#whiskey kitty

[fallintitan]

whiskey chapter uhhhhh 36

His first mission with the IMC goes horribly. He can’t say he’s all that surprised, given his track record so far in life. It’s still unknown to him and everyone else how he made it through basic training. But he did, and here he is--should he feel some sort of excitement, here? His first injury out on the field. Taube’s first screw-up of many, he supposes. 

His dominant arm is cradled against his chest and he can feel blood oozing onto the fabric of his gear from the bullet wound. He can also feel the sharp, grinding pain of broken bone-ends grinding against each other.

The feeling of eyes digging into him keeps him decidedly glaring into the floor. He refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, not even the medic’s as he’s tinkered with. Another IMC grunt stands guard at the door. While it feels like their gaze is more empathic and concerned, he resolutely ignores them as well. He doesn’t need to be pitied. If anything, he needs to be taught a lesson.

“Is he gonna be okay?” the guard at the door asks. Of course they’d be “concerned” about his well-being. If he were to be out of the field for too long, it would be another body out of work that could be instead helping the IMC with its work.

And, really, that’s all he’s good for at this point.

“He’s fine,” the doctor says bluntly, digging a piece of shrapnel out of Taube’s bicep and making him wince. “He’ll recover. This is far from the more serious injuries I’ve dealt with, and it’s also one of the dumber ones.”

He feels his face heat under the passive assault. He can tangibly feel his brows furrowing together further as he glares harder at the floor. 

“It was a mistake,” the guard counters. “Everyone makes mistakes, doc.”

“Not everyone gets injured by their shitty mistakes, soldier.” Out of the corner of his eye, Taube sees the medic look directly at the guard and dare him to speak further.

“I mean, I’m sure I have at the very least.” He swears he hears a hint of teasing in the words. “Heaven knows you’ve had to stitch me back together from stupider things.”

“Which is precisely why it needs to be wrung out of a person.” He feels a harsh jolt on his shoulder, grabbing his attention. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah.” His eyes fall to the side. “It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t lie to my face. I’m not an idiot.” The medic’s voice is harsh again. “With the way you’re acting, I’ll be expecting another visit very soon.” He pushes the little stool he’s stooped over back and away from Taube, rising to his feet. “Both of you. Get out. Don’t come back.”

Meekly, he takes the medic’s words to heart. He rises silently, arm now wrapped in gauze and medical tape and stuck at a crooked angle, approaching the door. He desperately hopes the guard won’t speak to him on his way back to his bunk. 

“Don’t take anything that guy said too seriously,” the guard says as soon as the door is shut behind them. Taube bites down a groan and keeps walking. Unfortunately, the guard is able to keep up with him. “Everyone here is a hardass. They take it competitively, it feels like.”

Taube doesn’t respond, focusing on his footsteps as they make their way through the halls. 

“You’re new, right?” The guard continues to chitter. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. ‘Course, that doesn’t really say much in terms of things. This place would hire damn near anyone if it meant they’d do what they asked.”

Surprise jolts through him. Why is this guy so openly speaking against the corporation that not-so-subtly made people that did so disappear without notice? “You’re stupid for saying that,” he mutters over his shoulder.

“This whole place is stupid,” the guard chuckles. “The higher-ups get a little too pissy when someone doesn’t kiss their boots the right way.” The guard bumps Taube’s shoulders with his own. “Plus, it’s only frowned upon if you get caught doing it.”

“It’s still stupid.”

“And why is that?”

“I mean, this place took us in, gave us jobs and shelter and all that. Why trash it?”

“‘Why trash it?’” the other echoes, seemingly stunned. “Have you heard of the shit this corporation does to get what it wants? War crimes upon war crimes, stacked on top of even more war crimes. The only reason people don’t speak out about it is because another war crime will be committed to keep them silent.”

“You really feel that way?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”

“So, why stay?”

“Taube, you think they’ll let me go if I defect? You think they’re just gonna let someone rumored to talk about the shitty side of things with his cohorts get away out into the world to keep jabbering?”

A pause. “No, not really.”

“That’s why I’m still here.” He hears the other man heave a sigh that sounds entirely too weary for someone his age. The guard is suddenly right next to him, crowding into his space respectively, but still close. “Always thought about it, though. Getting the hell out of here would be paradise.”

“Even as a whistleblower?”

“Even as a whistleblower. Not gonna waste my freedom knowing there’s awful things going on that I could do something about. They wouldn't be able to keep me shut down, even if the public begged me to shut up.”

