be seen, to show she is not cowed by rumours, to remind people of her true nature, of the friendship between them. She is killing them with kindness.

Before the wedding and his transformation, Don John had spared Hero little regard. She was a person of privilege, who had grown-up sheltered, living a blithe existence, ignorant of the hardships of others. She was delicate and docile in a world where one needed teeth and claws to survive. In some ways he felt justified in giving her a taste of real life; she would learn the real world was not all sunshine and butterflies, that she could not wear her heart on her sleeve. She would be stronger for it. Or not. He had not cared.

Now, he watches how Hero carries herself, shoulders back, head high with a warm smile and an open hand. She laughs with old men, occupies excited children while their tired mothers pay for groceries, she calms wailing babies, and converses with beggars, buying them food. Don John thought this world rotten and cruel, everyone out for themselves, but she is not. Her generosity, her compassion, it is true. Yes, she is still delicate and docile, but she has made it through her ordeal with a heart still full of love and kindness. There is strength in her softness.

He thinks how quick he was to resort to petty revenge, to believe the worst of Hero and her kin. How none of the indignities she suffered could rob her of her gentleness, how she walks up to those who would shun her and offers them friendship, compassion. He marvels at the courage this must take and knows, of the two of them, she is stronger.

:-x-:

He puffs his chest with pride as he presents the bird to Hero, forgetting for a moment who she is and losing himself to the cat.

"Oh, Prince," she gasps, her voice chastising, not the praise he had been hoping for.

The bird is not dead, just in shock. It lies motionless, its feathers askew, speckled with blood. Hero picks it up with care, cradling it in her palms. Don John watches as Hero tends to the bird, nursing it back to health, until it is twittering in her hands.

She spends the rest of the afternoon caring for it, until Don John is sure it is faking its condition for attention (he didn't rough it up that bad). At last, she appears confident of its recovery and carries it outside.

"Safe flights, little bird," she calls as the bird flies from her hands back towards the trees and its flock.

Don John wonders how it can leave.

"Now," Hero turns on him, her attempts at a stern expression spoiled by her smile. She wags a finger at him, "No more hunting the wildlife. I feed you well enough."

Don John scoffs, flicking his tail and prowls off.

The next time he brings Hero a gift there is no blood. Leonato bemoans the destruction of his flowerbeds but Hero smiles and accepts the bouquet, petting Don John. "Thank you, dear."

He purrs into her palm.

:-x-:

"Oh, you silly kitty," Hero giggles.

Don John stares into her green-brown eyes as she sets about untangling him from the roll of wool he has gotten himself ensnared in.

He hears Leonato's footsteps enter the room, "I have received a letter from Don Pedro."

Don John freezes at the mention of his half-brother's name. Hero glances up from her task. "What does he write?"

"I informed him of Conrade and Borachio's escape. He writes that he will alert the authorities to be on the watch for them and that there is still no report of his bastard brother."

Hero pauses, an odd expression on her face. "He calls him bastard?"

"I call him bastard. For he is one, in all senses of the word."

Don John is still. He does not disagree.

"How a man can just disappear. Perhaps he is dead and good riddance if so."

"Father," Hero admonishes. "He too is one of God's children."

"Bastards are no children of God."

Leonato stomps from the room. Hero is quiet, her expression pensive as she helps unravel Don John from the trap he has made for himself.

:-x-:

Hero sings to herself as she brushes out her curls. Don John watches from his perch, his insides in twists and coils. She floats to the bed in her nightgown, calling for him to join her.

Each night, since that first night, when Hero climbs into bed, drawing the sheets around her, she will pat the space beside her, inviting him to join her. Don John will waver a moment, the man warring with the cat, before hopping up beside her. He has lost count of the lines he has crossed, the liberties he has taken. He is a true knave for using this form to get close to her when he knows she would be horrified to find out who she is cuddling. The thought of another trespass against her makes him sick and yet when she calls to him, he cannot resist. All he wants is to be next to her. To rest his head on her chest and listen to her heartbeat.

Her arms fold around him, bundling him to her. "My sweet Prince, my darling."

Her words are tender thorns, he is tangled in them, carving him from the inside-out. How long has it been? How long? Since anyone held him like this? Was it his mother? His heart throbs. His eyes sting and he squeezes them shut, still he feels the warmth of her breath tickling his fur.

He thought his transformation into a cat was punishment, but he understands now, it is far more than that. What better torment than to be this close to the woman he wronged… a woman he has come to… care for… to get accustomed to her affection, knowing she will despise him if she ever learns who he is.

It is the perfect destruction. He is a wreck in the process of being ripped apart and he does not have the will to spare himself from her sweet ruin. He submits himself to her devastation.

:-x-:

"My old friend, the Duke, has invited me to visit him in Naples," Leonato announces over supper. "I have sent my acceptance and I shall be leaving the day after tomorrow."

Stunned silence follows as Hero and Antonio both look at each other and then Leonato.

"Naples?"

"So soon?"

"I shall leave instructions for the care of the estate in my absence," Leonato replies, carving into his steak. "I shall be gone but a month."

"A month," Hero says, a quiver in her voice. Don John butts his head against her leg.

"It has been so long since I was last in Naples, I intend to make the most of this visit."

"Of course. You must."

If Leonato sees through his daughter's false cheer, he does not comment on it. "It is important to treasure those friendships that prevail even in strife. This is a sign our fortunes are improving."

Hero is quiet. Antonio carries the conversation, his booming voice compensating for the lack of the others, but a tension that was not there before now permeates the air. Don John crouches at Hero's feet and finds his own meal tastes of ash.

:-x-:

"Have a safe journey, papà," Hero hugs her father, "Please write."

"I shall send you a letter as soon as I am able," Leonato assures, kissing her on the cheek. "Our separation shall feel like a hole in my heart. Perhaps next time the Duke will extend his invitation and I can bring you with me."

Despite these words, his relief to be leaving is not well-hidden. Don John has no doubt Leonato engineered this trip in order to get a reprieve from his suitorless daughter. If Hero's pinched smile is any indication, she recognises this too. But she does not reproach her father, instead wishing him a pleasant trip.

Leonato squeezes her arm. "Look after your uncle for me. Keep him from running the place into ruin."

"Ha! Look after yourself, old man," Antonio chortles back. "Hero and I shall manage just as well without you. We might even make a few improvements."

Leonato makes an amused tsk as if he cannot imagine such a thing and climbs into the carriage, his luggage already loaded. "Goodbye. I shall see you in a month."

Hero, Antonio, and the gathered staff wave their goodbyes until once more the carriage disappears down the road.

Antonio moves to his niece's side and puts his arm around her. Hero turns her head into his shoulder. Neither say a word.

Feeling like an intruder on their private moment, Don John disperses with the staff. He wanders into the courtyard where he first saw Hero, glimpsed the spark between her and Claudio. He sits in the spot where he stood and wonders how different things could have been if he had not viewed her as a weapon to be used, but seen her true worth, her innocence, her loveliness. If he had approached her, spoken with her… would she have recoiled from the bastard traitor like everyone else? Or would she have beguiled him with her kindness as she does now?

As if in answer, Hero steps into the courtyard, the sunlight streaming around her. His throat constricts.

If only he had not been so blinded by hate…

She smiles at him.

If only he were not such a fool…

She crouches down to stroke him. "What mischief does my darling Prince have planned today?"

He leans into her touch and purrs, jumping up her arm onto her shoulder and draping himself around her neck.

Hero giggles, cupping his chin. "Keeping close, I see. Never fear," she bops him on the nose, "I am not going anywhere."

:-x-:

Don John gives a low growl as Antonio pets him, but does not maul the man as he would have a few weeks ago. He would not say he has grown fond of Antonio, but he finds him tolerable. He is devoted to his niece and slips Don John scraps when Hero is not looking so he can endure having his fur ruffled by the man's meaty paws. (If he tries to touch his stomach, however, the cat will claw off his hand).

"Uncle…?" Hero appears and Don John shoots up, jumping from the garden bench and scurrying to her side, meowing.

Antonio chuckles, "That is me concluded. He will not entertain another when you are present."

"He is very loyal," Hero agrees as she takes the place on the bench Don John vacated. The cat hops into her lap, making himself comfortable. "Uncle… Iacopo told me you received a letter from father. Is it so?"

"It is, my dear." Antonio reaches inside his coat pocket and draws out the letter. "He writes that he arrived safely in Naples and the Duke welcomed him with open arms and a grand feast."

He hands the letter to Hero who looks it over. She is not reading long. "Oh, so he does." She inspects the back of the parchment and, upon finding no further text there, returns to the front. "He says the Duke means to take him on a tour of Naples."

"It will be an exciting adventure for him. I do not believe he has left Sicilia since before he went grey." Antonio winks at her. "A very long time ago."

Hero smiles but her focus is still on the letter. Don John lolls in her lap, gazing up at her, the faintest puckering about her mouth. "Naples is such a large place… it shall be a long tour…"

"At their age, with their pace and stamina. There is no doubt." Antonio grins and knocks his shoulder against hers. "But we shall keep ourselves well-entertained without him here. Perhaps we shall throw a party!"

Now Hero returns his grin. "I have been given explicit instructions to keep you from trouble."

"Curious. I was given the same instruction about you."

Hero laughs at his teasing, but something flickers in her eyes as if remembering…

Don John pushes up on his legs, grabbing her shoulder for balance.

She smiles at him, her eyes clearing as she strokes his cheek. "You are the true troublemaker around here."

