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"You know," blurts Phoebe, perched on her lap when she feels the bridge of a familiar nose against her skin, "you remind me of a cat, sometimes."
The first reflex Zani has is to raise her hand up to the level of her head, poke around carefully, very carefully as to not risk puncturing her hands because that would most definitely ruin the mood of their little date, and wait until her palms graze against the exterior of something. Something like, say: her horns that are the work of some evil spirit to enact heretical terror over Ragunna and not a mutation side effect from her untimely awakening as a resonator when she was a kid. Or that's what the rumors that all those holier-than-thou people that spread about her origins try to claim, at least.
She doesn't, but that's only because both of her hands were wrapped around Phoebe's waist, coiled around her like a rattlesnake that wouldn't ever budge.
(It's not that she doesn't like cats. Sure, the little guys were nice and all, but she wouldn't necessarily just adopt one out-of-the-blue, not when her timetable is always so filled out with so many activities that taking care of the cat could even prove to be difficult—impossible, even.
Like thinking of new ways to pry Phoebe out of the Order's menacing gaze, clocking out so late that she'll only find herself coming home at nightmarish hours, reading all the cute messages Phoebe sends her for energy through her work days, cleaning up the streets of all those rascals who may try to enact harm on the Ragunessi, finding and jotting down new recipes for her and Phoebe to cook together, think of Phoebe whenever some free time comes her way, calling Phoebe to make sure she's doing okay, or to ask her if she needs her help with anything, take a stroll with Phoebe whenever she can and—
Well, she's sure the point's been made.)
"There are quite a lot of ladies that come to the Cathedral asking for the Primus to bless their feline friends," Phoebe says, an explanation in earnest despite the fact she wasn't prompted for one, though Zani would be lying if she said she wasn't curious—there's not a single person in Ragunna who would identify her as a cat when her mutation makes it so difficult to think of anything but a Tumbleyak, but Phoebe has always managed to find new ways to surprise her, so. "And all of them have such frighteningly detailed grooming regimes—it reminds me of your horn-tail care routine."
Which she knows, now, with its entire unskippable twelve-step procedure involving towel wraps and specialty moisturizer that she's memorized by heart, marshmallow palms having familiarized them with the glossy hardness of her horns and insisted on taking care of her for once, when she'd been too tired to even stand from an overtime session that gnawed so badly at her sanity that she couldn't even stand on her toes.
The collar of her Acolyte attire is pinched between Zani's teeth and she's careful with the force she exerts as to not sully the softness of its cottony feel—when the fabric bends to her will and reveals the faint traces of strawberry red that perfectly matches her teeth marks it hides underneath, she finds herself smiling in content.
"And then, there's this cat by the fountain that I come to take care of sometimes." Phoebe continues on, unflinching even when a pair of lips flutter against her neck—tilts her head, even, just to make it easier for her to lick, "She's always looking at me with her big beady eyes until I pet her and scratch her chin, she likes to paw at me, bite me playfully, even—it makes me think of how you like to cuddle up to me and pet your horns whenever I get the chance to stay over at yours for the night."
Her lips are attentive, almost reverent as she greets every trace imprinted that's yet to part from her beloved's skin. There was a saying, Zani reminisces, some newspaper section detailing fun facts in last week's Monday issue about how cats like to mark what belonged to them, that owners would often find themselves littered in fur that could only have come from a feline-natured culprit, how they'd stick close to their guardians and rub themselves against their clothes to leave their scents close. Marred by red scratches and dampened licks, just to prove a point—just to prove to every other cat in the vicinity that their owners were theirs.
Huh.
She's beginning to get what Phoebe is saying, she thinks.
And it feels like Phoebe's read her mind as the next words fall out of her lips, "Oh, and, I read an article that talks about how cats love to mark their territory," She blabbers on and on, never pausing to ask if she's listening because she knows Zani does—it's more difficult not to listen when her voice is so angelic that even a single 'Cheer up, Miss Zani!' sent into her terminal inbox has her energy instantly replenished for the rest of the day she has ahead, "Some of them love to get touchy with their owners, they like to stay so close to them and ask for their attention and even leave their smells on them—you know, like what you're doing now."
It feels like what she's saying should be a callout, but Phoebe likes that, too, Zani thinks, else she would never have let her pull her into her lap the moment she'd removed herself from her staff and carefully placed it aside because she knows she'll always be safe within her arms like this, or let the traces of her cardamom-scented perfume linger around her with how close they stick to one another that it feels like they could fuse into one.
But she'd be lying if she said she hadn't thought of it, sometimes, though she won't ever admit it, the possibility that one day Phoebe won't be careful enough and her collar will slip without her realizing. The girl is always surrounded after all—she's beloved by many, echoes and humans alike and it would be impossible to think that there isn't another living soul who's been charmed by her the way Zani has.
Knowing her, though, that scenario would never happen—Phoebe's a cautious girl, her collar is fitted tightly around her neck and it doesn't slip unless someone pries it down for her, and even in the worst-case scenario that it does happen, somehow, Zani has the confidence that she'll be able to turn it around and claim it off as a mosquito bite.
"You'll have to spoil me then," Zani says instead, something more believable that she finds could happen with how affectionate the girl can be when they're in private, "since I'm your pet cat, you have to spoil me."
Phoebe turns her head around just so she can see the look in her face. The tone in her voice shifts ever so slightly—it almost feels like she's trying to defend herself from her flimsy accusation.
"I never said you were my pet." She contests, a pout twisting her lips in a way that makes her so adorable that Zani almost finds herself leaning in for a kiss, "Only that you act like one."
But it's also true that cats like the feeling of their master's attention, Phoebe had said so herself, "And cats like getting spoiled," Zani hums, "I don't see why I wouldn't feel the same."
Deadpanned, Phoebe stares at her for a few seconds, not knowing how to respond.
"Sometimes," she goes, before she decides to turn her body altogether to face her more comfortably, "I wonder how the Miss Zani I knew to be so stoic and serious ended up like this around me."
She has a point, though—if any of her co-workers were to see her like this, all soft and sugary that it's such a far cry from how she is normally, she thinks they'd have started bombarding her with all sorts of questions that would have reminded her why she likes to keep her private life so private in the first place.
But the answer is simple, really, it's not that hard to find.
"Because I like you." Zani says and it's true — she'll gladly remind her of it for the rest of her life if that's what Phoebe needs, "That's how you ended up with this—it's your consequence for being so lovely it made me want to spend my breaks with someone instead of being alone in my office."
Phoebe stifles a chuckle at the accusation of her blameless fault, and she frames her next words in such a manner that makes it so obvious that she's trying to mask the laughter that's threatening to spill out of her lips, "Oh, how treacherous of me—will you ever forgive this so-called lovely Acolyte for doing such a grave transgression?"
There isn't anything to forgive—but Zani still cups her cheek and swipes a thumb against her lips regardless. "Only if you take responsibility for it."
Phoebe smiles at her helplessly, unable to fight against her wiles. "You really can be as sly as a cat, huh?"
But she acquiesces, still, leaning in as she closes her eyes and Zani’s tail wags happily as their lips meet halfway in.
If this is what she gets for reminding her beloved of an animal that no one else would ever consider her to be—then Zani wouldn't have it any other way.