Finally, he meets the man’s eyes. “That’s very noble. Stupid as hell, but noble.”

“It’s not about being noble,” the guard waves a hand dismissively. “It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Of course.” They pause outside Taube’s bunk, awkwardly hanging before the door. “Well, this is my stop.” Before he turns away, he adds, “Thank you for the company. You didn’t have to. But it was nice.”

“Nobody has to do anything if they really don’t want to. Just might end up dead with certain things.” The guard winks at him, then holds out a hand. “MacAllan. James MacAllan.”

Awkwardly, Taube reaches out with his left hand. “Robert Taube.”

“Nice to meet you. You’ll stay low about my ranting, will you? Just made a good friend, wouldn’t want him to get lonely without me being there because the officials caught wind.” A smile splits his face, honest and genuine.

“What ranting?” Taube smirks back at him. “All I heard was us talking about the glory of this place.”

MacAllan snorts and claps a hand on Taube’s good shoulder.”Good man.” 

[moss-sauce]

@five-by-five you inspired the discord server [ @spiralled-fury @siinoevil @gradientauhomestuck @fionnaskyborn] to go feral about barker, so here’s what we’ve come up so far:

barker inadvertently starts rescuing strays that show up at his place

he starts using his money to take them to the vet/food/medicine instead of alcohol, so they actually help him sober up

while he loves them all, he keeps only one kitty permanently

her name is whiskey, tho he calls her whiskers sometimes

her sight is impaired, so she follows him everywhere

basically he’s passed out on the floor and when he wakes up she’s there cuddling with him and he about cries

his favorite food is strawberries, so he always has some. this is what he feeds her for the first few days

eventually he starts naming the strays

he names them after alcohol/beverages to fuck with people

“i need some vodka” [picks up a little kitty named vodka]

basically the kitties and whiskey/ers help him sober up and get himself into shape

[fallintitan]

gamers i am back with whiskey kitty part THREE

[ao3 link]

The night is significantly more lonesome than the others had been. In the short span of a day he’d gotten so used to having something living and breathing sitting with him, watching him with a second pair of eyes.

    That should be a testament to how bad it’s gotten, Barker, he thinks to himself dejectedly. Taking comfort in something so easily--let alone something living.

    Maybe it’s for the better. He can barely take sufficient care of himself as is. Having an animal to take care of would only end in disaster. He thinks of how he would rescue strays with MacAllan, how James wound sneak cats and small dogs (a whole chicken, once) into the dropships to tend to them and give them food and water. James was focused on his work and not easily distracted. He cared about what he did. He thought ahead.

    Barker could barely think up to the next day.

    Where MacAllan had been optimistic and persevering, Barker was pessimistic and tired. He knew too well that the world had it out for certain people--and he was one of them. Even during the Demeter conflicts, he had taken refuge in bottles and being alone. He moves to dump whatever is left in the bottle in his hand down his throat, but frowns when nothing comes out. Has he really drunk his supply out? A quick scan of his stash tells him the truth: he’s been holed up for so long he’s literally drunk his entire supply.

    His head falls into his hands. He debates on going out to get more. The urge will still gnaw away at him no matter what; he figures he can at least appease it. 

    It involves making himself look halfway decent and held together, which he most certainly does not feel at the time. Still, he thinks, he still needs things besides liquor: apparently more strawberries, for one. 

    Through a throbbing headache he gets dressed in civilian clothes. Plain jeans (covered in dirt), a plain tee (covered in wrinkles), and an old hoodie that only slightly dredges up better memories of better times. It’s still a misfit--MacAllan had a far bulkier build than he did. The sleeves are baggy and the hood dips down over his forehead too far.

    He deals with it. The comfort is worth looking a little haphazard.

    Outside his apartment, rain drizzles and puddles in the streets of Angel City. To his delight, the weather masks the usual stench of both his apartment and the alley next door. Instead of rank and unpleasant smells, he instead is soothed by the rain’s aroma and pitter-patter.

    Barker feels he sticks out like a sore thumb. Wanted posters spattered around the city you call home can do that to a person, he thinks. Fortunately, the IMC is dumb enough to use older photos of him (which he--hopefully--doesn’t match as well anymore, showing a shit-eating grin and confidence that he no longer has) and his fake alias. The citizens of Angel City are also fairly lenient and cooperative in keeping his identity snuffed from prying eyes. Protection from someone as formidable (or was as formidable, he thinks with ire) as himself can work things, mech, plane, and odds alike, into their favor.

