Chapter Text
If there’s anything Feinberg hates most, aside from that dumbass calculator, it’s wild magic.
One moment, he’s yanking his headphones off his head in an attempt to get rid of the cacophony of screeching of static in his ears and in the next, he’s suddenly small, cowering instinctually behind what looks and smells like an overflowing dumpster, and is utterly soaked to the bone by the pouring rain.
There’s also a tail—brown and black-ringed—wrapped around his paws, which…
Yeah. Paws.
He’s a fucking cat.
He can feel water dripping from his ears, and to be honest, if he looked in a mirror, he’d probably look just about as pathetic as he feels right now.
Whatever. It’s fine. He can deal with this. He just needs to find out where the hell he’s run off to.
Carefully, he creeps out from the ball he’d kind of just found himself curled into when he’d finally managed to free his human mind from the cat instincts that had overridden everything, and he turns slowly, taking in his surroundings outside of the half-rotten cardboard box.
Dirty gray concrete walls are what greet him, the only real color coming from the wilted weeds poking up from the cracked concrete and the pockmarked graffiti, and there's something about it all that feels familiar, but when he tries to grasp at the memory of where he's seen this before, it slips through his now-metaphorical fingers like sand. He sighs—though with his new cat lungs, it really comes out as more of a small huff—and sits, squinting up through the rain at the barred windows looming above him, all foggy glass and rusted metal jutting out in front of the low-hanging storm clouds.
It’s weird being this small. Everything towers over him, his vision feels different, and he keeps having to resist the urge to jump whenever he spots his tail in the corner of his eye. If this lasts longer than a week like the last time someone turned into an animal, he’ll track down the core for wild magic just to murder it personally.
Before he can get around to actually planning the murder of a concept though, footsteps sound around the corner of his alley and his ears perk up, angling towards the sound. A shadow creeps across the entrance, significantly bigger than he is, even accounting for how shadows work and he can practically feel his rational brain turn off at it.
In the blink of an eye, he’s darted back behind the dumpster, cardboard crunching wetly under his claws, where he hunkers down. Something like a hiss builds in the back of his throat, but he wrestles it back under control.
A scuffed pair of shoes enters his field of vision, but thankfully, it doesn’t stop by his hiding spot, just steadily moves past. Ignoring his violently suppressed cat brain, he cautiously leans forward, just enough so that he can get a better look at the stranger’s face, and—
Wait. Feinberg knows that silhouette, knows that stupid lime green hair poking out from beneath the hood.
Fuck.
So that's where he's seen this alley before.
God damn it.
The universe has to be laughing at him, right? Of every person he knows and isn’t an immediate enemy of, this is who he runs into first? Granted, it’s still better than someone he doesn’t know, but really? Boosfer?
Fine. Whatever. He’ll just have to make do. At least it’s someone he knows and someone he can yell at afterwards to his heart’s content when he turns back without feeling bad about it. Though he’s not sure if he’d trust Boosfer with any small creature. Has he ever had pets before? He feels kinda like a dog person. Not really sure about cats.
Movement breaks Feinberg out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head to clear it as Boosfer, evidently unaware of him, stops before the door embedded into the side of the alley to fish through the pocket of his hoodie for something—keys, by the jangle, and fuck.
He straightens out of his hiding spot, ear twitching in an attempt to flick the heavy feeling of water off. The cardboard shifts strangely beneath his paws, but he readjusts, claws digging small furrows in, and he dashes out into the alley, bounding around Boosfer’s legs to skid to a halt before the door.
“Oh—shit!” Boosfer jumps, backpedaling a bit, and Feinberg lets himself snicker a bit internally at the startled, wide-eyed look on Boosfer’s face. “Oh, my God.”
“I scared you, didn't I?” He’s suddenly reminded, again, that he’s a cat by the still surprisingly smug sounding meow that leaves his mouth instead of words. Predictably, aside from the way Boosfer's face morphs into something like a more curious surprise, he doesn't react much.
It throws Feinberg off more than it should. He's too used to Boosfer always immediately shooting back with something—an indignant denial or laugh—but that's something for him to get over later. For now, he just needs Boosfer to at least let him into the relative safety of a house.