Her tone is playful, but the words cause a pang under his ribs. She does not know how right she is.

:-x-:

Don John prowls the estate, tromping over flowerbeds and weaving through the crop rows. Hero left a couple of hours ago for a garden party and he is bored. He has been around the estate twice and now his wanderings lead him towards the mausoleum. He pauses, seeing a figure already there, hunched upon the steps. He recognises Hero and dashes to meet her.

She smiles as he rubs himself along her thigh, stroking his neck. "Hello, darling."

He mews, tilting his head to the side as he gazes up at her. She is smiling but it is worn, her eyes dulled. He knows something is wrong, but can only let out an inquiring meow.

"Oh Prince…" She bundles him into her lap, leaning her head upon his. "I never realised how fragile a reputation was. Even mended, there are cracks. Most people are well-intentioned, but there is a hesitance now that was never there before. I feel them watching, whispering, but so few approach. I am the black sheep amongst the herd, one of them and not."

Don John curls into her, wishing he could offer her comfort. She cuddles him close.

They sit on the steps of the mausoleum, the sun warm upon them, as the birds call out to each other in the trees, a chorus of chirps letting one another know they are not alone. Don John does not know what time passes, if it is minutes or hours. His mind is full with the sweet scent of lavender and orange blossoms, the rise and fall of Hero's breaths.

"Is this how he felt?"

Her voice comes as if from faraway. Don John lifts his head to look at her, puzzled by her words. Her gaze is fixed in the distance where the seed pods float in the sunlight.

She blinks and her expression clears. She looks down at him with a smile. "Let us return to the house."

Don John is not sure how to interpret this, but he follows her back to the house. He would follow her anywhere.

:-x-:

"Uncle, do you remember Don John?"

At the question, Don John's paw slips and he topples from the balustrade he had been strutting along, landing on his feet.

"I am not likely to forget the villain," Antonio replies. He does not say it with the same vehemence as his brother, but there is clear anger on behalf of his niece.

Hero fiddles with her teacup. "I mean… do you remember if… you spoke to him?"

"Hm… perhaps once or twice… brief words. He was very reserved, kept to himself."

Recovered from his fall, Don John hunches in the shade of the terrace. Hearing himself talked of stirs the sensation of ants under his skin. He does not want to hear Hero's opinion of him, his name in her mouth spoken with loathing.

But her voice is thoughtful, "We never spoke. There was barely any acknowledgement between us, except…" She turns over her hand, smoothing her thumb across her knuckles. "I do not understand what I did to earn his scorn."

Don John releases a desperate meow, because — how can she believe she holds any blame for his actions?

Hero looks at him, making to rise from her chair, but Antonio's hand on her arm stills her. "You did nothing, Hero. It is clear the man was a malcontent. He wanted to inflict pain, he saw a path through you."

"But I do not understand…" Hero murmurs as she walks across to Don John. "Why would he want that?"

She crouches before Don John, reaching for him with a smile. The cat trembles, taking a step back into shadow. She looks so sweet, so perfect, the sunlight catching in her curls, and he is rotten. He is rotten.

"I cannot say for certain… but it speaks of a deep unhappiness within him."

Don John whines and flinches back from Hero's fingers. She looks at him with concern, "What's the matter, sweetie?"

But Don John turns from her, bowing his head. He hears again her wrenched out scream, sees the tears scar her face. He shudders with the force of the pain he caused her and his heart aches.

He is rotten. He is rotten.

:-x-:

He knows he should leave her alone. It was wrong of him to come back, to worm himself into her heart when he is naught but a parasite. But having entwined himself so closely with her, he now finds it difficult to untangle himself, pulling at stitches and sinew.

He finds her reading in the garden, under the honeysuckle bower. She looks so serene, sitting amongst nature, he understands how moths can be so dazzled they fly into flame.

He hops up onto the bench, wiggling under her arm. She smiles, turning the page of her book, "Hello, rascal."

He makes himself comfortable in the folds of her skirt, his head nuzzled against her stomach. She carries on reading but one hand moves to him, fingers threading through his fur. He gazes up at her, mapping her face, those flawless features.

If he could, he would tell her that none of this is her fault. It is him. It is him that is wrong. And wretched. And cruel. He would tell her that she is the loveliest person he knows, that he did not believe in true goodness until her. That she is kind, for all that he is wicked, she is kind. And innocent, of all wrong… despite him, despite the world. She is strong, and brave, and beautiful…

He would tell her…

He would tell her everything if he could. He would live in her heart and die in her lap if she would allow him.

But these are impossible things.

It does not stop him wanting.

:-x-:

The sun blazes overhead, the last of the summer heat before they move into autumn. Hero greets the workers with a smile as she walks through the rows, stopping to talk. Don John slinks behind, watching from her shadow. She waits until her uncle has finished giving his own instructions before approaching.

"Is there still no news from father?"

Antonio gestures for her to come sit with him in the shade and she does so, Don John seizing the opportunity to flop into her lap on his back. He lifts his paws to Hero and she takes them in her hands, beaming down at him.

"None since his last letter," Antonio answers. "No doubt he is too busy enjoying himself to write."

Hero's smile dims. "He must be having a grand time."

Antonio gives her a gentle look, "I am sure he will write soon." He reaches over to pet Don John, who gives a half-hearted growl and rolls onto his front. "Perhaps I should write that you mean to turn the house into a menagerie, that is sure to spur a response."

The twinkle returns to Hero's eyes, "Perhaps I shall adopt another cat. Prince deserves a companion."

At this, Don John jolts, hissing. The thought of sharing Hero with anyone—

The force of his jealousy startles him and he stiffens.

"Ah, Prince," Hero winces and Don John sees his claws have pierced her arm, crimson pinpricks forming.

He retracts his claws, recoiling. He hurt her. He hurt her. Again.

He jumps from her lap, sprinting away.

He hurt her. He hurt her. All he does is hurt her. Bad. Bad. Bad.

He runs blindly, dodging obstacles and people. Through the rows of grapevines, into the garden, around the hedges. He sees the lawn before the chapel. He sees Hero gliding down the aisle, happiness pouring from her smile. He sees Claudio hurl her to the ground, scream and rage, sees her tear-streaked face wrenched in pain. He sees himself stand and watch. Stand and watch.

He is a villain. A devil.

He sees Hero, all his memories colliding — he sees her smiling, crying, fierce, beautiful Hero. Hero. Hero.

He crashes into brick. Dazed, he sees he has struck a wall, at the mouth of a passage. He limps inside, passing from sun to shade. He pads along the stone pavings, taking in the crates and the barrels, the arc of the tunnel. It is the same dank passage he had raced through when he was last a man.

Then, he cheered the success of his scheme, now he huddles inside a fallen crate, shame scrapes out his intestines, leaving him hollow. He wishes the earth would swallow him whole. That Claudio's aim had been true. That he had died in the gutter long ago as everyone said he should have, instead of growing into this malformed creature of spite.

"Prince…?" Hero's voice sounds.

How has she found him? He presses himself into the crate's corner.

He hears the shuffle of footsteps as her ankles step into view, skirt fluttering. "Prince? Where are you?"

At her voice calling for him, something shatters within him, stone shards tear through muscle and flesh. He cannot restrain a whimper.

Her attention snaps to him and then she is kneeling before the crate. "Oh, Prince…"

He flattens himself against the box, willing himself to disappear. He cannot bear the sweet abrasion of her affection. Not when he has done her so much harm.

"Prince… I am sorry if I upset you with talk of another cat. I promise you are the only one for me."

Don John meows a protest. He has no right to this jealousy, to hoard any part of her, after the suffering he has caused her. She owes him no apologies.

"I did not want you to be lonely. But no one could oust you from my heart." She is sitting now, knees drawn to her chest. "I have been so glad to have you this past month." She reaches out as if to touch him but stills her hand before him, letting it be his decision. "You have been a friend and a comfort when I felt most alone. I do not know what I would have done if you had not shown up."

Don John inches forwards, nudging her hand. He wants to tell her she is stronger than she believes, that she would have managed had he not been here. That her life would have been better if they had never met.

Hero strokes him. "Do you forgive me, Prince?"

Don John whines. It is not her that needs forgiveness. He scuttles forward, butting his head against her thigh as he tries to convey — I am sorry, I am sorry, so sorry, for all of it, I was wrong, I never should have done it, I wish I could take it back, I hate that I hurt you, Hero, I am sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—

"Hey now," Hero hushes his agitated meows lifting him into her arms. "Everything is alright, I promise. I am not replacing you. I love you."

With these words she presses her lips to his brow. Don John releases a wretched howl.

She does not mean it. She would never say those words if she knew who he was. He has tricked her, deceived her. A liar and a traitor to the last.

But—

He feels as if his heart is being gouged from his chest, a mess of blood and gore. He tears himself from her embrace, throwing himself upon the stone floor as each of his bones crack.

"Prince?"

But—

He gazes up into her panicked expression as the floor tremors beneath him. She is beautiful — how could he have overlooked her loveliness when it blinds him now?

His legs crumble beneath him and he hits the hard ground, his body trembles.

"Prince!" Hero cries, scooping him up and cradling him in her arms. "Prince? What is it? What's wrong?" The tunnel shakes, though Hero does not appear to notice her terrified gaze fixed on him. "Please. Please. I will get help. You will be alright, I promise. You will be alright."

He stares up at her, wanting to assure her that yes, everything is alright, because — he is in her arms. But all he manages is a soft purr. He keeps his eyes on her even as the shadows collapse in.

