milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Jon wanders in, folder and tape recorder in hand, looking... a bit disturbed, rubbing at the back of his neck like he's trying to erase the mark of something.

The feel of something.

Something like that.

He still has a few statements to record, so this is meant to be a break rather than a full stop, so the change in scenery is... not entirely appreciated.

"Oh come off it now, why... ugh." Jon grumps, not bothering to modulate his irritation or his volume.

The Bar offers a fresh cup of tea, and Jon glowers at it.

"That's not earning you any forgiveness." He informs his kidnapper, but adds when the tea disappears again: "But yes, tea would be nice."

Can tea re-appear somewhat huffily?

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That should be a more common question, in this particular bar. Can tone and attitude be ascribed to something lacking vocal tone, facial expression, or body language? Is it just one's mind projecting the expected emotional response onto a long counter of wood and magic? What proves it exists?

Like, is it paranoia to feel like you're being watched, when you are?

There are two very green eyes (accompanied by two soft, white ears) peering at Jon from behind a half-opened cabinet door behind the bar.

Someone had gone exploring where he wasn't supposed to (whoops).

At first, Jon does not notice. He is too busy blowing on his tea, curling slightly too-cold hands around the mug and trying to shake that creeping, awful feeling.

Something about white fur against dark wood finally triggers his peripheral vision, and he glances over, and...

"Well, I don't think you're supposed to be up there."

"Maii?"

Who, him? Surely not. The cat admits to nothing, no aims or ethics or wrongdoings. He was meant to be here, which is why he is here. Which is why he is up here, seeking the most graceful way down, balanced on the thin edge of cabinet shelf and looking for a clear place on the counter below.

...it isn't the most graceful drop, but it (like most drops in places subject to gravity) is successful.

Jon settles back onto a bar stool, from where he'd half-risen to help - not that he could reach up there without a stepstool, and who knows where one of those would be around here.

"The Russian judge gives it a 9.5." Jon informs the fluffy acrobat, offering his hand for inspection.

"Prrt," says the cat. Not a perfect score? Insult!

But can the judge be bribed? The cat sniffs curiously at Jon's fingers, light touches of long whiskers and the feeling of faint breaths.

"I know, I know, they're always so unfair." Jon agrees, keeping his fingers still for the initial inspection, waiting until there's a break before wiggling his fingers, just a little, offering.

There was a conspiracy against him, clearly. No athlete of his caliber should have to endure such treachery. It had been a four-paw landing. Everyone saw. Review the tapes.

A pink nose boops a fluttering finger lightly before the cat just leans its head into the curve of Jon's hand, mwrring.

Jon obligingly scritches, fingers finding the soft angles between ear and chin and head.

"Ehh, who needs him, huh?"

Exactly right. The offending judge will be dealt with. He will disappear under mysterious circumstances. The cat will see to it.

Right... after...

That really is quite nice.

The cat leans its chin down against Jon's fingers, purring up a storm. Its fur is very soft and thick, quite warm against cold hands without being as hot as a fresh cup of tea.

The purring is... nice. Calming. That itchy feeling at the back of his neck is... less. Ignorable.

"Maybe if I ask nicely, Elias will let us have an archive cat."

The cat looks up at him, green eyes wide and curious. "Mwwrrrt?"

He'd like that. A new place to explore.

Jon's chin is within reach. He may also get a light headbump from the cat.

"I'm sure Elias would make you submit a CV." Jon... really really does not understand how Elias is going about hiring for the Institute - after all, somehow he got the Head Archivist job without any archival experience, and Martin got the job of assistant with absolutely no common sense, so...

Who knows. He's not exactly complaining (much). And he's pretty sure he can do the job better than his predecessor at least.

The cat purrs, leaning into Jon's hands and wondering what in the world a CV is.

But surely the cat is plenty qualified, and a convenient hire. He has absolute ages of experience. His commute will be short. He doesn't need food, can sleep just about anywhere (and will), and is a highly-rated cat-hlete despite what the Russian judge says.

And he has such enthusiasm for jobs he can really sink his teeth into.

A pink, rough, dry tongue rasps against one of Jon's fingertips.

"Heh, yeah, I'll put in a good word." If he ever sees Elias, that is - it's rare that Elias Bouchard is seen down in the depths of the archives, preferring his office a few floors up (you know, where there's actual sunlight and non-fluorescent lighting).

That is very kind of Jon. The cat's bright green eyes half-close in pleasure at the scritches, and it purrs contentedly, leaning its soft-furred head into the curl of Jon's hand. It has a good, deep purr for a relatively small cat; it vibrates through the creature's entire frame.

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