Work Text:
You can tell what he’s thinking before he even speaks, now; he’s perched on the desk, ears pricked forward as he’s watching your movements, the soft clacks of your keyboard, the shifting in your chair, tail tick-tick-ticking, slightly rhythmically inconsistent in the way it dips.
Timmy wants something from you.
‘I can see you, you know,’ you remark, and it’s so silly how the metronome abruptly stops — bending at the tip, questioning. ‘What is it?’
‘Is Timmy cute, nya?’
‘Don’t you already know the answer to that question?’
‘I want to hear you say it, though.’ He’s pouting, letting his face fully show now that he’s been discovered. ‘It’s not the same when Timmy does it.’
Having Timmy around, you note, is not unlike having an actual cat. The difference lies mainly in the fact that he’s also human, or as human as the Dateviators make him, anyway; his “paws” are represented by kid-gloves and white-clawed shoes, and the hands and feet underneath are real enough that you’re certain he doesn’t need you to type or run errands for him that much.
Not, you know, that you actually try to fight him on it. You’re indulgent of him. A little too indulgent, some would say, though Timmy doesn’t mind. If anything, he weaponizes his attributes against you — ever demanding, able to get his way more often than not because you simply can’t resist. He's a monster of your own making.
But his ears and the tail, at least, are real. You know this by the way you’ve observed him as he goes about his daily shhedule; the way they pin forward, alert, when he’s paying attention to what goes on around him, the way they move back and forth when he’s actively pursuing something (whether that be a ball of yarn or simply your attention depends on your proximity). His tail, curved like a question mark, curious, amicable, twitching at any sign of irritation or frustration. They charm you much more than you thought they would, and it's also why you know you'll already be losing to him before you make your next move.
Yes, he’s fussy and stingy, and you’ll never be able to take up knitting as long as you’re around him, but he’s yours. He’s relentless in his demand for attention. It’s fortunate that you’re all too willing to give it to him.
‘You’re cute.’
‘Really?’ He looks so happy at one word of reassurance. It doesn’t stop him from asking again. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ You permit yourself a full glance at him, and Timmy grins at you, the cheeky thing: no point in trying to hide your own smile back. ‘How many times do you need me to say it?’
‘Ninety-nine, at minimum, nya.’
It’s so immediate that it’s readily apparent he’s already thought of the number, and you chuckle. ‘I’m not going to say it ninety-nine times in a row, Timmy.’
‘Then maybe you could show Timmy.’ Now his tail is curling over the computer, unavoidable, obscuring the words you’re writing — not that you really know what you were writing, anyway. ‘You could pet him, nya.’
Ah. Right to the point. ‘Greedy,’ you murmur, though it comes out much too fond to be anything but teasing, your last feeble attempt at defense. ‘I have work to do today.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Aren’t you bored of it, though?’
He’s right, obviously. You couldn’t care less about this. Just as you can tell a lot about him, so can he about you: he’s really quite observant when he wants to be. No point in pretending you’re actually focused on your work, not when you’ve got him in front of you now.
You take your hands off of the keyboard and, immediately, catch how his ears snap forward, eager, as you reach towards him and he bends to meet you halfway.
With one hand, you gently begin to caress the base of an ear, and it is, as always, something special to watch him lean into it. Preen, basically, under your touch, rubbing into the warmth of your hands, the feel of the fur underneath your skin something undoubtedly alive and responsive. Delicately, you trace the length of his tail with your other hand, watching how it curves to your touch, chasing it, the end possessively wrapping around your arm.
‘You’re the cutest,’ you whisper, and it is gratifying to recieve a fullbodied, contented purr from him, at your affirmation. It makes your heart melt to hear that — feel that — sound every time.
Eventually,because you have to at some point, you retract your arms, your fingers almost cold at the sudden loss of heat and numbness from holding them up for so long; Timmy frowns, trying to lean further in, limited by the danger of falling onto the desk. You push the chair back, stretch your limbs.
‘I’m going to make something to eat. Do you want any —‘
In a flash (because he's only quick to act when it suits him), Timmy has hopped off of the desk and flops onto your lap stomach-down, trapping you under his weight, his limbs dangling off to your sides — a position that serves no purpose other than to be a nuisance.
‘Stay.’ He twists his head to look up at you, blinking slowly, the pupils of his eyes gone round and black: ears twitching, tail flicking. ‘With me, nya?’
And here’s the trap once again — ever relentless as he is for affection, he’ll never fully be satisfied. But, as you know, you are all too happy to oblige.