Catcrow week day 7: au! I made a couple so here’s one of my fav AUs @artemisadore ‘s pirate au! That is partly a thing because of meeeeee I love it so much
Day 1: Enemies to Lovers / Confessions @catcrowweek
tell me how you really feel (read on ao3)
There’s a new face at the counter when Thomas waltzes into his regular coffee shop, or at least, not one he recognizes. That could, admittedly, be because he’s never been here this early in his goddamn life, though it doesn’t feel early so much as late, on account of the fact that technically Thomas hasn’t been to bed yet. He probably cuts an even wider figure than usual, last night’s makeup still crusted around his eyes and a conspicuous stain of… well, something, on the leg of his trousers, but Thomas feels confident he can make that work for him.
“Ooh, fresh meat,” he purrs, dragging his eyes up and down and back up again. “You must be new, because I think I’d remember a face as pretty as yours.”
The boy behind the counter scoffs, a harsh, incredulous sound. Thomas is surprised. He’s generally got a pretty good knack for reading people, and he’d have bet his favorite fur coat that Twinkerbell here – full lips, silky dark hair, eyebrows that are way too well-groomed to belong to a straight guy – was going to fall all over himself at the attention, blush and stutter and melt so adorably.
“Guess not,” he says tartly. “Since I’ve been working here for a year.”
Thomas smiles, or bares his teeth – same difference, really. Not what he was expecting, but this could prove to be all sorts of fun in a different kind of way.
“A year,” he muses – or, pretends to muse. It’s hard to tell sometimes, what’s an act and what’s not – even for him. “And in all that time, no one ever taught you not to be rude to customers?”
“You’re not a customer yet,” the boy points out, in a delightfully bitchy tone.
Thomas produces a credit card from the back of his phone case – which is the only way he’s found so far to not lose the damn things when nights like last night get… out of hand – and presents it with a flourish. “Medium caramel macchiato, two extra shots, extra caramel, and a pump of hazelnut.”
Bitch Boy snorts. “You’re going to make some doctor very happy one day.”
“What makes you think I haven’t already?” Thomas smirks, deliberately misinterpreting him.
He’s so caught up in the back-and-forth of it all that he must not be paying nearly enough attention to where he’s going. He claims his drink and spins around, intending to find a nice little perch or nook to hole up in until he feels something close to halfway human again, and promptly crashes straight into someone.
Quick reflexes keep them both on their feet, but just barely, with the unintended benefit of getting him all tangled up with who he’s just now registering is a more than moderately attractive young man.
Their drinks, however, aren’t so lucky.
The man reels back, crisp white shirt stained milky brown and dripping. His hands raise in front of him as if of their own accord as he gazes at them in horror, then shakes them out with a sharp, precise motion that sends flecks of coffee down onto the tiled floor.
He’s model-pretty, Thomas realizes, and well dressed in a compellingly odd way, all classic good looks and an honest to god bowtie. Thomas is halfway in love already.
“Sorry about that, handsome,” he says, grabbing a handful of napkins from the display to his right and reaching out to blot the stranger's chest.
“Unhand me at once!” the man says, his voice coming out far higher than Thomas was expecting. He sounds scandalized, and outraged, and imperious, and all of a sudden Thomas is a lot more than halfway in love.
“Alright,” he says soothingly, stepping back and raising his hands in surrender. “No need to do all that. I’m sorry if I… invaded your personal space bubble, or whatever.”
“Yes, well–” The man doesn’t finish that sentence, just takes over blotting with his own handful of napkins and then tugs his waistcoat firmly back into place.
“It was my fault, not looking where I was going. Let me buy you a new one.” He pitches his voice low and smooth and compelling – he’s convinced a lot of people to do a lot of things with that voice. “I’m Thomas, by the way.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” the man says stiffly.
“It’s the least I can do,” Thomas presses. “And personally, I’d consider it a bargain if all it cost me to get your name was a cup of coffee.”
“I am not in the habit of giving out personal information to–”
Tall, Nameless, and Handsome doesn’t get the chance for further protest, because by this point Thomas has already spirited him away to the ordering counter. He steps forward, smiling winningly to display how magnanimous he is even as Bitch Boy scowls at him.
“You again.” Bitch Boy’s tone is impressively acerbic. Then he sees Thomas’ new companion, and his whole demeanor changes instantly. “Oh! Edwin, I didn’t see–”
“Edwin,” Thomas says, rolling the name around in his mouth. “Thanks–” he turns to read the name tag on the clerk’s apron, “Monty.”
Monty flushes, looking a little like he’s been slapped. “What–”
“Can I get another of whatever Edwin was drinking?” Thomas says, before Monty can drag things too far off course.
“Yeah, sure,” Monty says absently, eyes still locked on Edwin. “London Fog with a shot of espres–”
“That really is unnecessary–” Edwin starts.
“Good memory,” Thomas observes, one corner of his mouth creeping up in a wicked smirk. “Or maybe just…”
Something like panic flares in Monty’s eyes.
