Chapter Text
Desire knows how to get what they want. They’re Desire for a reason. And when what they want is the Goddess of Cats — well. They get the Goddess of Cats. And to (metaphorical) hell with the outcome; they didn’t want that, so they don’t give a fuck.
The outcome doesn’t give a fuck about Desire, either. And he would give even less of a fuck if he hadn't inherited their fucking abilities. Knowing other creatures’ desires, even the ones they’re unaware of — especially those. Feeling the subtle urge to fulfil those desires, to get to the deliciously addictive satisfaction — doubly seductive for the share of the other person’s feelings. Like any addiction, it can be dealt with. Like any addiction, it’s bloody hard to escape.
At least, he had more than one parent. And his other one — his mother — wanted him somewhat more than Desire did. Wanted him enough to be there for him, growing up. Enough to prepare him for the life he was facing ahead of him.
She taught him how to live with himself. She taught him how to hold himself back, how to discover and establish boundaries he has to respect. She taught him that desire doesn’t always equal the want for satisfaction; that was a lesson he was learning over and over in an endless cycle of trial and error, an endless row of painful failures. Sometimes satisfying a desire means destroying the person. Sometimes it means giving them pain they could avoid. Sometimes it takes away their will to live. Or sometimes — and that was the hardest part to learn, because the difference is so miniscule it’s nearly impossible to tell one from the other — what one desires is simply not what they want. And what they want is not what they are eager to ask for. And without a request there is no kind way of giving someone what they desire.
Mother taught him the theory. Life gave him practical lessons. It still does, all the fucking time.
Mother also gave him his kingdom. Most cats’ desires are simple and easy to fulfil — a roof over their heads, some food in their bowls, a companion for a darker night; most cats aren’t shy to ask, demand even, to be given what they need. It’s a good match, he and them.
But then there was Edwin Payne, this boy, this man, this timeless creature, so young and so ancient at the same time; so darkened by an existence full of pain and so bright and innocent. So full of deeply rooted desires and so inept at asking for them. Oh, Edwin! Thomas could give him so much. Make him feel so much; make them both feel so much! The boy asked for none of it, but was kind enough to offer a kiss, and then a hesitant friendship. It was almost enough. Almost.
Edwin stops by every couple of weeks, bringing stories of his adventures with his partner, some surprisingly (or maybe not that surprisingly) helpful advice on the matters of cat governing and, most importantly, the generous gift of his companionship.
It’s not that Thomas is as lonely as Edwin implied. He has his cats, and cats, if you ask him, are excellent company. He has his mother, loving and accepting, and his siblings, who are numerous.
But Mother has a lot of children; he’s neither the oldest nor the youngest and not even the weirdest of her spawns; nothing special amongst the plethora of cat-related creatures. And said creatures, his siblings, are a busy lot — each with their own piece of the world to rule, inhabit or explore. Technically, distance is nothing to them, but in practice, none of them bothers to visit or invite Thomas for a bowl of milk. Michael does, sometimes. Because they’re basically neighbours, and because Michael occasionally needs advice to not follow. He’s stupid like that. Charming, but stupid and arrogant, Michael.
Which brings him to—
It’s not like Thomas didn’t notice something going wrong with Michael’s realm — or with his head, for that matter. The mayor overstepping Michael’s boundaries without even meaning to, the stray cats not taking him as seriously as he would have liked. Michael getting moody at times. But hey, he’s a big boy. And Bainbridge is fucking unpleasant on the best of days: all those no-leash dog parks? Fucking dog exhibitions every other month, what with the mayor being a dog person? And the evil seagulls. As if Port Townsend doesn’t have enough of those nasty creatures.
So, Thomas figures, if Michael needs help, he’ll ask for it, like a big boy is supposed to. And if he doesn’t, that’s on him, right?
And then Edwin takes the case and Thomas just can’t stay the fuck away.
He barges in, ignoring Charles’s annoyance and Edwin’s, also slightly annoyed, amusement. He inserts himself into their investigation and fucking solves the case without meaning to.
And then he goes straight to Michael, right after the fire. While his powers are pretty much nonexistent after fighting that fucking fire.
“So, you know how I’ve been helping the ghost detectives with their recent case here in town?” he says when Michael invites him in.
“I’ve figured as much,” says Michael. “Milk? I’ve got some baked milk from Ukraine.”
Michael always has the best treats. The rich caramel taste of real Ukrainian baked milk? Impossible to resist. Thomas hands him a tall glass full of the delicious delicacy. It makes Thomas almost forget why he’s here.
“So, your investigation?” Michael prompts. “Have you figured it out? I’m not sure why you’re hanging out with those kids, though. If you wanted to amuse yourself with my puzzles, you’d be way better off on your own than with a bunch of children following you around.”
“Yeah,” Thomas says. Instinct tells him to keep his brother’s attention off of Edwin. “They’re silly. But adorable. Like newborn kittens, you know. Cute. I like watching them fumble.”
“To each their own, I suppose.” Michael shrugs. “So, to what do I owe the honor or your company?”
“Oh. Look, it’s probably nothing. But I thought I’d ask. You know there’s been another shelter fire, right?”
“Yeah, my guys just brought the news. Dreadful, that.”
“Oh, entirely,” Thomas agrees with faux indifference. “The li— humans will have some work on their hands, rebuilding that. And I’m sorry to say, so will you; a bunch of freshly stray cats on this island now.”
“Nothing I can’t handle, I assure you.”