To be honest, he doesn’t really have a concrete plan. Just yell, maybe? And hope Boosfer gets the message and lets him in or something?
Hmm.
Not a lot of good options. Feinberg has the feeling he's a little bit out of his depth. At least he's fairly certain he could try just breaking in until Boosfer gives up and lets him stay. Cats are slippery, right? Surely he can find a way into what looks, frankly, like a building with shitty security. In the mean time, he'll just…?
Somewhat out of option, he shrugs—or, tries. Cats don’t actually have particularly tethered collarbones. Maybe screaming will work. Who knows? It can’t be too far out to think that Boosfer might find some kind of kindred spirit with an animal who likes yelling just as much as he does.
He meows again, wordlessly this time, stepping closer, and that's what seems to snap Boosfer out of it.
And of all the things he expects Boosfer to do, he isn’t really expecting him to soften, some tension Feinberg hadn’t even noticed bleeding out of his shoulders. “Hey, kitty,” he says, crouching. Feinberg’s new cat brain instinctively makes him skitter away and out of grabbing range, but wow. What the fuck.
He eyes Boosfer carefully, and he looks…different, in civilian clothing. Without the green jacket and his usual stupid smirk, he looks quieter—almost a whole different person entirely. Feinberg thinks that if he were human, it might actually have taken a few seconds for him to recognize Boosfer like this, despite the distinct pale shade of his eyes from his manifestation and the color scheme he still seems to be unable to fully drop, even if the hoodie he's wearing is more than a few shades darker.
Something about it makes him uneasy, even when he knows it shouldn't, and the feeling only grows stronger when Boosfer's mouth twitches up into a slight smile.
“Where did you come from?” He extends a hand, and for a moment, Feinberg just has to stare at him, because what.
Seriously, what the fuck?
Against his will, he can feel the fur along his spine start to stand up. This is too much. Has he wandered into some alternate universe or something? Who the hell is the person standing in front of him?
Briefly, he considers listening to his cat brain and bolting, but Boosfer interrupts him. “I haven’t seen you before. Kinda cute.”
And okay. Yeah. That’s it. Fuck you.
Feinberg bites him.
It makes him feel a little better, at least, the taste of copper blooming on his tongue and the yelped curse Boosfer lets out as he flinches back onto his heels, rolling with the movement until he's rocking back up to his full height, but it's not the smartest decision, especially not when Feinberg is then violently reminded of how fucking small he is compared to a human standing on both feet. Before he can stop himself, he backs up, ears flat, until his haunches hit the rough concrete wall, and right as he's forcing his new instincts back under control, a hiss bursts from his mouth.
Damn it.
He really needs to figure out how to control that.
Look, he wants to shout at the unwanted addition to his brain, does Boosfer even look mad?
And he doesn’t. If anything, the furrowed look on Boosfer’s face is little more than disappointed—wait. What? Disappointed?
Feinberg watches him warily as he tilts his hand, swiping at the beading blood with a thumb and smearing it across his palm.
“Rude,” Boosfer mutters. He sighs. “Okay, okay, fine. I’m sorry. Boundaries. I’ll leave you alone.”
Oh. Never mind. Feinberg doesn’t feel better. Why is Boosfer acting so weird? He can feel his tail lashing behind him, smacking into the wall in his discomfort. He kind of wants to bite him again.
But no. He still needs Boosfer’s help, like it or not.
He makes himself relax, fur laying back down smooth the best it can while completely wet, and he shifts up so that he’s sitting and no longer hunkered down by the wall like an actual feral animal. “Sorry,” he says, as if Boosfer could understand him, “can you let me in?”
Mrrow is what comes out, and Boosfer blinks at him.
Then, he huffs. “Take care, kitty.”
He skirts around Feinberg and there’s a moment where he just has to stare as Boosfer fumbles for his keys, because, again. What? If not for the lingering taste of metal on his tongue, he genuinely would have dismissed this as a dream.
He’ll be honest. He doesn’t really give much thought to what Boosfer is like alone, not when Feinberg’s usually preoccupied by how fucking annoying he is when he’s around other people, but even so. This? Really? It feels just so…alien, seeing him like this.
The door groans open, snapping him out of his state of shock, which reminds him—Feinberg is not being left outside in the rain. Nope. Not happening.