But—

I love you

He loves her too.

.

.

.

The tide goes out, rock and shingle grating over him as the dark waves recede. He is first aware of the ache, pulsing through him. He feels scorched to his marrow, as if he has been broken apart and nailed back together. His head throbs.

As he tracks the pain down his frame, he is struck with the notion that his body is changed, broader, longer. His senses protest the sudden opening of his eyes but through blurred vision he sees the stretch of long trouser-clad legs, sees the sprawl of arms in jacket sleeves. He raises his hand, staring at eight fingers, two thumbs. He pats his face, feeling his mouth, his beard, his nose, his ears.

He is a man again.

Gazing down the dank passage he wonders if his time as a cat has been a dream, the result of a concussion. A sound has his head turning and he locks eyes with Hero, pressed against the wall.

She stares at him, her mouth parting around a single word, "You."

Chapter Text

Even as Hero replays it in her mind she cannot process what she has witnessed. One moment she is cradling her howling cat, terrified he is ill or injured, the next there is a man slumped across her lap. It takes a full minute to overcome her shock and several seconds more to place his face. As soon as she does, she lurches from him, scrambling against the wall. Then, she stares until he starts to stir.

She watches, breath caught in her throat, as he catalogues his limbs, his features — as you would if you woke and found yourself transformed. A sharp inhale has his focus swivelling to her. Their gazes lock.

"You," the word rips from her like an arrow and he flinches.

He stares at her — emotions dart across his face, like fishes in a pond, too many to discern and yet such a difference from his former stone countenance.

"Hero…"

His voice is rough and rasping, as if adjusting to itself, but she is less concerned with what he sounds like than how he says her name. A mix of awe and desperation, and she realises she has never heard him use her name before. If she had, she is sure it would not be so familiar…

"Hero."

She represses a shiver. Conscious of a faint trembling in her hands, she hears the stumble in her voice as she replies, "Don John."

Uttering his name breaks his spell and he jerks into action, pushing himself onto his knees in what appears to be — and cannot be — penitence. He speaks in a rush, "Hero, I am sorry. For the harm I did you, for the hurt I caused you — I am sorry for it all. I know it is too weak a word to mend the wrong I did and I do not plead your forgiveness when I know I can never deserve it, but I need you to know — I am sorry, Hero. Truly sorry."

Hero gapes.

Once or twice she imagined what it would be like to meet Don John again, to demand from him an explanation, to glean some modicum of regret out of his stone-heart. Never had she expected such an honest apology. The man on his knees before her is so different from the cold, disdainful figure she has been envisioning these last months. She has no idea how to respond.

"You… You…" She grasps for some sense of the situation but it slips through her fingers. "What…? Where is my cat? What have you — what have you done to him?"

Don John stares at her, then looks down at himself. "Hero…"

She recoils, suddenly not wanting to hear his answer. "No."

"You saw. You know."

"No."

"You wove me a crown of daisies. I put a frog in your father's boot."

"No. No. NO."

"Hero, I am — I was your cat. I am Prince."

"NO." She staggers back against the wall, pain flaring as her head knocks against brick and she crosses her arms to ward him off. "No. NO. HOW?"

"I… uh…" He pulls a face, self-conscious and maddeningly human, "I am… not clear on that myself. I um… fell unconscious as I was fleeing the… uh… the… the… wedding… and I … um… woke a cat."

"This is a dream. I am dreaming."

Don John pauses a moment, then inclines his head. "You dream about me?"

"NO!" Her palms ache where her nails pinch them. There is a pulsing through her skull. Her skin prickles, as if growing spines. "You were Prince — I mean my cat this whole time?"

"I was."

Her heart breaks. Her sweet friend, her dear Prince, had never existed. He had always been this loathsome, slandering rogue. Her face flames, a searing heat behind her eyes. She moves in agitation, clawing at her sleeves, her hair. "You— You— I allowed you close to me! Oh God! You slept in my bed!"

Don John holds up his hands. "I never meant to take advantage! I will not tell anyone."

She barely hears him as panic grips her by the throat. "Oh God. Oh God. You watched me undress!"

"I never watched! I swear, I never looked!"

She pulls at her hair, blood leaching from her face. "If anyone found out—!"

"They won't! I will not tell a soul! I promise you, Hero—"

"STOP USING MY NAME!"

He baulks and even Hero is shaken by her shout.

Her voice falls to a hiss. "You have no right."

"No," He murmurs, eyes cast to the ground. "I have no right. I have wronged you." He bows his head until it touches the stone floor. "He—my lady, I will accept whatever punishment you decide. Whatever satisfaction you demand. I want to make amends however I can."

Hero stares at the man prostrate on the floor and tries to reconcile him with the cool, aloof figure she remembers (always at a distance, never a part of the cheer). Her head is pounding, still reeling from the revelation that the cat she has been cuddling up to this last month was a man the entire time. And not just that, but the architect of her ruin, who they all thought fled. At least now she knows why he could not be found. It is too much to process and she needs to sit down.

She slumps against the wall, vision blurring at the corners. "Why should I believe you? Your word is false."

He winces and shifts, lifting his head just enough to meet her gaze. "I understand, my word cannot be trusted. So judge me by my actions. I will do whatever you command."

"And… if I command you to walk off the roof?"

Now Don John pushes himself back onto his knees, his face turned up to hers. "You would not."

She chafes at his gentle knowing, hot with indignation. "You ruined my marriage! Convinced everyone I was a stale!"

"It was a twisted thing to do! If I could take it back, I would. I wish I had found some other way — any other way — to spite Claudio without harming you."

Hero laughs, hollow and disbelieving. "You would still bend to wickedness?"

Something crosses his face then, a wild and dangerous glint in his dark eyes. Her breath hitches. This is the man she remembers. She should have seen the wolf in their midst, but like everyone else mistook him for collared. What a fool she had been to believe his bark could be no worse than his bite.

"After his assault on you, I wish I could injure him worse. I do not flatter myself in claiming mine was a convincing ruse and yet both Don Pedro and Claudio fell for it. I advised Claudio not to marry you, I admit, but he chose a public censure. I should have anticipated his violence. I had seen him on the battlefield, more beast than man. But I thought he cherished his image as a respectable gentleman too great to abuse a lady, especially one he professed to love. I underestimated him. You bore the brunt of his wrath, and I am sorry I caused it. I am sorry I did not stop him."

He looks up at her as he speaks; his eyes and tone both tell her he is sincere. She hugs her chest, tastes the blood of her tongue. She wants so much to hate him…

And yet… she couldn't hate him when she pictured him a cackling villain running free. Now he is on his knees, looking tortured by his guilt — it is impossible.

"I thought you were not of many words," she mutters, looking past him.

"Being without speech for so long… loosens the tongue."

Hero does not want to acknowledge the meaning behind his words, that this man was her cat, that her darling Prince is gone. Never even existed. But however he came to be here, Don John is here and he needs to be dealt with.

Oh what she could do to him…

Thoughts of violence sour her stomach… she cannot do this… she cannot… she cannot look at him.

"Go to my uncle. He is out in the rows. Go to him and do as he bids."

There is a pause, then, "If that is your will."

She hears him rise but does not look in his direction, her gaze fixed down the passage.

She senses him linger, watching her, though he comes no closer. "Will you follow behind?"

"No."

Either he honours his word and goes to her uncle, unescorted, or he seizes the chance to escape. She is not sure which she would prefer.

"Very well. I will do what you ask. Whatever it takes, whatever you want, I will do it."

"I want nothing of you."

She sees the tensing of his shoulders, the bob of his throat. He nods once then marches past her to the exit (it is the most like a soldier she has seen him). As soon as he is gone, Hero exhales, a sob slipping free. She sinks to the ground and hugs her knees, tears welling in her eyes.

Oh cruel fate. What game are you playing with her now?

:-x-:

To say Antonio is surprised when Don John the Bastard strides up to him is an understatement. To be honest, Don John is a little worried the large man will suffer a heart attack but he rallies well. He appears at a loss when Don John explains he is here to make amends but calls a few of the labourers over to escort the villain into the house.

Don John does not resist, though his handlers are rougher than they need be. He has seen these men chatting with Hero, smiling as she brings them refreshments and asks after their families. He understands their scorn arises from defence of their mistress and is glad for it.

The villa is not a fortress, it has no prison cells. Instead, they put him in one of the spare bedrooms with two windows too thin to climb through. Antonio goes to find his niece. The door is locked from the outside. It is decent, for a prison. Don John tosses off his jacket and sags against the bed, his head hitting the wooden frame. He drags his fur-less fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends.

Again he hears Hero's parting words, like the press of a bruise, "I want nothing of you."

He falls on his side, drawing his knees to his chest. Though his bones throb from his recent metamorphosis, it is with a different ache that his chest caves in. He groans, curling into a ball. He should have stayed a cat.

:-x-:

Hero lies in her bed, fingers tracing the edge of her mattress. She cannot shake the feeling that something — someone — is missing. A certain bundle of fur. She had gotten used to sharing her bed these past weeks. She had not known it was a snake she was letting in under the covers.

She still cannot believe it… all this time she was snuggling up to Don John. She burns with indignation and mortification at the liberties he had taken. All it would require is a word from him and her tarnished reputation would be ruined beyond repair. He had been a cat, but that was no defence; they would either laugh in her face or call her mad.