    The walk is a blur. He does not focus on where he’s going; he simply lets his feet take him where he needs to be. There’s no need to pay attention, for he has done this dozens and dozens of times before. He knows negligence would get him killed someday, but he argues that he has too much on his mind to give a shit right then.

    This late at night, the only people wandering the streets are other low-lifes like him. He’s not one to judge, though. He’s had a bit too much first-hand experience to do so.

    An awning over the shabby general store provides some fraction of shelter from the rain. He takes a moment to shake the water off, rubbing his face and working into a facsimile of normalcy.

    Something chimes as the doors open automatically. The cashier throws out a friendly greeting to him that he barely remembers to meet with a wave. Belatedly, he hopes they don’t take offense to it. Barker may be a sad and miserable man, but he is no asshole to those that don’t deserve it.

    As per usual, he absent-mindedly makes his way towards the liquor aisles. With it being so late, the items on shelves are still haphazardly arranged from the daytime rush. He pays them no attention as his eyes follow the tiles on the floor. Still, something nags at him to stop and look down one of the shitty aisles.

    Pet supplies.

    He frowns. He has no need for anything like that-- not anymore, at least. But his brain starts churning: what if Whiskey comes back? Cats like to adventure, but they always come home. Does she call his place ‘home’ now? His eyebrows furrow as he thinks.

    Somehow, he ends up halfway down the aisle. He has no recollection of walking there. In his face are a dozen types of cat food: wet and dry, canned and packaged, though the ‘flavors’ sound as unappealing as the labels make them look. His mind scrambles to remember something Keplar had told him, something along the lines of pretty sure wet food is better for cats in general. Dry food is boring, anyways. 

    So, he grabs a pack at random.

    This is a stupid, dumbass idea, Barker, part of his mind berates him. Suppose she doesn’t come back. You’ve just wasted credits. Credits you could have spent on dulling your sorrows in the only way you know how. 

    He shakes his head stubbornly. He may be tired, worn, and weary from everything life has thrown at him, but he’s lived through it all like a damned cockroach. Stubbornly, he’s still kicking. He firmly believes Whiskey is still as well.

    His feet take him a few more steps into the aisle: things like beds and blankets, “enrichment” toys, all the (what he used to think were) useless and over-the-top purchases for something as non-entertaining as an animal. 

    His opinion has changed since then.

    Before he knows is, his arms are full: he’s snagged a little stuffed bed, a bag of treats, more food, and miscellaneous playthings.

    Abruptly, he stops. The voice in his head seethes. You’ve no room for what you came here for, idiot. Waste of a walk.

    Barker decides that he doesn’t give two shits about it right now.

    The cashier is obviously bewildered by his unusual selection, though they don’t comment on it. Without an unnecessary word, they bag it up neatly and take his cash. 

    On his way out, his heart takes a turn. When the employee bids him farewell, he musters the energy to parrot it back at them.

    The walk home is filled with planning: where to put what, what to put out, what to keep hidden-- all things that blessedly take his mind off the drab and drear shadow that’s taken over his life. His mind is still buzzing as he steps back into his apartment and toes his boots off.

    His empty apartment.

    Any of the rush that he’d gotten from the walk bleeds out of him like liquid out of a bottle’s mouth. His shoulders go back to slumping, he tosses things haphazardly on one of the chairs as his hand already seeks out the familiarity of a bottle. To his mind’s dismay, he’s reminded that he failed to actually purchase any liquor. Heaving a sigh, he drudges up a glass of water and collapses back onto the worn-out couch. His eyes go half-lidded like usual, disinterested in taking in what he’s already familiar with.

    Eventually, he sleeps.

[moss-sauce]

    anyways my best friend right now is barker. he deserves someone caring about him you fucking cowards. and that someone, is a kitty kitty

[ao3 link]

Not for the first time, he wakes up on the floor.

    His skull throbs and his temple is tender (implying he didn’t get down here lightly), leaving him dizzy and woozy. Overall, his body feels like deadweight--which it should be, his addled brain snaps--and he’s reluctant to move.

    The apartment is hazily lit, the light on the nightstand fuzzy and stretched through his bleary eyes. It has the same odor as always, the same chaotic arrangement, the same mess he’s intended to pick up for months now, the same liquor bottles stacked haphazardly on the table and countertops.