Taking the opening, he dashes forward, weaving between Boosfer’s legs and barreling straight into what looks like a kitchen, skidding to a stop with the click of claws on laminate paneling.
“Wh—hey! What the fuck?” Feinberg hisses at him again, and that has Boosfer pausing in the doorway. “What do you mean, hiss? This is my house!” The door swings shut, and Feinberg takes that as his signal to bolt off in a random direction.
It’s a bit awkward, running in this form, and the slippery floor isn’t helping, but there are, at least, some benefits to being so small.
Meaning that he absolutely breaks Boosfer’s ankles and once he turns back, he will be holding this above his head for as long as he can.
He’s not even that tired by the time he manages to clamber up on top of the fridge. Boosfer, however, when he finally appears in the doorway, is panting. “Holy shit,” he mutters, bracing himself against the counter, “fine, fine, you win. Jesus.”
About time.
Feinberg lets out what honestly sounds kind of like a satisfied chirp, his tail swishing around to lay neatly over his paws.
He’d found it a bit annoying at first, the tail, but it is quite nice, actually. Good for balance. He can see why evolution’s selected for it.
Boosfer looks up at him, and sighs. “So, what? Is this your house now? Are you staying? The fucking—cat distribution system or whatever?”
He meows again, flicking an ear. Another sigh.
“Oh my God, I can’t fucking believe this,” comes the muttered response, soft enough that Feinberg only barely catches it, even with his new sharpened hearing. “I guess I have a cat now. What the fuck.” Then, louder, “Are you gonna come down?” Briefly, Feinberg considers it, tilting his head. And as a change of pace, he just stares, until Boosfer’s face suddenly morphs into something tired-looking. “Yeah, I—you know what. I’m just gonna take that as a no. Wait here, ‘kay?”
This is honestly kind of fun. Feinberg can’t remember the last time he heard Boosfer sound this exasperated. Is this why he insists on pissing off everyone that comes within hearing distance of him?
And so, deliberately, Feinberg hops off the top of the fridge, landing softly on the counter, watching as Boosfer gives him one last, almost wary, look. “Are you going to listen to me?”
“No,” Feinberg informs him cheerfully, making the last jump down onto the floor and trotting up to him.
“Yeah. Yeah, I figured. Come on then, kitty.”
Now that he’s not sprinting circles around the house, he takes the time to look around, and it’s actually a decent apartment. Nothing fancy and kind of small, but given what Boosfer does, not surprising. He isn’t sure exactly where they’re going though, not until Boosfer stops in front of a closet, tugging the door open.
Curiously, Feinberg winds around his legs to peer up at what he’s doing. Boosfer doesn’t really seem to notice, busy rooting around on one of the top shelves.
“They should still be back here somewhere,” he mutters to himself, and Feinberg can’t help but tilt his head.
Has…Boosfer actually had a cat before?
He didn’t know that.
“There you are! Found you, finally.” Boosfer pulls back, a bottle in hand. He looks down, and Feinberg tilts his head a little as he meets his eyes. “You’ve been tracking water all over my house, you know.”
Feinberg glances behind him. A line of wet paw-prints shines up at him, and oops. Not really his problem, right? It’s just water anyway. Doing his best to affect some kind of kitty-buffed innocence, he blinks at Boosfer.
And surprisingly, he just hums. “Oh well.” He crouches again, slower this time, like he’s being careful. “How do you feel about a bath?”
Immediately, Feinberg feels his ears pin back. Seriously? Having to ask Boosfer for help was already embarrassing enough—but this has to be too far.
Boosfer tsks, the bottle of what’s probably shampoo, then, dangling loosely between his fingertips. “C’mon kitty, you’re smart. It'll be good for you.” He reaches forward with a hand again and Feinberg eyes it consideringly, tongue pushing lightly at his teeth, the echo of copper flickering to life in his mouth. Boosfer doesn’t seem to realize how seriously Feinberg’s taking the thought of biting him again—or maybe he does, because he pauses. “The—oh, my God, I’m arguing with a cat.” The hand retreats and Boosfer sighs, rubbing at his eyes instead. “I’m losing my fucking mind,” he says under his breath. “Whatever. Please?”