“Great. So—” he hesitates, looking for words. “I stopped by the burnt shelter just now. And talked to some people, obviously. And—” He takes another sip of baked milk. “One of them mentioned a Siamese cat. Or, well, maybe-Siamese, they don’t know much about cats. And that got me thinking…”
Someone scratches at the front door. Michael goes to open, but Thomas doesn’t miss an annoyed expression briefly showing up on his handsome face.
“It’s for you,” Michael says when he comes back. “Can you please talk to your guy outside? You know I have a no-cat rule in this house. Sure, he’s a ghost and can’t make a mess, but I wouldn’t want to create a precedent.”
Thomas has had more than one angry discussion with his brother of what message his no-cat house rule gives to the subjects, to no avail. He decides to forgo it this time and stands up.
“Should I fetch you more milk in the meantime?” Michael asks.
Thomas still can’t say no to that.
Max the ghost came to report that Edwin and his little witch are fine and nothing happened at their part of the stakeout. Thomas sits down on the porch to offer Max his well-deserved pats and—
From this lower point sitting on the steps of the porch he can see the pretty garden shed that was behind a three branch when he was standing. And next to the garden shed there’s a cardboard box. A thin and long one.
He stands up with Max in his arms and takes a short walk, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible; he doesn’t want to alert Max.
The walk confirms his worst suspicions. There’s something long and red poking out of the box — a firework stick. Thomas walks back, slowly, pretending to be pacing with boredom.
“Can you do me another favour?” he asks Max. “And then have some rest, you and your friends did more than enough for one night.”
“Sure, Majesty, anything,” Max replies. Such a good kitty. Such a waste.
“Go back to Edwin and tell him the shelter they’re observing is out of danger for tonight. I’m sure he has much better things to do than waiting for something to not happen.” He doesn’t want to tell Edwin yet. He could still be wrong. And even if he isn’t, it’s better to keep this in the family. And keep Edwin safe, in case Michael really is the villain here.
“Sure, boss,” says Max.
Thomas sets him down, bids him goodbye and walks back to the house. He’s got to have words with his little brother.
Michael doesn’t look like a villain at all. He’s still the same arrogant little brother as ever, with his expensive clothes (even at home in the middle of the night), his overly polite smile and his delicious baked milk. This time milk is served in a bowl, which makes it taste even better.
“So, you were saying, a Siamese cat?” Michael asks.
“Yeah,” Thomas says. “He didn’t give me much to go by, but I don’t think there are too many Siamese-like cats around here?”
“Not many, no,” says Michael. “What are you really asking me, Thomas?”
Thomas sighs. There’s no avoiding this.
“You’re Burmese,” he says, choosing to be straightforward. “Easily confused for Siamese by a regular human. So, Michael, what were you doing at the burnt shelter the night it was burnt?”
Michael sighs and rolls his eyes, looking almost sincere, but— not quite. Not. Quite.
“I went there to check on the kids, okay?” he says. “There were two little kittens in the infirmary. Their mother passed away and someone tried to drown them. Their mother was stray, so they were barely out of my jurisdiction. I wanted to make sure they were okay.”
It’s a very convincing lie. There were, indeed, two kittens. Doesn’t explain the fireworks, though.
“And then the fire started and you left?”
“I didn’t,” Michael said. “I wanted to stay until someone showed up. And then I saw one of your boys appear, the one with the earring. I figured, he can’t get burnt and I can, so I left it to him.”
So, he saw Charles and ran. Thomas was a classical black cat in a dark room, it appears. Michael didn’t see him. He can use it to his advantage.
“That’s good thinking,” he says, playing for time to think. “But he did get burnt, believe it or not. The cages were iron and he had to open them. I’m sure he’d have appreciated your help.”
“Oh. It didn’t occur to me,” Michael says with his best attempt at a guilty expression. His eyes are telling a different story. Guilty. The stupid kid is actually guilty. Heartbreaking. Thomas likes Michael. Loves him, even. An annoying little brother, with his cute gray ears and ridiculous temper.
He averts his eyes. He needs a moment to think. After the night full of fire, smoke and heroism he’s getting sleepy, almost dizzy. It’s a bit hard to get his thoughts together.
“Did you know baked milk is even better in cat form?” Michael asks, takes his cat form and licks his own bowl of milk to demonstrate.
Good idea, actually. Another minute to think.
Thomas switches and takes a sip. Michael switches back into human and looks at him with a satisfied smile. What—
He wakes up unable to move, do magic or talk. It takes him a good minute to figure out that he’s in his cat form, and restrained with some artefact — oh, Edwin would love this thing — that is draining power from him, to the point of keeping him basically paralyzed. All he can do is look.
“Hey, boss,” he hears. “Boss! You’re awake!”
Oh, thank Mom. Max is here. He’ll bring help.
“Can you speak, Majesty?” Max asks. Thomas does his best to glare, even though he can’t really see where Max is.
“That’s a no, I think,” says Max. “I’m right on top of you. In a cage, I mean. That’s over the cage you’re in. The Prince got us good.”
Here goes his hope for a prompt rescue. He closes his eyes, once again very tired.
Next time he wakes up it’s to Edwin’s terrified voice, yelling, “Charles!” There’s so much pain and fear in that voice that Thomas would do anything, anything at all to stop Edwin from feeling that way. Sure, he’s jealous about Edwin caring for his Charles. But not enough to let Edwin hurt. It’s all pointless, though, because his stupid little brother managed to play all of them, even Edwin.
Edwin’s friends turn out to be more than capable, in the end. And Dorothy — the little old lady Dotty, whom Michael disliked, but never took seriously — turns out to be the force to be reckoned with. She and her truly impressive gun.