    He comes to the disappointing realization that he’s blacked out again. Tilting his head to the side tiredly, he spots the bottle in question, long since emptying onto the floor in a foul-smelling puddle. He should clean it up before he busts his ass on it. He’d argue that it should be done before it ruins the floor, but it’s so far-gone that he isn’t bothered with caring about it anymore. 

    Feeling a cool waft of air pass over him, he shivers and moves to stand. He’s left the goddamned door open again while he’s in such a vulnerable state. Barker scolds himself harshly. The IMC no doubt is still on the hunt for him after his abandonment and ultimate betrayal, not to mention bounty hunters looking to cash in on the fifty-grand credit reward on his head.

    Try as he might, he can’t muster the strength to move, let alone sit up. Even as he tries, his body protests loudly and furiously. 

    While wallowing in self-loathing, he hears something. Slight, almost undetectable, except for the apartment being silent.

    Desperately, his hands search for his pistol. They check his empty holsters reflexively, leaving him with a sinking feeling. 

    The nightstand.

    He cranes his head to look up on the short stand. Sure enough, his pistol rests on top, the clip sitting parallel to the barrel. 

    So, this is it. This is how he goes out. On his back, belly-up, in possibly the worst scenario imaginable. Fuck, they probably strolled in through his front door that he left ajar.

    The floor creaks as something steps on it.

    He gets a surge of bravado that he acts on. “C’mon out, fucker,” he seethes. “‘M not goin’ down easy.”

    The floor creaks again as whoever it is proceeds closer. Whoever they are, they’re light on their feet. Their movement is barely audible. 

    Mustering all the strength he can, he shoves himself to sit propped against the front of the couch-- he should at least face his demise full-on. His hand snaps out to grab the pistol and clip, fumbling to insert it with shaky, uncoordinated hands. Barker swears to himself at his own incompetence until the clip finally clicks into place.

    “Won’t say it again,” he hollers. “Get your ass out here!”

    Something hums from where the footsteps are coming from in the kitchen. Shaking fingers go to prime the gun. He aims, horribly offset and wobbly. 

    What rounds the corner is not his demise, somehow.

    The little orange tabby patters into the doorway crookedly. She seems to have made herself at home--she doesn’t cower away from Barker when she sees him. Distantly, he realizes the damn critter has probably been sleeping on his bed. 

    Frustrated yet relieved, he empties the gun and puts it to the side. “You lil’ shit,” he curses, “‘bout scared me to fuckin’ death.”

    The tabby looks at him calmly. He notices one steel-blue eye is cloudier than the other. Her skinny and matted, obvious battle scars showing up through the orange-striped fur.

    She’s probably feral, he realizes. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen strays roaming the streets. Though, it is the first time he’s seen one with the gall to come inside. 

Tabby comes meandering in towards him boldly. As she nears, she stops to curiously sniff at the puddle of whiskey that had spilled onto the floor. 

    “No, that shit’s bad for you,” he chides. How ironic, Barker!

    Something within him nags away at his conscience. He’s capable of at least giving the poor thing fresh water or something. The adrenaline high is still strong from thinking his end was near. With a heaved sigh, he gets his socked feet under him and props himself up against the couch.

    The Whiskey Kitty  startles at his movement, skittering away but quickly returning to peer at him curiously with a chirr. Her head is angled to keep her good eye on him. He clods to the kitchen with as much coordination as a hung-over man can garner. 

    Whiskey Kitty lets out a small, trilling mrrp! as he passes by.  For the grown-ass man he is, it goes straight to his heart. He’d stoop over to pat her head were he not worried about keeping his balance. Instead, he goes straight for the cupboard, fetching a shallow bowl and running it under the tap. Once it’s filled, he shuffles to the kitchen table to plunk down in a chair. Once seated, he sets the dish on the floor.

    Whiskey Kitty hauls ass over to the dish, drinking from it almost feverishly. He feels a pang in his heart: how long has it been since someone’s looked at her twice? Barker finally caves in to the urge to touch it, carefully leaning forward to hold his hand out. 

    He misses by a long stretch. 

    Cursing to himself, he goes to sit back up, but Whiskey Kitty seems to have noticed the gesture. Clumsily, she bumps her head into his palm and rubs happily. Something like a rough, garbled purr starts up from within her. It’s strong enough to shudder the cat’s whole body.