She still cannot recoil the idea of Prince and Don John as one. Her head thumping with the brewing migraine, nausea swirling inside her. She runs her fingers over the cold sheets where the cat had sprawled. Pinpricks of heat itch behind her eyes. She cannot believe he has broken her heart again. Though the reveal of Claudio's true nature lessened any heartache over his loss, she mourns the dream of a life together that had sprung forth when he kissed her and split apart when he called her wanton. For a time, her black cat companion had brought her comfort, filling the gaping wound that Claudio tore inside her. Now he has been stolen from her too and by the same man.

She hugs her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut, tears slipping free. This time there is no purring presence to console her as she cries. She is utterly alone.

:-x-:

Don John hoped Hero would visit, their last encounter leaving much unsaid, but he had not expected it. (She must hate him). Thus, it is a shock when the door unlocks and, instead of a servant bringing him food, it is Hero.

His pulse leaps, but he does not jerk to his feet, getting the impression any sudden movement would spook her. Instead, he shifts into a crouch, concealing his pleasure at seeing her again, and resists the urge to smooth his hair.

"Are you… praying?" Her surprise seems to overcome her hesitance as she stands in the doorway.

He snorts. "Exercising,"

He needed some occupation in his bare room, something to drain his agitation; push-ups were a good enough distraction, a way to re-centre himself in his human form. He gazes up at her, hovering at the door, conscious this is the second time he has prostrated himself before her in as many days.

"I promise I won't run if you prefer to leave the door open." As he says this, he attempts to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible, slouching against the bed, his arms folded behind his head.

She regards him with a suspicion he tells himself should not sting. "That is what you would say if you were planning to run."

"I could have run yesterday but I did not."

"Why not?" She takes a step further into the room, "Why didn't you run?"

"I told you… I want to make amends." He fixes her with a look he hopes appears earnest.

Her gaze wavers like she cannot bring herself to hold his own. "You swore as much to your brother and look how he came to repent it."

Her words are iron through his liver. His gullible half-brother, so confident to have cowed his rebellious spirit, so eager to place his faith in his own kin and believe him when he spoke of love. Don John had done him a favour; he would not be blindsided by another foe. He would not trust Don John again.

"We have written to tell him you are here."

His pulse lurches, though he knew this would be coming. "Begging to be rid of me?"

She takes another step, he notes the slight tremor in her hands. "He deserves to know you are alive."

"How disappointing for him."

Her brow creases, rose lips pursed. "You have an uncharitable view of others."

"Not everyone is as good as you… my lady."

Her fingers curl. "I am not so remarkable. There is far more good in the world than bad."

"You still believe that? After how they treated you?"

"After the lies you told them?" She tilts her head. "Are you, the villain of my misfortune, not here, of your own freewill, to make amends? To right your wrongs and repent your sins?"

He swallows, throat dry as she steps into the sunlight pouring through the window. She is beautiful. His vision as a cat had not done her justice.

He is not sure what his face shows but her smile is triumphant, "Perhaps, there is more good in the world than you believe."

Perhaps there is more good in you.

His stomach clenches, like he swallowed a mouse and it is now gnawing through his vital organs. He lowers his arms to his sides. "I concede you this point. But you are wrong." She frowns. "You are remarkable."

Hero falters, lips parting before she pouts again. "You aim to correct your past slander by being over-generous in your praise."

Her recovery is clumsy, holes in her composure. Don John spies the blush in her cheeks and the corner of his mouth twitches.

"First I am uncharitable, now I am over-generous. Allow that I have eyes and I see you." He restrains from reaching for her. "H—Lady… you make a convert of a non-believer."

Hero holds herself stiffly, fingers bunching and uncurling. "You… You mean to move me for some purpose."

He spreads his hands, huffing a depreciating smile. "What purpose but penance. I am here. All I await is your instruction."

"Then you will be waiting. I have nothing for you." She turns on her heel, flouncing to the door.

His heart careens after her, scrambling half-forwards. "Nothing? No curses? No humiliations? I am yours — to do with as you wish and you want nothing?"

She looks back at him, her face pinched, and he knows he is doing this all wrong, too desperate, too wild, but he has always felt everything in full, never halves. He needs her to want him, even if it is want for revenge.

"I… n-no… no… I-I want nothing." She turns to leave again.

"Wait." He sees the tightening of her shoulders as she stills. He gulps down air. "Will you at least bring me a book? Please?"

There is a pause, then she glances over her shoulder, considering him as if attempting to glean what nefarious use he could make of a book. Her eyes dart around the barren bedroom and she nods. "I will pick something out for you."

She slips from the room before he can stop her a third time and the door is closed. He does not bother to check if it is bolted. Instead, he thumps his head against the bed, cursing himself for an idiot and wondering what he could have said to make her stay.

Not long after, a servant brings him the Bible. He is not even mad, chuckling as he plunks it down on the side table.

Less than an hour later, boredom gets the better of him and he begins to read.

:-x-:

"Has Prince wandered off? He is usually close at your heel."

Hero's hand trembles as she sets down her fork. "H-He has… sc-scampered off somewhere. O-off on an adventure."

Antonio smiles, "I remember he disappeared once before. I am sure he will return soon."

Hero sips from her cup, hiding her face. She thinks of the man locked away elsewhere in the house, with his wild eyes and raven tresses, and her chest clenches. She knows her dear friend will not be returning.

:-x-:

Despite promising herself she would not, Hero visits Don John again the next day.

He is slouched under the window, reading the Bible. He looks up as she enters and shuts the book. "Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning…" she is careful as she steps into the room, as if there could be traps, "...how goes the reading?"

His mouth coils in a wry grin. "I have always had an affinity for Cain."

She tsks, glancing away before her eyes are drawn back to him like a compass to North. Under the windowsill, with the sunlight streaming inside and the dust dancing around his dishevelled locks, he looks like an angel — a fallen angel.

"I can bring you other books… I am not sure what you would like…"

He shrugs, setting the Bible aside. "I am content with most things. In my youth I spent a lot of time in the palace library, I read almost the whole collection. There was a lot of variation."

Hero's mouth parts, a royal collection would be bigger than their own library and she has not read half those books. How much time would a person have to spend reading to get through so many? How much time alone?

"That is a vast amount of books. Some must have been tedious."

He tilts his head — it is like a poniard through her heart. She knows that motion. She knows that ruffle of raven hair.

"Some were. But now I know a lot about taxes and crop cycles."

"It is useful knowledge," she hears herself reply, crouching down so she is level with him, shifting her skirts underneath her. "I have… read a little on those topics myself."

"I have seen the tombs you keep beside your bed. It is not a little."

She stiffens, her gaze darting to him. The image of another flits across her vision as she meets his eyes. She looks at the whorls that adorn the floorboards. "I expect there were a number of books on war and battle strategies in the palace library."

"...There were." His voice is not as it was, a note of strain, of caution. "But victory on a page does not equal victory on the field."

Hero feels her insides knot, she considers him a moment, the play of light and shadow across his face. "Did you lose many men?"

He starts, eyes widening. Silence passes as he stares at her and she thinks he is not going to answer, fingers hooking in her skirt. Then he speaks, his voice a rasp, "I lost all of them."

Hero sucks in a breath. "All of them?"

She does not know the size of Don John's army, but she saw the numbers in Don Pedro's. So many deaths.

He releases a black chuckle. "No traitor spared. The uprising soundly crushed. It sends a message. What is ironic is that the very blood which condemned me is also what saved me. Don Pedro spared me that fate, now here I am, a coward and a charlatan. I led those men to their deaths and I did not even have the decency to die with them. They call me traitor, but they are wrong about who I betrayed."

He turns his face to the side, his knee bouncing, unaware. Hero is speechless, there is so much to unpack there — his guilt at his men's death, the magnitude of his loss, the blame he casts on his brother for sparing his life, his seeming nonchalance towards his treason — and at the same time she cannot help but notice how thick his beard has grown since their first encounter, how much wilder it has become. She wonders how it would feel beneath her fingertips… coarse… soft… would it be like petting Prince?

She shakes herself from those thoughts, shame wriggling in her gut. She presses her chapped lips together, savouring the sting. "I understand. Why you hate Claudio."

His gaze jerks back to hers.

"I understand… I don't know how he didn't see it himself."

Don John's finger taps his knee. "He thinks too much of himself. He wanted to be the victim as much as the hero."

Hero reflects on this, squeezing her knuckle where Claudio would have placed his ring. "I am not absolving you… it was a cruel trick to play on anyone and you injured me far greater than him." His head sinks into his shoulders and she takes a breath. "But… I am glad your intervention prevented our marriage. On both occasions."

He looks her straight in the eye, both remembering that second disastrous collision when Don John had sprung at Claudio as a cat and Hero saved him.

"You were right to refuse him. You deserve happiness, Hero. You deserve real love. He could not have given you that."

Hero wonders, who can?

If she holds his gaze, she thinks she will see an answer. But it is easier to turn her head aside, letting her curls fall in a curtain. Her stomach spins like clay on a pottery wheel, hollowing in the middle. "Don John… I am sorry for all you have lost. I hope you can find some peace with the world. With yourself most of all."

She rises to leave, feeling his eyes on her all the way to the door.

"My lady, wait."

She tenses, glancing behind her.

"Please… another book?" He holds up the Bible. "If I read this once more I may convert to a better man."

Her mouth curves, pulse skittering along her wrist. "Have you not already?"

She brings him Ovid's Metamorphosis.

:-x-:

"Uncle, I was thinking…" she pauses, hands wringing her skirt.

