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A familiar soft scratching sound made Tiffany jump, back stiffening-
Mr Mistoffelees stretched lazily on the rug before her, forelegs sliding over the pile easily until his splayed toes and extended claws caught in the fibres. That was not surprising, though Tiffany had not been entirely sure where he was before she found herself looking at him, right there not a full pace from her toes. Mr Mistoffelees loathed to be wet.
And one could never be precisely sure where he was, even when looking directly at him.
The scratch at the door came again, and it definitely was the familiar sound of cat claws. Tiffany pursed her lips, considering. She set aside the novel she had been reading and rose, turning quickly for the door.
‟Oh goodness.” Tiffany raised a hand to her lips, even as she stepped aside.
It wasn’t the first time she had seen next door’s cat utterly miserably wet, but he always looked rather pathetic and impossibly smaller when he was sodden. And given how striking and handsome he was generally. . .
Now, however, his mottled fur - luxuriously thick and wonderfully soft in a very different way than Mr Mistoffelees’ velvety coat, on the few occasions Tiffany had been permitted to stroke him - was nearly uniformly dull, darkened by the water plastering it to his body.
He looked half drowned, in honesty. His ears tilted out sideways as he slunk inside, shuddering.
Tiffany glared at the house next door - locked up tight, she wouldn’t wonder, as it was all too often. It might be pouring, but even Mr Mistoffelees - who Tiffany often had the uncanny feeling didn’t need to be let in or out, as he always seemed to find his way wherever he pleased regardless of such niceties - had a window cracked to allow him to slip in if he’d got out and been caught in this.
Next door’s large tom was frequently out on the street in all weathers, and Tiffany had opinions about the man who treated his cat so carelessly. She had thus far restrained herself from voicing them, to Neville’s relief, but she made no promises how far good manners would stretch if she ever ran into him in the street alone.
Cold water splattered Tiffany’s legs as the cat shook himself, some caught by her skirt, some soaking through her stockings to her skin, and she shivered, closing the door and reaching for a towel she had left near the door due to the rain. The cat hissed, but it was more distress than warning, Tiffany assessed, and she hummed softly as she knelt, not yet reaching for him but holding the towel ready.
‟You are very wet.” Tiffany pointed out, holding very still as he glared at her. ‟Wouldn’t it be nice to stop dripping?” she coaxed, lifting the towel just a little.
He kept glaring. Rain dripped from his face and even the fluff inside his ears was soaked through.
Tiffany clucked disapprovingly, and he shook himself again, then lifted one paw and shook it hard, uselessly, his tail lashing and throwing more water droplets across Tiffany’s face. She grimaced, patting them away with the towel, and when she lowered it-
‟There you are.” Tiffany crooned at the big tom pacing towards her, cautious, and held out the towel. He remained still, and she took it as all the permission she was going to get - and took care not to flap it at him or cover his face, even when she carefully squeezed the water out of his ears and the fluff on his cheeks, moving down to his thick ruff.
Her towel was sodden by the time she reached his normally extravagantly fluffy tail, and he was still very wet, but he was no longer actually dripping, and Tiffany expected she had reached about the end of his tolerance. She didn’t push her luck, rising and hanging the towel over the rack nearby to dry before leading the way back into the sitting room, inviting him to come along and rest by the fire.
Neville thought it was silly and amusing how Tiffany spoke to the cats so conversationally, but in a fond, indulgent way. Frankly she never had spoken to animals in such a way before they’d gotten Mr Mistoffelees, but something about his wide blue eyes watching her, even as a kitten, had made her feel he understood her, words or no.
Now, it only seemed polite to address them so.
Mr Mistoffelees was still where Tiffany had last seen him, having only rolled over to lift his head and watch for her. His tail swished and he mewed as Tiffany stepped back into the sitting room, and she smiled, returning the greeting.
Then his ears tipped back, and Tiffany gathered that next door’s tom had probably garnered his notice.
‟We have company, Mr Mistoffelees.” Tiffany said, sweeping her skirts aside and shivering - it was already chill away from the fire, the water splashed over her shins was not improving things. ‟I’m sure you’d be happy to share the carpet and the fire with him, won’t you?”
Though no longer dripping, the tom looked even more pathetic as he slunk across the carpet and Mr Mistoffelees climbed gracefully to his feet, tail lashing and ears forward again.
Tiffany reached for her novel, but only held it on her lap as she watched the cats for a few minutes more.
As she had expected, Mr Mistoffelees allowed him close without even a pretence of displeasure, and he settled on the rug with a piteous noise, head down. Mr Mistoffelees moved around him gingerly, not making contact, then swiftly began to wash him with quick, efficient strokes, slowly restoring the fine coat to its usual condition.
‟Everlasting Cat, Tug, what were you doing out there?” Misto questioned once Tugger’s ears and face were finally mostly dry, and his tremors were slowing. The pouring, pounding rain continued, thrumming on the roof and rattling against the windows.
Tugger’s ears tilted back as he hissed unhappily, and Misto snorted, allowing himself to settle a little closer, though his skin crawled at the damp chill his mate was radiating, even so close to the fire. It always took ages to get Tugger dry again when he was soaked through, too.
From Tugger’s sulking mutters Misto guessed that he hadn’t intended to be caught in the rain, which was likely making him almost as testy as was being soaked in itself. Misto snorted and let his questions go - at least for now - as he continued down to Tugger’s ruff, which was always the worst job when wet.
Tugger sighed, twisting to nuzzle his face, tongue sliding along his cheek in turn. Misto purred absently, accepting Tugger’s apology and thanks, and kept working on his coat even as he started to help, though he was still moving a little stiffly.
It took some time, but eventually Misto evaluated that Tugger was only ruffled and damp, warmed through enough from the fire that. . .
Misto sighed, nosing cosily into Tugger’s ruff. It was still a mess, the mottled splotches ruffled into one another - gold and black and bronze blurring indistinctly together - but it would be easier to put further to rights when he was properly dry. Misto yawned, settling into a purr as Tugger curled closer.
‟Well,” Misto rubbed his face against Tugger’s ruff, whiskers twitching at the drag of ruffled fur, ‟you could have done without being half drowned,” he yawned again, ‟but I’m glad you’re here.”
Tugger sighed, stretching a little before he tucked his paws in close again, resettling himself around Misto and murmuring his agreement.
‟Though perhaps next time you should try to come before the rains do.” Misto teased, and Tugger growled sulkily, tucking his nose down against Misto’s neck. Misto purred, twisting to rub his cheek against his mate’s, feeling smug - and not bothering to hide it - as Tugger relaxed, giving an answering purr.