    How long has it been since she’s felt safe enough to let her guard down like this? Hell, how long has it been since he’s been able to let his guard down? Jolting in realization, he realizes the door is still wide open to the night of Angel City. In a hurry, he clambers to stand and rush over to close it. Whiskey Kitty follows him stride for stride.

    At the doorway, he gestures for the cat to leave. “Shoo,” he says half-heartedly. When the cat stares at him with the yeah, right, asshat look in her eyes, he gives up. 

    “One night,” he promises. “You can hang out overnight. That’s it.”

    Whiskey Kitty seems to understand the crack in his facade, moving to slither between his ankles happily. When the door closes and the lock clicks, she backs away and utters a quick, quiet ah! at him. 

    “You expect me to feed you, too?” he groans. What the hell does he have that’d be fit to give a cat, anyways?

    As he turns back towards the kitchen, Whiskey Kitty takes the lead, trotting past him with her tail tall and curled at the end. When he finally returns, she’s seated up on the tabletop with her tail wrapped neatly around her paws.

    “No, c’mon,” he groans. “Get down.”

    She stares at him knowingly. 

    “‘M serious,” he begs.

    She blinks.

    With a huff, he turns to the fridge. “Fine. Asshole.” He rustles through the meager contents inside--mostly bottles in various states of half-empty. The only thing he can find that he thinks would be fit for a cat is a carton of strawberries. The urge to grab one weighs heavily on him, so he fetches the carton and shuts the door.

    Back at the table, he stares face-to-face with the Whiskey Kitty. He distinctly sees the cloudy cataract in one of the cat’s eyes.Her face is marred with old scars, and he distractedly notices a deep wound on her shoulder.

    “You’re a scrapper, ain’t ya?” he muses. The cat stares back at him. Tentatively, he reaches a hand out, surprised when Whiskey Kitty hardly even flinches. “You used to b’long to som’one.” He’s amazed Whiskey Kitty still trusts humans--he sure doesn’t. Humans are sleazy and scheming, and if his time in the IMC was any indication, gutless cowards that have pawns fight for them.

    Whiskey Kitty jolts him out of his dwelling by bumping her head against his fingers, searching for more contact.

    Mah! says the cat.

    “We’ll find a good home f’r you,” he promises. “I’m jus’ an old drunkard that can’t do jack shit anymore. Otherwise, I’d…” he huffs, because it’s true, “keep you myself.”

    Remembering that no, Whiskey Kitty probably hasn’t had a meal in days, he flicks the carton open and breaks a small piece of a strawberry off for her. Immediately, she licks up the juice leaking from the piece, purring contentedly. 

    “You’re a good girl,” he tells her. “You don’ deserve what th’ world dealt you.” She pays him no mind, instead nibbling on the red flesh of the berry happily. When she looks up at him, she licks her whiskers contentedly. 

    He feels drained. His back hurts from being on the floor for god-knows-how-long. The telltale thumping of a headache is present in his head, making him sigh and rub his temples. He grabs a strawberry out of the carton and bites the greens off, popping the entire thing into his mouth. Through the dryness and aftertaste of the liquor, it’s splendid. He finishes his handful, giving Whiskey Kitty her fair share, before standing and stowing the carton back in the fridge. Standing nearly sends him careening into the counter, making him brace with one arm. 

    Whiskey Kitty sees him moving, hopping to the floor with a small thump.

    “You’re cute ‘n’ all, but you ain’t sleepin’ in my goddamn bed,” he tells her. She looks up at him curiously, seeing right through his ruse. Flustered, he turns his back and thumps down the hallway to his room, flinging the door open and throwing himself on the mattress ungraciously. He’s still moving from the mattress pushing back against him when he feels something hop onto the bed at his side with a small noise. “Ugh,” he groans. He supposes some cat hair on his sheets can’t be any worse than stains.

    He stays sprawled out on his stomach as his eyes drift shut slowly. The quiet of the night and, for some reason, the notion that he isn’t entirely alone tonight almost, almost makes him calm. 

    Beside him, he feels Whiskey Kitty curl up in the crook of his arm neatly before settling. He can hear her purring again, something that helps him settle down enough to drift off to sleep.

[fallintitan]

uh oh brotherrrrrrssss it’s another whiskey kitty chapter!

[ao3 link] This is part 5! The other parts can be found on this blog, or with the AO3 post!

He stares dumbly, gawking at what he’s faced with. His jaw has probably dropped. He doesn’t give a shit.