"Ah, Hero," Antonio smiles, holding out a letter, "Your father will be with us again soon. He writes that he has received our news and is hastening home."

Hero accepts the letter, looking it over. "He need not hurry back on account of Don John. He has been quite… amenable."

She has been to visit Don John more times than is wise. It will certainly set a few tongues wagging if the household catches on. Despite knowing the folly of it, she cannot keep away — the more she sees him, speaks with him, the greater the temptation grows. He is so contrary — dry-witted and bitter-tongued one instant, then gentle and sincere the next.

He is careful to maintain a distance between them in the small room and she knows it is for her comfort. A frisson passes through her each time she thinks he may step towards her, reach for her, but he never does. Still, she senses a restlessness in him; the twitches and ticks, the tap of his foot, the bounce of his knee. He is a man confined.

"I do not disagree, the boy has been polite when I have spoken with him," Antonio says before pointing his finger, "But honeyed words will not cause me to forget the poison he spoke of you."

Hero shifts, a roiling in her stomach. "I… I was thinking… we should put him to work. In the rows. As… As part of his… penance." At her uncle's look of surprise she adds, "He would be a far better benefit to us labouring in the fields than wasting in his room."

Antonio looks thoughtful. "I suppose… he could be made useful. Though your father cautioned he should be kept under lock and key, lest he vanish again."

Her uncle does not know how close Don John had been to them this whole time.

"He was free and he turned himself over to us. Willingly submitted to arrest. He has made no attempt to escape. If we keep him under watch, there can be no cause for concern."

Antonio hums and strokes his beard. "Very well, I shall discuss it with the overseer."

:-x-:

Don John is relieved when he is told he is going to be sent out to work along with the other vintners. He swears the blank walls of his room are narrowing in on him. He does not mind the sweat on his back, the dirt under his nails, or the calluses forming on his hands if it means he is out in the open air, blue skies and nature's green all around him.

The other men are brusque in their manner towards him, suspicious stares scorch his neck worse than the sun, but he expected as much. He does not mind their silent distrust, he is used to being a pariah; at least they throw neither barbs nor fists and share their waterskins. He prefers it like this, able to focus on the task at hand without idle chatter to distract him. To give himself over to purpose.

He had not wanted Aragon's crown so he could lounge upon a throne being waited on. He had wanted it so he could dedicate himself to serving the people, bettering the kingdom, making life a little easier for those so often lost through the cracks. He wanted to prove he could be a good leader regardless of birth. But in the end all he proved was a failure. And then, after his trick with Hero, a villain.

He does not mind the ache in his bones or the blister of the heat. This is the punishment he deserves. At least he is doing something to serve her, tending to her crops, her estate.

With him working in the fields, he expects to see less of Hero but that first day when he lifts his head he sees the flutter of her dress as she walks through the rows. She speaks to the workers she passes, managing to avoid him without once glancing in his direction. Don John is content with this glimpse of her, even from afar, but then he looks up and she is beside him.

"Hello," she greets shyly, gazing up at him from under thick lashes.

He inclines his head, "My lady."

He senses the other workers pausing to mark their exchange, an air of protectiveness wafting from them. He knows they will not hesitate to defend their mistress from the deceitful bastard, but Hero shows no sign of unease.

"How is it, my lord, to toil in the name of honest labour? Not too trying?

There is a note of teasing in her voice. He matches it with a wry smile. "Do you think I am above dirtying my hands? If I were, I never could have convinced those countrymen to follow me. They had enough of pompous nobles and their ineptitudes."

"Oh," she blinks her lashes, "Am I a pompous noble?"

"No. The farthest from it. You would have won Aragon's throne with kindness and grace."

She ducks her head, curls framing her face as her rose-red mouth spreads in a smile. "Ah, but a woman cannot rule alone. I would require a husband."

He wets his lips, voice rough. "That is… easy getting. You would have as many suitors as Helen of Troy."

Hero snorts. "That is a brazen claim and, as you can see, quite false."

"Men are fools. We oft overlook that which is most rare… most remarkable."

Her eyes search his face and his pulse stumbles. She draws back and he realises how close they have been standing.

She gives a polite smile, a slither of her true light. "Thank you for your thoughts, my lord. I do not wish to distract you from your duties."

Don John welcomes her distraction but he knows better than to say so, offering a courteous nod. "Good day, my lady."

"Good day."

He forces himself to stare at the ground as she walks away, his arms locked at his sides. It is an effort to refocus on the task and he blames his light-headedness on the heat. He knows it is not that.

:-x-:

Hero visits him again and again. It is not as if she singles him out, she has a kind word for everyone she passes, her conversation genuine and never rushed. But it cannot be missed that she always comes to him last or how she lingers. That there are whispers is certain, but the staff are too loyal to cast aspersions. Still, Don John is careful.

—And yet, he feels reckless when she is near, hanging on her every word. His blood pounds in his ears, relishing the subtleties of her wit — not as polished as her cousin's, not as brash as Benedick's, but has him smiling even after she is gone. He chokes back mad declarations, like how he longs to trace her freckles, or how he wants to bottle her laugh and wear it on a string around his neck so it rests close to his heart, how he yearns for her to card her fingers through his hair like she did when he was a cat, or how the ache in his chest feels like her name carved into his ribs. It is all he can do to restrain himself from catching one of her curls and winding it around his finger. He wants to press his face to her neck and breathe her in.

He wrestles against these urges and lies awake at night, sheets soaked with his sweat, missing the warmth of her beside him. His transformation into a cat feels less of a punishment than the loss of her love. He needs to be content with what friendship she gives him. That she spares him anything is already far better than he deserves. Far more than he can hope for. He grits his teeth, clenching his eyes against the image of her, and wills himself to get a grip.

Like with most of his endeavours, he fails.

:-x-:

Don John is alerted to Leonato's return when he hears the old man's shout, "WHERE IS HE?"

He pauses in the process of mending a fence and glances to his fellow labourer, Gabriele. Stepping back from his work, he spies Leonato across the rows, hassling the other vintners, Hero and Antonio hurrying to intercede.

"WHERE IS THE VILLAIN?"

Don John strides forward, calling out, "Do you seek me, sir?"

Leonato's head turns, his face flushed puce and marches towards him. "Do you see another villain here?"

"None. You have all honest men in your employ."

"Then why do I find a canker amongst my vine?"

"I thought it better for the lad to labour in our service," Antonio speaks in calming tones.

"And what if he had seized the chance to escape, slipped through our fingers, again."

"He came to us. He gave himself up. Leo, I believe he is sincere in his wish to make reparations."

Leonato scoffs, "Reparations? What can he, an estranged bastard and traitor to his kin and country, offer us?"

"Father," Hero scolds.

"Put like that, it seems all I can offer is my labour," Don John drawls.

Leonato glowers at him but before he can rage further, Antonio interrupts, "He is a good worker. From the reports I have received and what I have witnessed myself, he puts in his fair share of labour and does not shrink from the more arduous tasks. He is a hard-worker and, as far as I have seen, committed to his vow to make amends."

Don John is surprised by Antonio's support; they have spoken on occasion but he did not think he had done anything to impress the man. He glances at Hero, trying to gauge if she shares her uncle's belief.

Leonato shakes his head. "He has lulled you into a false confidence. Just as he did to us before, to his own brother. He—" he jabs an accusing finger at Don John, "—is a deceiver. You have allowed a wolf to graze amongst our sheep!"

"If he meant us harm he could have done so easily before your return," Hero states, her gaze flickering to Don John then back to her father. "He is sincere."

Leonato looks at her in disbelief, "Sincere? Have you forgotten what he cost us!"

"I remember better than anyone! The bruises may have faded, but the scars remain. He has offered me better apologies than Claudio or even you ."

"Me?"

"You, my father — who raised me, called me your greatest treasure — trusted another's word over mine. When Claudio flung me down and called me the vilest names you did not intervene. Where was your defence?" She points to Don John. "You call him villain, but he was the only one who held Claudio back, who made him leave. And when my accusers were gone, you grabbed me by my hair and threw me to the ground and I thought you would murder me had Benedick and the Friar not intervened!"

Her voice has raised, everyone around them is staring, listening. Leonato has gone pale. Don John is frozen. He had not known this; but he should have guessed. He wishes he had left worse than a dead mouse in Leonato's bed. He rues that this is another wound he has inflicted on Hero. God, could he have not been content?

Hero's fists bunch, her voice strong, piercing her father with words and glare. "You lamented that I was your daughter and wished that I would die instead of live disgraced. You who should have protected me! Do you feel no remorse? No shame?"

Leonato is trembling. Don John can feel the tension in himself, in Antonio, in all the men around them as they watch Leonato awaiting his response. If he strikes at her, Don John will not be alone in preventing him. The workers may be loyal to their lord, but they love their lady.

"He-Hero…" Leonato wheezes looking at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. "I… I…"

He flounders, unable to form words. Hero stares at him and as his silence continues, her face falls. "You have nothing to say? How unsurprising."

Whipping her curls, she turns her back on him, stalking for the villa. Leonato gapes after her, stammering garbled words.

Antonio and Don John exchange a look. The latter returns to his work and the other vintners follow suit. Antonio tugs on his brother's arm, drawing him aside and whispering in his ear. Leonato allows himself to be led away, still gawping like a fish.

Don John watches them go then glances towards the house where Hero disappeared. Slowly, the corner of his mouth rises.