If Feinberg had the facial muscles to do so, he’d have raised an eyebrow, because wow. Boosfer saying please unironically? Rare fucking sight indeed.
He relents, letting his ears pop back up. Being objective, it’s not really a bad idea. Getting rained on wasn’t fun and he’s not particularly fond of the idea of trying to fully clean himself off the…uh. The normal cat way. Those stupid instincts can go fuck themselves.
And it surely can’t be that bad, right?
“So.”
Boosfer squints at him, and Feinberg lets his tail twitch, watching those eyes immediately flicker to track the movement for a second.
It’s kind of funny. Exactly who here has been turned into a cat?
“Are you gonna let me touch you, or are you going to bite me again?”
Feinberg meows wordlessly, and it takes all of his self control not to burst out laughing—or whatever the cat equivalent of that is—when Boosfer shoots him another cautious look.
“I’m going to take that as a yes. Please don’t bite me.”
Briefly, he considers it, before turning to the tub half-full of water sitting right behind Boosfer.
Then, holding full eye contact, he jumps.
Water sprays up, glittering in the florescent bathroom lights and from his position, he gets the perfect view as Boosfer turns, eyes widening in almost slow motion.
And you know what? His yelp when it hits him is fucking worth it.
Surprisingly, it really isn’t that bad.
Awkward, maybe, but he spends most of the time strongly reconsidering his alternate dimension theory, even if just because Boosfer keeps being so damn patient.
“You know—” Feinberg jolts, his head snapping up, and he might have jumped, if not for the steady hand still on his back and the towel moving over his wet fur “—I don’t usually see blue eyes.”
The movement of the towel stops, and he can see Boosfer hesitate, his eyes flicking over Feinberg’s form.
Then, something brushes over the top of his head and instinctively, he flinches away, crouching to glare up at it, ears flattening.
And there’s another moment of brief hesitation, before Boosfer’s hand lowers, running a knuckle over Feinberg’s head, right between his ears. “You’re a real pretty cat,” he says softly, hand turning to gently scratch the side of his neck, and oh. Okay. That’s kind of nice, actually.
Cautiously, Feinberg unwinds, straightening and half-unwittingly pushing up into the contact.
“Yeah.” He can feel his eyes fall shut, something low starting to rumble in his throat. “Oh—you’re purring.”
Cracking his eyes back open, he glances up, and it’s only a testament to how relaxed he is that he doesn’t completely freeze in utter shock, because what the fuck is that expression.
There’s this small smile on Boosfer’s face, and it rounds off the edges of his face, down to the corners of his eyes, and it’s still so…wrong, almost, to see him look like this.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
The thought loops around his head, and he finds that he can’t look away, his curiosity feeling strangely morbid. He’d like to think he’s got a pretty good handle on Boosfer’s expressions, including, recently, very unhelpful panic, but whatever the fuck this is simply comes back as a giant glaring error.
For an almost hysterical moment, Feinberg imagines what would happen if he told someone else about it.
He’d find himself getting shipped off to a psychologist, probably. That’s what he’d do, to be fair, if anyone decided to come up to him and tell them that Boosfer was capable of making this kind of an expression. Or—well. He’d probably laugh in their face first and he’d like to think that he’s kind of justified for it.
There’s a tiny part of him that points out quietly that it’s not as if Boosfer’s an alien that’s wholly incapable of the full range of human emotion, but he shoves that part away. He can get philosophical later. For now, he’s going to try and do his best to digest the fact that it’s actually possible for Boosfer to be something other than, at best, a semi-competent and annoying troll of a human being.
“Okay, let’s finish drying you off first.” Boosfer breaks his internal spiral as he draws back with a final scratch under the chin and Feinberg nearly grumbles at the absence, but he’s still a bit preoccupied by that stupid fucking expression on Boosfer’s face to fully voice his displeasure.
God. Feinberg wants to bite him. Again. And hard.
But Boosfer pulls away before he can, and so Feinberg settles for just growling, this little sound that vibrates at the base of his throat as he turns to glower at Boosfer. He gets a puzzled look in response, but it doesn’t stop Boosfer for more than a second before he’s turning away to hang up the towel.
