Work Text:
The cat appears when Jimmy's walking home from school.
Bag slung over shoulder, Jimmy stops as it eyes him with its green beady slits, fur black and matted from its presumable street life. He watches as it slinks away from him into the hedge.
The next he sees it, he's sitting with Jonnie, mid-conversation about Jonnie's run-in with his dad the other night; the bastard loved picking fights when he wasn't sober.
"You ought'a come out more when he's drinking. We can always go down to the carparks, they're quiet at night."
Jonnie's sullen. He skips a rock across the path with a short kick. "Your mom won't let you anyway. Dad'll just be even more pent up if I leave, and I can't just leave my sister alone with 'im", he says, exasperated.
Jimmy's a little lost for what to reply with, when he spots the dark, lean silhouette against the rim lighting of the street lamp. "Hey, that's the cat I was talking about."
They both watch it as it trots across the pavement, diligent as it spares the two boys a quick glance before hopping the fence.
"Jimmy!"
His mom emerges from the doorway, hair swept into a tight bun. "Come back in." She eyes Jonnie warily. "Hello, Jonnie."
"Hello ma'am," Jonnie responds quickly, "sorry for the sudden appearance. I'll, em, be heading off now."
She looks at him with an expression somewhat akin to amusement; the most joy she'll ever physically express. "Yes, you rather will," she dotes.
Jonnie looks back at Jimmy as he gets up, giving him a tight smile before walking away.
"That's Jonnie?" his mom prods as soon as Jonnie has rounded the corner.
"Yeah," he says.
"Good kid," she says impassively, in a tone as if she were picking out a new contender to train for the Crufts.
He doesn't know what to say to that, so he stays silent. Later that evening as his dad pulls into the driveway, Jimmy sees the cat through his bedroom window, looking up at the candles flickering in the windows of the house.
It takes five days for Jimmy to get within five meters of the cat. He's named it Croon, after the way it yowls and hisses when he gets up in its space, deep, pitiful and reminiscent of the throaty uhms his father uses as filler words.
One and a half weeks later, Jimmy's able to feed her scraps from his dinner. She enjoys the potato salad (he hates the texture) and dislikes the ciabatta, which Jimmy can't understand.
On Thursday, Jimmy pets her for the first time. The fur along her back is matted and reedy, like she rolled in car grease. He makes a mental note to bring baby wipes next time.
Croon doesn't like Jonnie, he finds out. She's wary around him, despite his efforts to highlight his harmlessness to her.
"I don't got the voice," he says exasperated. "You've got the green thumb for animals, like your mom." Jimmy doesn't tell him about Dusty, or Oreo, or Buddy or Pom or the other dogs. He stopped giving them names after Pom died.
Sunday, Croon gets a proper wipe down and plays with Jimmy's shoelaces. The sun scorches the pavement, so they sit in the shade at the side of the house. Jonnie leans back against the wall with him, their shoulders pressing against one another.
"We ought'a get a job for the summer," Jonnie says. "To prep for college."
Croon bites at his heel. "I'm not going, I don't think."
Jonnie turns his head. "You got to stop undervaluing yourself."
"I just don't got the smarts like you, Jonnie," Jimmy replies, feeling that familiar hollow bubble build up in his chest. "I'm not like you."
"You should try anyways, you never know. I mean, dad went to college too and he's a drunk and skipped most of high school. I mean even if you don't wanna go, we should save up some cash to buy some e-bikes or sometin'," Jonnie says.
"Okay," Jimmy replies after a moment.
Jonnie grins and clasps his hand in his, a silent thank you. "I gotta idea."
After two weeks, Jimmy and Jonnie get to talk to the Don. Albert has a knowing look in his eyes, as if he predicted Jimmy would end up here.
After two weeks and four days, Croon purrs in his lap when he scratches her, doing his best to clean off the leaves and patches in her fur.
Jimmy learns how to hold a gun. Jonnie teaches him with his dad's glock, adjusting his hand over his fingers until Jimmy's grip is identical to his. Jimmy tells himself the heat in his head is from the sun beaming down on his face.
Croon visits everyday. Sometimes he wakes up and sees her silhouette through the curtains. Scolding her doesn't help; she keeps coming back to the house.
Jimmy thinks everything's fine. He'll take Croon to the vet when he gets his first paycheck from Albert. He'll figure out a way to care for her without his parents' knowledge. He'll buy a new PC.
He gets paid. He manages to manoeuvre Croon into a broken icebox and mounts it onto the back of his bike. Carrying an dilapidated icebox from a family picnic eons ago garners him a few stares from the people in the waiting room.
Croon is mangy, turns out. And she's lactating, but chances are her kittens died sometime ago. The vet prescribes her some medicinal shampoo and Jimmy brings her home.
He's parked the bike by the wall when he hears his mother behind him. "Where were you?"
"Ah, at the store," Jimmy replies, putting down the kickstand and shielding the box from view.
"And you expect me to believe that?" She snarks, eyeing him closely.
He's screwed, he knows. He can only hope to protect Croon.
"I swear, mom. I went and bought shampoo," he says, showing her the bottle inside his backpack.
"That's cat shampoo," she says coldly.
"Uh, I got bad eyes too I guess," he replies.
"Move out of the way, son."
He knows what'll happen. "No."
"Don't make me force you," she chides. Her expression is unreadable.
He hears rather than sees the car pull into the driveway, which spurs his mother to turn her head. Jimmy reaches for the handle of the box and yanks the box onto the ground, startling Croon out of her sedated daze.
"Run, please," he pleads, shoving Croon forward. "Don't come back, baby."
His mom's too late to react. Croon darts away, slinking into the gap between the fence.
He half expects for a palm to greet his face when he turns, but his dad stands at the gate instead, face addled with work exhaustion and puzzlement.
A look passes between his mom and dad, something Jimmy can't quite see or comprehend.
"Go back inside," his mom tells him, voice pitiless.
After a week, Croon comes back, to the scent of blood and the murmurs of disturbed neighbours. The flashing lights surrounding the house paint the windows blue and red.