:-x-:

Don John lays in bed as rain pelts the shutters. At last, a storm to break the oppressive heat, a sign of autumn fast approaching. He does not hear the knock at first over the rumble of thunder. When it comes again, more incessant, he wonders if it is Leonato, come to murder him while everyone else is sleeping.

With a grunt, he rolls from bed, sheets peeling from his bare skin, bored enough and suitably sleep-deprived to risk death. He staggers to the door, grumbling through the wood, "Don't you have a key?"

Silence is his answer and he rubs his eyes. Perhaps it was the wind…

"Don John…"

He stiffens. That is not the wind.

He pinches his arm to check he is not dreaming and grabs the door handle. He pauses a moment, unsure if it will be locked, but the handle turns in his grasp and the door swings open. Hero stands before him, swathed in shadow, a green robe tied over her nightgown. Tousled curls spill around her pale throat, one arm hugs her chest as she regards him with a startled gaze — like she wasn't expecting him.

"Hero," he breathes, her name a gash in his throat, "You should be asleep."

Those plush pink lips part, "Did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, the whisper of a smile stealing across his lips. "No rest for the wicked."

"I can't sleep either."

So she came to him? The door handle bites into his palm.

"It happens to the best of us."

She shuffles her weight from foot-to-foot; her gaze darting to him and away. He remembers he is wearing breeches and no shirt and resists from flexing like an idiot.

"Hero…" he keeps his voice low, "...why... why have you come?"

She raises her eyes to his. "I can't sleep. May I… may I come in?"

His heart vaults against his ribcage, juddering through him. "That… is a bad idea."

"Oh," she looks crestfallen.

Don John suppresses from groaning and tearing out his hair. "Christ… are you sure? I swear I will not take advantage nor breathe a word to anyone, but if we are discovered… I won't cause you more pain."

Her face strengthens in resolve and she shifts forward, her breath fluttering across his skin. "Please, Don John. I want… I need to speak with you."

His knees falter. He cannot refuse her. He steps aside, legs shaking, and she scurries inside on bare feet. Watching her face, he eases the door closed, careful not to make a sound. A beat passes.

"Wh-What…" his voice scrapes out, like a youth on the brink of manhood, "What did you want—want t-to talk about?"

Hero hesitates, then blurts, "What was it like to be a cat?"

The question throws Don John and he needs a moment to recover. Regaining his breath, he gives a hoarse chuckle, scratching his beard. "I do not know how to describe it… I was in some ways a cat with the mind of a man and at other times the animal instincts took over. I behaved in ways I never would have if I had full possession of my senses."

"Like chasing birds?"

He rubs his neck. "Yes."

"And getting drunk on green olives?"

He pulls a face, remembering how he debased himself after consuming the delicious fruit, rolling in the grass and mewling for pets. "It... is some comfort to know you can never speak of this to anyone."

"I could tell Beatrice. She would find it most amusing."

Don John groans. Beatrice meant Benedick and the prospect of Benedick's mocking is intolerable. "Please, have I not been punished enough?"

Hero considers him, her expression difficult to discern in the dim light. "I suppose… I cannot imagine what it must have been like to wake and find yourself transformed. Was it terrible, being a cat?"

"Sometimes." He looks down at himself, his human body. "It… had its advantages. And its disadvantages. The world is not as fond of cats as you, my lady. There are many dangers out there. Your kindness was my survival."

"Is that… why you stayed?"

"Because of you? Yes." He pauses, his pulse pounding in his ears. His hands flex around empty air, fingers digging into an open wound. "All I wanted — all I want is to be close to you."

He hears her intake of breath at the raw truth he has laid before her. Even then, there is more he can say, but there is a trembling through his veins and he is not brave enough, not fool enough to utter those words.

Hero is silent for a long while and Don John braces for her revulsion. When she speaks, there is a quiver in her voice, "Then… then why… are you so far away?"

His head jerks up. Before he can stutter a response, she is across the room, her arms folding around him. He gasps at the press of her.

Into his chest she murmurs, "I miss you."

His hands fall on her shoulders, either to push her away or pull her closer, but he does neither. "Hero… I am not… I am not a cat."

"No," she exhales, her breath warm across his bare skin. "You are Don John… my rogue, my ruin…" She looks up at him, "Hold me."

At her command, he clasps her waist, his fingers sinking into her sable curls. He bends his brow to hers, breathing in lavender and orange blossom.

"Hero," he inhales, cradling her to him.

"John," she nuzzles the place where his heart thunders. "Can we sleep, just sleep."

She is already walking them towards the bed.

His hands tighten on her, his head dizzy, reason slipping from him like oil. "I will not… risk your… reputation."

"Please, John… all I want is to sleep. No one will discover us. All I want… is to not be alone. Hold me, please."

Her fingers skim his pectorals, the kiss of flames. The lack of sleep must have made him delirious. Surely he is hallucinating.

"You are putting too much trust in me," he mutters, even as he allows her to draw him to the bed and down onto the mattress.

"I trust you," she agrees, shifting over him.

He holds her to him, both of them wedged onto the bed, wrapped around each other. She curls into him, burrows her head into the crook of his neck — her mouth, her touch, a brand across his skin. He feels the inhales and exhales of her breathing fall into an easy rhythm, along with his own. His lips graze her temple, so tender, fingers bunching in her robe and her soft, soft curls. She is warm, so warm.

Peace settles around them, the storm outside still blasting, but it is gentle, oh so gentle, the smell of the rain slipping inside. Cocooned in one another, they fall into sweet dreaming...

Even asleep, he never lets go.

Chapter Text

Don John wakes to Hero stirring in his arms. She blinks sleep-heavy lashes, offering a drowsy smile, "Good morning."

Good, does not begin to describe it. He leans in, fingers flexing on the small of her back. "I'm dreaming."

Her mouth curves, a twinkle chasing the slumber from her eyes. "You dream about me?"

He squeezes his arm flung across her waist, his other numb where it rests under her head. "Yes."

She shifts, so she is above him. Her fingers tiptoe across his scalp, scratching behind his ear. He turns his head into her touch, rubbing against her hand as her fingers glide through his hair. The friction builds, achingly delicious, and a sound escapes him — not quite a purr, but as close to one as a human can make.

He freezes, eyes snapping open to meet her own. She grins, biting back a laugh.

He groans, "Please never tell anyone I did that."

"I promise," she giggles, tugging on a lock of his hair, winding it around her finger, "It will stay between us."

He suppresses another groan, watching how the light caresses her perfect features. "What hour is it?"

He sits up, glancing towards the windows. The light is grey, at the midpoint between dark and dawn. He can hear the birds waking the world. His pulse quickens.

"Hero, you need to leave… before the household wakes."

Her face ripples with sweet exasperation, "Now you are concerned for my reputation?"

"I never want to hurt you again."

She runs her fingers along his cheek, her thumb stroking beneath his lashes. "You are changed"

He leans into her hand. "I had a transformative experience."

She snorts. "And I thought you forbidding."

He twists his hand into her curls while she still permits him, combing his fingers through her silk tresses. "I don't know how I stayed away. It was wrong, what I did. I regret it all—"

Her fingers stop his lips. "Enough… I forgive you."

He gazes up in wonder of her benevolence. "Kindness and grace," he murmurs, tightening his hold on her. "I cannot believe I have you… in my arms… and I am imploring you to leave."

She rests her forehead against his. "That is because you are a better man."

"It is awful."

She pecks the bridge of his nose. "Promise you won't stay away anymore."

"I promise." He would give her anything.

Her smile curves against his skin. "Good."

Before he can recover, she has sprung from the bed and is stumbling towards the door. He fumbles in the space she vacated, his legs snared in the sheets, and makes a noise desperate even to his ears. She looks back at him as she reaches the door, tossing her sleep-tousled curls and flashing a smile — his own private aurora.

"Rest while you can, my lord. You have a full day of labour ahead."

She slips from the room, taking some of the light with her. He falls back against the headboard, the air knocked from him. He brings his hand to his jaw, tracing where she touched him, still warm from her fingertips. He is unable to restrain the smile which fills his face. In truth, he does not try.

:-x-:

"Don John," Gabriele approaches him, "They require you at the house."

Don John halts his work, looking at the other man in askance. He cannot think of any good reason for him to be summoned. Surely Leonato has not discovered Hero's visit to his room last night. Surely she is safe.

He walks quickly to the villa, gripped with fear. If he has caused her harm…

He freezes as he sees the carriage in front of the house, recognising the crest of Aragon. Cold washes through him as he looks around and there is his brother, standing beside Leonato, Antonio, and Hero, whose loveliness is no less reduced for looking as if she has bitten into a lemon. He notes the soldiers as they stride forward and keeps his gaze on Hero, drinking her in while he can. They are a long way from his bedroom now.

He does not resist as they grab his arms, jerking them behind his back. As he is marched forwards, he hears Hero's objections, "My lord, such force is unnecessary."

"We will not risk him escaping us again, lady."

Don Pedro's voice is as smooth as marble, his countenance the same. Don John cannot get a read on his half-brother's thoughts, though no doubt, there are a lot of swears being projected at him right now. His mouth ticks up at the thought, Don Pedro's eyes log it and harden.

"As we said, he gave himself up willingly. He has made no attempt to escape the whole time he has been here. In light of which, this rough treatment strikes as overzealous."

Don Pedro turns to stare at Hero, who is not behaving like the demure maiden he first met. She meets his gaze. Beside her, Leonato shifts, a touch to his daughter's elbow.

