[for Hal, werecat time] There's a cat at Gates' feet. A very familiar cat. A cat that is very obviously only taking this shape because he doesn't want to be yelled at, and it's harder to yell at a cat than it is to yell at a man. The second Hal looks down, Flint chirps at him, kneading one of his boots. [ as if he needs to transform to butter this poor bastard up, really, ]
[HOW DARE YOU BRING THIS INTO MY LIFE. HOW DARE YOU]
Hal sighs, and eyes the creature trying to poke holes in his best boots. Only boots.
“You look like a scruffy little runt, you know that don’t you.” Hal is disgusted at the note of fondness creeping into his voice. He rolls his ankle, trying to dislodge the ball of fuzz sprawled over his feet. He’s rewarded with a hiss; a sad little mew.Fuck you, he thinks, fuck you, don’t you dare flatten your ears.He’s feeling guilty. He is actually, really, here and now feeling bad about upsetting this cat.
“If you don’t stop prodding at my feet like that, you little menace, I will wash you.” He lowers his face, narrowing his eyes at that green gaze. “I will take you outside this cabin, and I will give you a bath.”
Distressingly, The Cat decides not to listen. Or care. The kneading increases, and now a soft little cheek is rubbing against his leg, leaving cat hair in its wake.