“I really must be going,” Edwin says tersely, clearly spotting his opening to leave. “Monty, I took the liberty of ordering my own copy of The Dinner, should you wish to discuss it another time. Perhaps in more–” he spares Thomas a disapproving glance that is, unfortunately, wildly attractive “–respectable company.”
“Yeah, I’d love t–”
But Edwin is already gone, the bell on the door chiming cheerily behind him.
“Ouch,” Thomas says, whistling through his teeth. “That was painful to watch.”
“You’re a bitch,” Monty informs him.
“Yes,” Thomas agrees, nodding sagely. “But aren’t I so good at it?”
Monty flips him the bird.
Thomas decides he doesn’t need that coffee so badly after all, or at least that he’s better off getting it somewhere else. He’d rather not drink bleach, thanks, and he doesn't love the idea of Monty wielding any superheated liquids in his immediate vicinity. Instead of ordering a replacement, he stuffs a few extra bills in the tip jar and crawls back to his apartment to sleep the whole thing off.
Thomas goes back the next day, this time at a more respectable hour, but neither Edwin nor Monty are there. He drags himself out of bed at the ass crack of dawn the day after that, hoping that perhaps Edwin is a creature of habit, but no luck. Just Monty, all fanged, faked smiles and pointedly rolled eyes.
It takes three more tries before he catches Edwin again, and even then he doesn’t get much further than he did the first time. But it’s enough to confirm that Edwin does, at least on occasion, frequent this shop, and then it’s off to the races. Thomas makes a point to predict when Edwin will be in, trying his damndest to run into him whenever he can, and Edwin looks down his nose and pretends like he’s not hiding a smile behind the tight purse of his lips as he comes up with increasingly creative but ever-polite ways to turn Thomas down.
It becomes a habit, and then a routine, and then, at some point, a way of life. Even after Edwin fucks off back to England when the school year ends – because yes, Thomas has managed to wheedle trace amounts of information out of him during this protracted game of cat and mouse, including the fact that Edwin is here on a mathematics scholarship and goes home to London every summer – Thomas keeps showing up. It was his coffee shop first, and it’s conveniently located less than a block away from his apartment, so it’s not like he was ever going to stop. But he has to admit, he comes here now far more than he ever used to, and he doesn’t really see that changing any time soon.
The other unexpected but undeniable constant turns out to be Monty. He picks up more shifts over the summer, to the point where Thomas hasn’t come by without seeing him once in the last… three weeks? He’s just as sharp-edged as ever, and at this point Thomas can’t pretend that he doesn’t get some sort of thrill from the way Monty’s eyes light up in dangerous, venom-laced anticipation every time he walks in the door. Their bickering eventually settles into a routine kind of antagonism that’s more habit than bite, and somehow, Thomas finds himself looking forward to it.
Before he knows it, it’s been a year, and Edwin is mostly a distant memory but he sees Monty‘s face a couple times a week.
“Alright,” Monty says, sitting down at Thomas’s table.
Thomas raises an eyebrow – they’ve traded plenty of barbs over the gleaming machines and case of pastries, but this is the first time Monty has ever actually approached him. He’s left his apron and name tag behind the counter, and his eyes are flinty and determined.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go home and shower and put on some clothes that don't smell like coffee. And then you’re going to pick me up and take me out to dinner.” He rattles off an address. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Thomas raises an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”
Monty’s inexplicable - and, frankly, inexplicably attractive - certainty doesn’t waiver a bit. “Because for all your boasting about how in demand you are, I haven’t seen you in here with someone, like, ever. I think you’re lonely. And, even though this tired pigtail pulling routine is a god awful way to show it, I think you like me.”
Thomas blinks, a little stunned.
“And,” Monty admits, quieter. “Because no one’s ever taken me out before. And I’d kinda like it to be you.”
For the "free day" of catcrow week, here's a little snippet of a Cat King & Monty-centric post-canon fic I'm working on :) It expands a little on both of their backstories/lore, so hopefully this still makes sense out of context of the full story ^^"
--
Thomas was just finishing the last of his nightly rounds when his eyes snagged on a sorry-looking shape lying on the sidewalk near a mailbox. His nose caught the scent of blood in the air, and he lingered, curious. As he watched, the shape twitched and tried to tuck itself further into the safety of the mailbox’s shadow. Instinctively, Thomas tensed and crouched low, his vision sharpening, and the shape became more distinct against its shadowy background. It appeared to be a crow–clearly injured, and very weak. Thomas’ mouth watered at the prospect of an easy dinner. Crow wasn’t exactly his favorite, but it had been a long day, and it had been a while since he last had a chance to really get his claws out.