"Forgive me, lady, but I have more experience of my brother's treachery than you."

"Then you should be better at seeing through it."

Don Pedro reels as if slapped. Leonato appears to suffer an attack on the gallbladder, and Antonio too, his face turning crimson as he smothers his laughter. Don John has to cough to cover his own amusement which re-directs his half-brother's attention to him.

"John," he says with that familiar note of frustration. "You vanished from the shores on Messina, leaving no trace. For two months I have had all my resources looking for you. Imagine my surprise when I received a letter advising that you were here with the very family you wronged. I would be interested to hear where you have been all this time."

Don John cocks his head, voice thick insolence, "You would never believe me."

Don Pedro's eyes narrow and Don John knows this conversation will be pressed later. He looks forward to watching the vein throbbing in his half-brother's forehead. He might even tell him the truth just to watch it burst.

Don Pedro turns to Leonato, "Thank you, Signior, for hosting my miscreant brother until I could retrieve him."

Leonato gives a gracious nod, though he only returned himself yesterday. "Will you be gracing us with one night's stay before your departure, my liege?"

"Apologies, old friend, but now I have my wayward brother in hand, I do not intend to let him out of my sight until we are safely aboard our ship, from which he can scarcely escape. Unless he grows fins or feathers."

Don John meets Hero's gaze. It is not as unlikely as they think.

"Ah, a shame. I hope you will honour us with another visit in the future… under more favourable circumstances."

"I am certain of it."

The two men clasp hands, though neither appears greatly disappointed to be parting. The events of the summer still fresh and sour.

But the damage he has done to the Spain-Sicilia alliance holds no significance to Don John as it hits that he is about to be separated from Hero. His pulse lurches, insides twisting into a pair of hissing snakes, constricting his airflow. He looks at her, strangled by all the things he has not said. She stares back, eyes wide with alarm.

What if this is the last time he sees her?

He does not know what his half-brother has planned for him back in Aragon, what fate awaits him. It could be death (he does not believe this, but there are enough in Aragon who want him dead without his half-brother needing to sign the order). It could be imprisonment and he will rot in a dank, dark cell, never again touched by her light.

There is so much he has not told her.

"My lord," Hero speaks up, "I petition you to allow Don John to remain in our car—custody. It was to our house he did the most damage and, therefore, it is most fitting that any punishment is served with us."

Leonato blanches at the prospect but Don Pedro shakes his head, "That I cannot allow, my lady. Though, I agree my brother has done you great wrong, he is a citizen of Aragon and, therefore, must be tried by Aragon's laws. What's more, he deceived Aragon's sovereign, myself, and brought into question the pardon which he was benevolently bestowed after his earlier treason."

Don John grimaces. Seems he has struck a nerve. He has not seen his half-brother this upset since he shaved the back of his head while he was sleeping.

Hero, however, is not finished. "Then grant me two requests in recompense for gilding my slander with your royal name."

Leonato gasps as if she has drawn a dagger. Don John knows all this is because of his sins against her and his opinion is worth nothing, but he is so proud of her. She has taken the pain inflicted on her and forged it into a weapon with which to snare those who injured her. If he was not already in love…

Now it is Don Pedro who looks as if he has sucked on a lemon, but he manages to maintain most of his composure, inclining his head. "I am aware of the debt I owe you, lady. Name your requests and, within reason, they shall be granted."

Hero tilts her chin, steeling her spine. Though she is the smallest figure there, she towers over all of them. "First, I request you show Don John mercy." She is met with shock and presses her advantage. "He has already made me a sincere apology and atoned for his misdoings by labouring on our estate. I can see the change in him is genuine and forgive him all wrong."

She looks at Don John as she says this and the air punches from him. Like a balm to a wound, her forgiveness burns.

Her gaze cuts to Don Pedro. "Therefore, your grace, I ask that you are merciful in your sentencing, that he be afforded the kindness and grace that I was not."

"My lady…" Don Pedro recovers from his surprise, his tone amenable though his expression remains perplexed. "Of course. I am always fair in my rulings. My brother is most fortunate that yours is a forgiving nature."

He cuts a look to Don John at this last remark, who represses an eye-roll. As if he does not know how goddamn blessed he is in Hero.

"My niece has a generous heart," Antonio puts in, "and your brother has proven himself in his labour. If you do decide to send him back to us, we would not be opposed."

Leonato makes a choked-off noise but Pedro is speaking before the other can unscramble his tongue, "I appreciate you saying so. I am glad he could do you some good after having done you so much wrong."

"I have never flinched from hardship," Don John mutters. One of the soldiers thumps his back and Don John scowls at him.

"Don Pedro," Hero's voice is crystalline, "My second request… is that I may have a moment to speak with him before you take him away."

Once more all eyes fly to her.

Don Pedro is now glancing between the two of them like a riddle he intends to solve. "A simple request… and one I am willing to oblige."

He gestures to the soldiers and a set of manacles are clamped around Don John's wrists.

"That is not necessary—" Hero protests.

"Perhaps not, but I prefer overzealous to careless, good lady." Don Pedro's tone admits no argument. "We shall stand-by and allow you to speak your piece without fear of being overheard, but we will observe to ensure he attempts no ill."

"Thank you, my lord," Hero murmurs, her tone far from enthused.

She holds Don John's gaze, waiting until the others have moved a stone's throw away, then steps towards him, narrowing the space between them as much as she dares with an audience.

Her eyes lock on his chains, voice so soft only he can hear, "I don't want this."

"I know. Neither do I."

"What can we do?"

He sighs. He has fought his whole life against the invisible shackles that held him, he recognises a losing battle. He will not drag her down with him.

"I must go to Aragon."

"What." Her voice pitches, still a whisper. "No, John — you promised."

"Hero… I have done too much wrong—"

"I don't care, I forgive you. If they take you… we may never see each other again."

A smile tugs on his lips at her distress over the notion even as the strings of his heart stretch taut. "Hero… do you think any force but your will could keep me from you? This will not be the last time we meet. Not unless you wish it."

She searches his face. Whatever she sees sets her own in resolve, a star burns in her eyes, "I would keep you with me if I could."

At her confirmation, courage blazes inside him. Her hands make an abortive gesture towards him before she remembers their audience. Don John glances at the watching men; Antonio has engaged Don Pedro in boisterous conversation and is causing enough of a distraction that Don John feels safe shifting closer to Hero.

"I need to go back to Aragon and face the consequences of my actions. To make amends with my brother, this time for good. Then, once everything is settled, I will return as a free man." He takes her hands, unseen by the others. "When I do… I will ask you to marry me."

Hero gasps, gazing at him in wonder, "John… what…?"

"I love you, Hero. I have done too much wrong. I will not jeopardise our future because of my past. I need to do this right. I will accomplish any feat, endure any hardship, even grovel before my brother if it means I can have a life with you."

"John…"

He holds on to the hope he sees in her eyes, twines it around his upper rib like a promise. "Think about it."

She purses her lips, gazing up at him with intent focus. "We should have stayed in bed."

His heart stumbles off a cliff. Recovering himself, he squeezes her fingers, lifting them to bestow a kiss, savouring her softness.

There is a shout and the clank of armed men. Don John drops her hands with a wink, "Save that thought for later."

The soldiers seize hold of him, hauling him towards the carriage.

"Don't hurt him," Hero pleads, revealing too much in the raw notes of her voice.

But Don John does not care what anyone else makes of them. Just the knowledge that he is not alone in these feelings is enough to sustain him, to assure him that he is making the right decision by returning to Aragon. He must make peace with his past if he hopes for a future with Hero.

Hero.

He keeps his gaze fixed on her, memorising her image, even as he is pushed inside the carriage, shoved onto the bench. He can still hear her calling, demanding fair treatment while her father prattles over her and then there is Don Pedro's voice bidding a firm farewell.

His half-brother climbs inside the carriage and the vehicle begins to move. The calm that had swept over him at the knowledge of Hero's affection, now falters as he is carried from her. His fidgeting does not go unnoticed by the guard he is wedged against and the man levels him with a glower.

Don John turns his attention ahead and meets with his Don Pedro's arched eyebrow, gaze glittering with understanding.

He huffs, already suffocating in the cramped space, and faces the window, watching the familiar landscape of Messina as it goes. It is going to be a long trip back to Aragon.

:-x-:

.

.

.

:-x-:

Hero waits for news of Don John. First through the harvest, then the winter. As the weather grows colder and the sun retreats behind the hills earlier each evening she sits at her window and thinks of the man who — not once, but twice — charged in and threw her life into disarray before disappearing just as swift.

She keeps walking to his room with things to tell him, amusing occurrences she wants to share, matters she is curious for his wry opinion on. She is always a little jarred to find it empty, Ovid's Metamorphosis sitting on the table, gathering dust. She perches on the bed and drags her hands across the sheets, remembering one night and many, her fingers stroking the hair of the blanket and remembering another's.

If anyone notices a sorrow to her silence, they attribute it to the continued absence of a certain black cat. They are not wrong.

She asks each morning if there are any messages, passing this off as a longing for Beatrice, and presses her father for news on Aragon. There is none.

She dedicates herself to the tombs sitting beside her bed and tries not to be distracted by a pair of simmering eyes or the cut of red lips in a devilish grin as she reads about taxes and crop cycles. She embroiders a cushion with the image of a black cat and hugs it when she sleeps. She wakes, still wrapped in the warmth of him and her heart throbs when she realises she is alone.

