“Don’t give me that,” Tank growled. “I saved your ass. Do you know what could’ve?—”
An explosion rattled the garage as another firework, this one far bigger than the others, lit up the sky over his home. Tank flinched and swore, his heart pounding as old instincts screamed.
Dangling from his hand, the kitten curled into a tight ball and stared at him with wide, panicked eyes.
“You don’t like ‘em either, do you?” Tank shook his head and drew the kitten close to his chest. Baby claws sank into his shirt and pricked his skin, but it didn’t hurt much. If anything, the tiny bit of discomfort helped ground him as he stomped away from the partially disassembled trunk.
When another firework screamed through the air, he cupped the shivering kitten’s back and hurried into the house. “It’ll be better in here,” he promised them both.
It was certainly warmer, and the fireworks weren’t quite so loud in the semi-underground structure of his homestead. Hands shaking, he found himself compulsively petting the feral little grease ball who clung to him.
Can’t leave him all covered in oil,Tank thought.No one will take him if he’s dirty.
And sincehecertainly didn’t want a cat, he figured he ought to give the kitten a little bit of a spit shine. He’d call around to see if anyone needed a mouser in the morning, he decided, heading for the kitchen sink.
Tank expected more hissing and biting as he lowered the kitten into a soapy bath of warm water, but that’s not what he got. Perhaps the fireworks had put the fear of Loft in him, or maybe he’d just run out of steam. Either way, the kitten stared up at Tank with the saddest golden eyes as the orc clumsily scrubbed dish soap into his fur.
Pitiful complaints rose from the soaked kitten, tugging at long-disused heartstrings. “I know,” Tank muttered. “It’s almost over. How’s about a can of tuna after this, huh?”
The kitten had no idea what he said, obviously, but it didn’t seem to matter. As soon as Tank got him thoroughly rinsed and wrapped in a kitchen towel, the little creature began purring like a finely-tuned engine.
Setting the kitten in front of the cast iron fireplace with an open can of tuna, as promised, Tank eased into his favorite seatwith a sigh. He’d fetched himself a drink, too, but he barely touched it as he watched the damp kitten attempt to eat too-big mouthfuls of tuna and purr at the same time.
Worried that the kitten would eat himself sick, Tank made an executive decision and removed the can when he’d finished half. This was met with loud complaints, but the kitten must not have been too upset because the moment Tank retook his seat, the cat sprang onto the couch and clawed his way onto the orc’s shoulder.
“That’s all right, I guess,” he mumbled, scratching the cat behind one triangle-shaped ear. “S’long as you don’t think you’re staying, you know. I’m not a cat person.”
A rattling purr and the press of a cold nose on his neck was his only response. Tank sighed and leaned into the cushions, his claws idling sifting through drying fur. His drink sat forgotten on the side table as he said, “Guess you should have a name. Might take a while to find someone to take a baby mouser, and I can’t just call you cat.”
Thumbing one silken ear, he offered, “How’s Grease? You know, for that spot you’ve got.”
The cat didn’t reply. Those harmless little claws began to knead Tank’s shoulder, though, which he took as a positive sign. “That’s settled, then,” he announced, lifting up the collar of his flannel to tuck around the little furball. “But you’re not staying, remember? Don’t get too comfortable.”
Despite the noise outside and the memories that threatened to grip him by the throat, Tank found his eyelids lowering as he made himself comfortable on the couch. Eventually, he settled on it long-ways, his boots discarded, and Grease curled up on his chest. He never seemed to stop purring, and Tank never seemed to stop petting, and before they both knew it, they were asleep.
Well… maybe I could use a mouser,Tank thought, drifting off.
A Cold Diamond
Roxelana Zorya didn’t knowwhat other families did for the holiday, but hers threw a party. Not the kind she’d read about in books and seen in films, with warm smiles and comfortable sweaters and baked goods.
Her family’s tradition was… colder.
She observed the soiree with tired eyes. In her gloved hand, champagne bubbled in a crystal flute. It was still full. Her aunt and uncle were busy discussing important things across the ballroom, but that didn’t mean she was unobserved. If her aunt caught her sipping alcohol, she’d never hear the end of it.
It was bad form tonothave a drink in her hand, but it was even worse to risk getting drunk around influential company.
And her aunt and uncle didn’t keep any other type of company.
Being related to one of the Five Families meant they held a certain sway, and being one of the families that firmly believed in keeping the old order of things meant they only associated with elves like them.
Roxelana hated it.Allof it.
She hated being locked in the house. She hated the idea of being forced into a loveless union. She hated the fawning andthe snide comments and the sheer, unearned audacity of every single self-important asshole in the room.
When an elderly woman she knew had an unbetrothed son made eye contact with her, she quickly pretended to hear her name across the ballroom. Her silk gown — bias-cut and a perfect shade of cream to complement her blue skin — brushed her ankles as she did her best to hurry without looking like she was doing exactly that.
People murmured at her as she passed beneath the massive crystal chandelier, offering platitudes and well-wishes they didn’t mean. She gave them all practiced smiles but didn’t stop. If she slowed down, someone would catch her, and then there’d be no extracting her from the uncomfortable conversations her family’s allies wanted to have.