Stalking it was easy, its awareness of the world nearly gone, and Thomas had the creature clamped in his jaws in a matter of moments. But as he bit down to snap its neck, a taste that was bitter and acrid and horribly familiar filled his mouth, and he dropped the thing faster than a cat could pounce. He coughed and hacked for a few moments, trying to get the awful taste off his tongue, before cautiously sniffing the crumpled heap of feathers laying at his feet. Besides blood, it stank of magic, and something uncared-for. Underneath all of that clung, faintly, the heavy scent of the incense Esther had always favored burning.
Oh, Thomas said, laden with contempt, it’s you.
The crow–he was called Monty, wasn’t he?–didn’t answer. He barely seemed aware of Thomas’ presence at all. Thomas thought he must be close to death–was surprised, in fact, that he had stayed alive even this long, considering it had been over a week since Esther was dragged back to the demonic pits of whence she came. A seed of suspicion began to sprout in the back of his mind–if her little pet bird was still around, could that mean that Esther was somehow still alive, too? His cats had reported that Lilith had come and taken her, but it wouldn’t be the first time Esther had weaseled her way out of a much-deserved punishment…
Well. Whatever was going on, Thomas sure as shit didn’t want to be around to witness it. It involved neither him nor his cats, and therefore was none of his goddamn business. He was turning to leave Monty’s soon-to-be corpse for the street sweepers to pick up in the early hours of the morning, when he heard the most pathetic croak to ever grace his ears.
Come back…don’t go…
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Thomas stopped but didn’t turn, tilting his ears back to better hear if the crow said anything else.
’m cold…so cold…
His calls, though made with the voice of a full-grown crow, had a pitiful, childish lilt to them that tugged at the pit of Thomas’ stomach. Christ, he almost sounded like a baby. Hadn’t he ever learned to talk properly? How young had Esther snatched him up? He cast his mind back, trying to remember, but Thomas had made a point of ignoring whatever the fuck Esther was up to after they had… parted ways. He didn’t know when she had stolen Monty, but he did remember all the little creatures that had fallen victim to her whims over the years he was with her, all the deaths he ignored as beneath his notice.
Grudgingly, he turned around.
Monty was trembling and attempting to puff out his feathers to trap heat, but too many of them appeared to be stuck down with what Thomas assumed was blood. He moved back towards where Monty lay, wanting to get a closer look at the bird's injuries, but Monty flinched back at his approach. Thomas placed paw at his back to prevent him from moving further. Hush, little bird, he soothed. I thought you wanted me to help you? Monty didn't answer, only continued to draw in rapid, ragged breaths. Thomas nosed around his feathers, easily locating the several shallow, sluggishly bleeding puncture marks from his teeth, but that wasn't the cause of the stuck-down feathers. There were also wider, deeper wounds, all around Monty’s face and head and neck. They looked to him almost like they had been made with beaks and talons rather than teeth and claws. Could have been those rotten seagulls, maybe, except… Thomas turned his gaze upwards to the surrounding trees, noting their empty branches, and the near-silence of the street at night. Normally the crows screamed bloody murder at anyone they felt was a threat to one of their own. The fact that there wasn't a single crow in sight–or in earshot–indicated that maybe they didn't see Monty as one of their own at all.
Did other crows do this to you? Thomas asked.
Yes, Monty replied miserably, barely understandable. Despite it all, Thomas felt a twinge of sympathy. He held a general disdain for anyone and anything associated with Esther Finch on principle, and the fact that the crow had nearly lured Edwin to his second demise wasn't doing him any favors. But in the end, Edwin had stormed away from both of them that night, and Thomas was pretty sure that Monty hadn't gotten a civil conversation and a kiss on the cheek afterward. Thomas knew what it was like to be under Esther's thumb, and what it meant to disappoint her. He knew what it was like to be cast aside as soon as the tides turned ugly. And for Monty to be rejected by his own kind, too, not even able to live out the rest of his life in mundanity…
With a long sigh and the surety that he was going to regret this at some point, Thomas once again closed his teeth around Monty’s neck, only gently this time, lifting him in his mouth to carry him home.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Cat King & Monty (Dead Boy Detectives), Cat King/Monty (Dead Boy Detectives)
Characters: Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives), Monty (Dead Boy Detectives)
Additional Tags: Cat King is Called Thomas (Dead Boy Detectives), POV Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives), Cat King Needs a Hug (Dead Boy Detectives), Monty Needs a Hug (Dead Boy Detectives), thomas doesn't notice because he has his own bullshit but monty so needs and deserves a hug, Angst, Post-Canon, Feelings Realization, if you will, Hurt Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives), He has problems, Many of them, Cuddling & Snuggling, Asexual Cat King, not explicitly stated but that's how i write him, no beta we die like the cat king (and monty) have done multiple times over
Summary:
“What is this?” Monty pulled away, propping himself up on one arm. “What are we?”
He gestured between them at that, eyes wide and imploring. Thomas mourned the loss of his warmth, wanting to reach out and hold him close again.
“I don't know,” he answered honestly.
//
or, the cat king and monty, after everything, have shit to figure out