"John," she says, clutching his name to her heart like she clutches the cushion, reminding herself it was real when it feels most like a dream. "Come back… please…"

:-x-:

Her father apologises.

He sits beside her and clasps her hands, remorse pouring off him in sea salt waves. "When I think about how I behaved that day, I am ashamed. I have been excusing Claudio's behaviour so I did not have to consider my own brutishness. But I was wrong, so very wrong. You are my daughter, the light of my life, my greatest joy. I am sorry to have ever caused you pain. From now on, I promise, I will listen, I will do better… and if you choose never to marry, Hero, I will still be blessed to have such a daughter as you."

Hero smiles, an itching at the corner of her eyes. "Papà… thank you. Though, I have not forsworn marriage yet. Will you allow me to choose my own husband? You will not force me to marry another Claudio?"

"No, no. Never." He pats her hands. "The choice shall be yours, Hero. If he can provide for you and makes you happy, I will have no objection."

She hugs him, forgiving him. She is tired of the anger, tired of the pain. It will be a while before she fully trusts him again, but she will never stop loving him.

As she pulls back, she cocks her head, "What if he was a bastard?"

Leonato stares.

:-x-:

Christmas swoops upon them, and Beatrice and Benedick venture from Padua to join in the festive celebrations. Hero's spirits bolster with their cheerful presence, cheeks warm with wine and laughter. But she cannot forget what it was to be held against Don John's hard frame, to feel his rough palms upon her, his warm breath caressing her ear as he said her name. Not when she is witness to the casual affection between husband and wife — the fond teasing, the constant touches, the kisses which start chaste and soon border on indecent. It causes a tightness in her chest to the point of burning, smiling around hot coals, pleased for her cousin's happiness and aching for her own loss.

It is no surprise when Beatrice comes to her room, shuffles onto the bed until her thigh presses against her own, and hooks their ankles together, nudging her with her shoulder, and asks what is bothering her. Hero looks into her sister-cousin's face, one she knows better than her own, Beatrice's wilder features softening, and the whole fantastical tale comes pouring out.

To her credit, Beatrice believes her. She does not suggest Hero has confused herself with a dream or indulged too much in the wine, but takes her cousin's words as truth.

"I thought there was something curious about that cat. Ben is going to love this. May I tell him?"

Hero bites her lip. She trusts Benedick to be discreet, despite his reputation as a loudmouth, but she is not sure if that is fair to Don John. He and Benedick were never friends.

"Not yet. Not until I have spoken to John again."

Beatrice squeezes her hands. "Then I shall remain mute on the matter. It is what Ben deserves after concealing his love for me for so many years. Will you marry him? Don John?"

"I do not even know if he is alive!" Hero wails, slumping forwards.

Beatrice rubs her back. "Do not fear, coz. If he loses one life, he has eight to spare." Hero glares at her. Beatrice raises her hands in supplication. "T'was a poor jest. I am confident he still lives. Don Pedro does not have it in him to be severe on his brother, however much the knave deserves it." Beatrice note's Hero's expression and looks amused. "Though, you have forgiven him as well, so perhaps he has a gift for skirting punishment."

"He has more than served his punishment."

"And won your devotion in the process," Beatrice teases. "Do not despair, sweet. If men can transform into cats and villain's can change their hearts, then anything is possible. I am certain all will be well. I shall write to Don Pedro myself and if we are unsatisfied with his answer, come spring we shall sail to Spain and liberate your darling prince from his purr-gatory."

Hero hugs her, some of her tension easing with her sister-cousin's reassurance. She still rubs her thumb across her knuckles, remembering the press of his lips, and wonders when she will feel them again.

:-x-:

The winter drags on and on, the frost lingering far later than usual, at least in Hero's mind. Still, spring arrives at last, fragile buds peaking in the grass and green leaves returning to the trees. Hero wraps her shawl around her and walks the garden path, feeling an absence beside her all the while. She is on the brink of writing to Beatrice and demanding an expedition to Spain when she turns a corner and there he is, talking with her father.

She goes still, pinching herself, certain she is dreaming. He looks neater than before, well-groomed. He has not been labouring under the hot sun or crouching amongst the dust; no longer a work-hand but the prince she first met. Her pulse beats a staccato. God, he is handsome.

Her father catches sight of her first. Though his expression is wary, his shoulders are loose, a glimmer of relief in the lines on his face. "Here, you may ask her yourself. If she accepts you, I will not refuse her."

Don John has already turned to her, his face transforming like sun breaking through cloud. Hero is frozen as he strides towards her, heart fluttering like a bird.

"Hero," he says her name and, after months of fading, she now bursts with colour.

"Are you well?" She demands, looking him over for injuries. "Were you treated kindly? We have had no word."

"I am well. I will tell you everything, but rest assured all is resolved."

Relief billows through Hero and her voice shudders with the force of it. "Then… you are a free man?"

"In every sense but one." Embers heat his umber eyes. "My heart is possessed."

Her mouth parts on an oh. Her own heart strikes like lightning.

"Hero," he closes the distance between them, head bent, almost touching her own. "I have thought of you every day since our parting. Even separated you had me transfixed. When my worst instincts reared, when I wanted to run, I thought of you and the faith you put in me. I am trying to be a better man, a good man, someone worthy of you, and if you honour me by becoming my wife, I swear, I will never stop striving to be the husband you deserve. Hero… I love you… I never thought I would be capable of such a thing but I love you. I am in awe of your courage, your compassion, your strength. You are remarkable, Hero. You are… breath-taking." He winces as one does after staring too long at the sun. "But please — tell me if I have any hope before I bleed more words, I have so much pent up from these months apart. Hero… Hero… will you be mine? Because I am already yours."

She trembles, staring up at him, refreshing the lines of his face etched in her mind. She has known in her heart since he first spoke of marriage what her answer would be, but until now dared not utter it aloud. She reaches for him, her fingers sinking into the lapels of his coat.

"Yes. John, yes, I will… I am."

She watches the smile unfurl across his face, amazed and breathless, flooded with happiness. His arms fold around her, lifting her up and she is floating, balancing on her tiptoes, secure in his embrace. Her fingers brush across his beard, gazing up into his eyes, warm and beautiful. He looks as if he would be content to gaze at her forever, but she has been waiting.

Her lips meet his and she is iridescent. His kisses are like stardust streaming through her veins. He cradles her to him as if she is the most precious thing in the world and she feels safe and reckless all at once. She clings to him, determined not to let him slip from her again, but his mouth is insistent, promising I am here, I am here, and I am not going anywhere…

She smiles and feels his own in answer. It cuts across her lips and makes her toes curl.

This, she knows, is a good love, a real love, a love she can trust. The past no longer stings knowing it led her here, the future enfolding before her in glittering technicolour. She grasps it with both hands and pulls him in.

:-x-:

.

.

.

:-x-:

"You are pouting," Hero sing-songs.

"I am reading."

Don John ignores the look she throws him and focuses on the papers in his hands, reading the same sentence again and absorbing none of it. At the corner of his vision he sees the motion of black fur, hears the soft purr, punctuated with high-pitch mews, and Hero's answering coos.

"You are jealous," she croons.

He shuffles his papers. "That does not sound like me."

Hero giggles, fussing over the kitten in her lap when it whines. Shameless.

Don John regards the bundle of scruff that has captured his wife's attention. The black kitten was a wedding gift from Benedick and Beatrice; the pair thinking it hilarious, Don John less so. He sets aside his papers, scoffing at how the kitten debases itself for scratches and kisses.

"You were worse," Hero chirps, as if reading his thoughts.

"I was not." He was.

Her eyes twinkle. "I understand if you are jealous of Inkwell." She nuzzles the kitten's brow. "He is a darling — and so well-behaved."

"I am not jealous," Don John reiterates as his wife snuggles the purring kitten.

Hero's hum is disbelieving.

"I am not jealous… because I can do this."

With cat-like speed, he captures her in a kiss. Heat blazes between them and she melts beneath him, welcoming him in; his thumb caresses the line of her jaw, her fingers threading through his hair. He groans at the slight tug on his scalp, the scrape of her nails, and relishes the sweet incense of her lips.

Pain, defined and piercing, flares through his thigh and he recoils with a curse.

"John!" Hero steadies him, voice full of alarm, before she looks down and identifies the culprit. "Oh, Inkwell, no."

She lifts Inkwell into her arms, the kitten's claws unlatching from the gash in Don John's breeches.

"Menace," he spits, glaring at his nemesis.

The kitten stares back, eyes big and round, snug in Hero's arms.

"Like someone else I love," Hero smiles, leaning in and kissing Don John's temple. "Don't sulk, you are still my sweet prince."

At the name, Don John shivers, a noise catching in his throat, not quite a purr. Hero laughs, his heart thumping with the sound.

He jumps to his feet, his arms sweeping around her. "I think the pest can fend for itself for an hour."

Hero arches a brow, her smile mischievous. "An hour?"

His mouth descends upon her throat. "Maybe two."

:-x-:

Later, pressed against his wife in bed, soothed by her quiet exhales as she dreams, the rise and fall of her chest beneath his arm, he feels the tread of paws across his face, the wet press of a nose as Inkwell nudges his cheek.

He sighs at the brush of fur across his face, a tail coiling around his head, "Yeah, yeah… menace."

He shifts, allowing the kitten to curl up between him and Hero. The hand that is not holding his wife, he lifts from under the covers and runs along the small frame of the kitten.

Inkwell purrs, content, and Don John smiles. It is true what is said, black cats do bring good luck.