Grumbling again, but softer this time, Feinberg shakes himself out, turning his head to run a critical eye over his back. His fur’s standing up in all directions, spiky with moisture despite the best efforts of the towel, but he can spot what’s probably his true pelt color underneath, in the drying roots—this kind of soft sandy brown, his eyes catching on the thin bands of black around his tail when he lets his gaze drift further down his spine.
Hm. He’ll take that, he supposes. It’s not even terribly far off from his original hair color.
The bathroom door creaks open and he glances up in time to see Boosfer in the doorway, hand on the knob. “I’ll leave the door open for you,” he says, before he’s disappearing again and Feinberg’s alone.
The sound of his footsteps fades in the distance, and Feinberg waits until he can’t pick it up, no matter how he swivels his ears, to crouch, jumping up at the sink above him.
It’s not particularly pretty—the ceramic is slippery, cold, and he scrabbles at it gracelessly for a second before he rights himself on the lip of it, but he manages. The second problem is that the mirror’s still fogged up, and he frowns at it the best he can with a cat face.
Still, easily solved. Balancing isn’t hard, especially when he reminds himself to retract his claws before he digs them uselessly into the ceramic and when his tail waves behind him automatically to stabilize his movements, and he rubs up against the mirror, clearing a strip.
And—
Wow.
He leans in, squinting a little. A pair of startling blue eyes stare back a him—a kind of blue a few shades past what should be natural for at least most cats, and that’s because it’s his blue. Cat pupils aside, those are his eyes, his manifestation. Did Boosfer really see nothing wrong with them?
Feinberg would have thought it obvious.
Or—well. Fine. To be fair, he wouldn’t have immediately jumped, with a hundred percent certainty, to this conclusion if he’d come across an animal with Boosfer’s weird eyes, but still. Surely the similarity’s crossed his mind? He can’t be that blind, right?
His ears have flattened against his skull. It takes a moment for him to relax enough that they pop back up.
Maybe it’s for the best that Boosfer doesn’t find out about it, actually. He can already imagine the teasing and he’d rather not spend the next few days perpetually being pissed off, especially since it’s not as if he can properly argue back.
Footsteps sound down the hall again and he turns, meeting Boosfer’s eyes when he reappears. Boosfer blinks, as if surprised to see him on the sink. “Oh, so you are still here.” He steps closer and Feinberg watches warily, suddenly hyperaware of the way Boosfer’s gaze darts over his face. He looks as if he’s searching for something, but it is also entirely possible that Feinberg’s just being paranoid.
Boosfer reaches out, still startling large versus Feinberg’s current form, but he manages not to flinch away, just lets him gently scratch that spot right below his chin. He almost regrets it when that weird smile reappears, but the warm feeling spreading out across his skin wins over, and he lets himself rumble in approval again.
“Okay,” Boosfer says, drawing away, “everything’s closed for the night, so I’ll go get stuff for you tomorrow, but—”
He stops, eyes flicking to the mirror and the slowly re-fogging clear strip dragged across the surface of it, and oh shit. That’s not a thing normal cats do. Feinberg feels himself tense, tail going rigid behind him.
Boosfer’s eyebrow raises, and unexpectedly, a grin breaks open on his face. “Were you looking at yourself in the mirror or something?” He taps Feinberg’s forehead lightly, fast enough that all he can do is startle. “Holy shit.” He laughs, delighted. “Never seen that before, you’re one smart cat.”
Ah. Boosfer’s just a fucking idiot. It works out in his favor though, so he keeps his reaction contained to just a flat glare, feeling his fur start to lie back down flat—
“Your eyes are really blue though.” Never mind. Every ounce of tension he’d lost immediately rushes back in, stiffening his spine. “You kinda remind me of Feinberg.”
Fuck. Shit. Goddamn it.
He jinxed it.
With as much subtlety as he can with Boosfer still looking at him, a thoughtful expression on his face, Feinberg crouches, preparing to bolt.
“Kitty Feinberg,” Boosfer says, considering, and yeah. Wow. He really has the worst fucking luck today, doesn’t he? Boosfer claps his hands, the sound echoing in the bathroom, and there go his ears again, pressed flat against his head. “Kittyberg.”
That has him pausing, just from the sheer absurdity of it all, because…what?
“You’re a lot cuter than he is though.”
Feinberg just stares.
He’s really saying this too often today, but, in his defense, he keeps encountering situations where it’s deserved, so. Holy fuck.
“You’re a fucking brick,” he meows, straightening and wrapping his tail neatly around his paws.
The grin doesn’t change at all. “Yeah? You agree with me?”
Boosfer reaches for him again, and honestly? Feinberg thinks he deserves it. For the third time that day, he strikes forward, and bites.
There’s a certain kind of smugness that fills him at the sight of the bandaids plastered over Boosfer’s fingers, a kind of pride that has his tail waving up in the air like a flag.
“At least you haven’t been scratching me,” Boosfer mutters, turning his hands over. Feinberg tilts his head, flicking an ear, and he gets a warning look for it. “Don’t you dare.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he replies, sweeping his tail away from the edge of the kitchen counter, almost offended.
Almost.
Mainly because he had been considering it. But honestly, biting’s more satisfying, and it’s not as if Boosfer can—what? Be faster than him? Talk him out of it? His power doesn’t even work properly on Feinberg anymore, headphones or not.
Boosfer narrows his eyes. Feinberg blinks back innocently.
“I really hope you don’t have rabies or something. That’d suck.” A sigh. “Whatever. It’s okay. You’re cute. It makes up for it.” Then, Boosfer glances over at the oven clock, frowning at the time. “Oh shit, that took longer than I thought. Uh….” He squints at Feinberg. “Dunno if I still have that bed. It should still be lying around somewhere…” he trails off, stepping away. Feinberg watches him go, feeling his tail lower.
It’s odd, the thought that by himself, this is the kind of person Boosfer is. Surprisingly informative, sure, but odd. Maybe it’s his fault, for always thinking—not the worst, but certainly not the best of him, but it really does feel like he’s looking at someone new. And besides, who would have known that a notorious dickhead like Boosfer would have such a soft spot for cats anyway? Feinberg mulls it over, and eventually finds himself standing in the doorway of what looks like a bedroom.
The closet door’s open, Boosfer squinting into it like there’s something in there that’s personally offended him. He starts slightly when Feinberg winds between his legs and sits in the doorway, twitching his tail over his paws. “Oh. Hey, kitty.” He frowns at the closet again. “You don’t care where you sleep, right? Don’t have a bed for you, I think.”
Feinberg stares at him. “What? No?”
“I’m going to take that as a yes.”
This time, when the hiss bursts from his mouth, it’s only half by accident. When Boosfer looks down at him, an eyebrow raised, he makes sure to slip back out of the closet, and, while holding full eye contact again, jumps up onto the bed.
“…Oh, my God.” For all the exasperation in his voice, Boosfer’s smiling, surprisingly. “Dude, c’mon. I sleep there.”
“I’m not sleeping on the fucking floor,” Feinberg informs him with a lash of his tail. “You have space.” And, to make his point clear, he kneels down in the center of the bed, paws folding underneath him.
“Seriously?” He hisses again when Boosfer inches closer, the noise dying down to a low rumble in the back of his throat when he quick backs away, hands in the air. “Okay, okay, point taken. Jeez. You’re not moving, are you?”
Feinberg does his best to shoot him a glare, but now that he’s settled down, there’s a part of his brain—mostly the cat side—that’s suddenly decided that now’s a nice time to relax. “Nope. You can try though.” The end of his sentence trails off into a yawn, and he has to shake his head a little to wake back up.
Boosfer makes a huff—not a full sigh, but something close—and closes the closet door. “Can’t believe you just barged into my house and took over my life in like, two hours. What’s next? Do you want me to sleep on the couch or something too?”
Honestly, Feinberg doesn’t really care and now that he’s comfortable, he finds himself surprisingly sleepy, so he just yawns again.
He almost immediately regrets it a little, because he still really doesn’t know what to do with blatant affection on Boosfer’s face. “At least you’re comfortable. You’re like if a princess was a cat or something.” Boosfer tilts his head. “Assuming you’re a girl. I have no idea.”
Feinberg feels his ears twitch backwards slightly, but thankfully, he doesn’t do much else, just flicks the light off with half a laugh.
“Good night, kitty,” he says, before disappearing around the corner and leaving alone with far too many thoughts.