The lumps of fur in the box wriggle and twist. Six of them. Six of them. They couldn’t be more than a week old. Their eyes and ears are still closed. They’re relatively dry, and he finds himself particularly drawn to their tummies, which seem to be full. At least she’s taking care of them the best she can.

Whiskey noses them gently, quieting their mewls, before turning to Barker and trilling. Her good eye is looking at him expectantly.

“God, Whiskey Kitty. I can’t,” he deflates. He can barely take care of himself. How in the world would he care for six more incredibly dependent and fragile things?

Whiskey looks at him more. It wears away at his will--Christ, Robert, you’re really getting soft-hearted. He conceives a plan.

“We’ll get them home,” he starts, “and then to the shelter. No more kitties for me. Got it?” He realizes he’s speaking to her as if she could respond. His mind berates him for it.

Whiskey caterwauls back at him. The noise is jarring, making him flinch. The tip of her tail is flicking irritably. Her ears are angled back, threatening anger. He’s in the process of studying himself after such a hard flinch when she yowls again. And again.

Someone in the apartments screams slurred obscenities at the noise. A window is thrown open in a rush, and something clatters to the ground next to them, barely missing the box and its precious contents.

Immediately, he’s fuming. His body stiffens, his fists ball up, and his face goes menacingly scowling. He thinks about going up and giving the fucker a piece of his mind. Now, Barker, his conscience reasons with him, littering is illegal, but so is randomly killing a man. Get your vengeance another time.

Something brushes against his leg, jolting him out of his murderous haze. His eyes widen when he looks down.

One by one, Whiskey is plucking the kittens out of the soggy box and placing them at his feet. Once they’re all at his feet, Whiskey meows at him plaintively.

“Oh, my God,” Barker rolls his eyes, though he starts shuffling off his coat. “Whatever. You’re manipulative, you know that?”

Whiskey doesn’t bother answering--because she’s a cat, Robert--and watches as he delicately scoops each kitten up and tucks them into the warmth of the overcoat. He doesn’t notice the cold rain plastering his shirt to his skin, nor does he take a moment to think that probably looks as much like a drowned animal as Whiskey, the actual drowned animal.

In seconds, he has an armful. He can’t help but gawk at the kittens as they wriggle in the warmth of the coat. They’re tiny. Delicate. Dependent. Completely the opposite of what he should be dealing with in his spare time. Barker considers that he was big and brawny enough that he could sustain the poor lifestyle he’s chosen. Whiskey may have tagged along for the temporary ride, but in the same manner-- she can handle herself. Obviously not, he thinks. She asked you for help with what she couldn’t do. When’s the last time you asked for help with things?

Stubbornly, he shakes his head and wipes his brow with his free hand. He’s hunkered over the bundle enough that the little ones are staying dry, but he still knows the condition out here is hardly hospitable.

He starts back towards his apartment without thinking. Whiskey follows him stride for stride, constantly trilling at him. The noise works the kittens into a fuss, making him walk more briskly up the stairs to the door.

He stops in his tracks so suddenly that his feet nearly slip out from underneath him on the steps. Whatever shitty little shoemat he’d put out has long-since disappeared to heaven-knows-where. As he flails for the railing, he considers adding it back to the growling list of things he should pick up. Somehow, through the idiotic struggle to keep his footing, he rights himself once more. He rushes through the entryway to drop his bundle on the main room’s table before startling.

He’d left the door open, the whole goddamn time.

Blanching, he does a quick look-over of the apartment. Nothing seems out of place. Whiskey is as calm as she could be in this situation. Should anyone be inside, he relies on her finding them first and going full mama-bear mode on the poor fool.

Unfolding the coat, he gently checks to make sure all of the kittens are alive. His gun-callused fingers smooth over their bellies to feel for breathing--which, thankfully, he finds in all six.

Whiskey jumps up onto the table next to him, nosing at her babies. They wriggle more furiously at her touches. He barely catches Whiskey before she’s shaking herself off adjacent to him (What’s it matter? You’re already soaked anyways.) and flinging droplets everywhere. Some land on the kittens, who fuss.

Barker huffs. “Dumbass. What a shit mom you are.”

Whiskey levels a deadly one-eyed glare back at him. He can tell there’s something going on behind that eye; something that he’s probably going to regret later on, but can’t be bothered with at the moment. She takes to lapping the drops off the kittens one by one, thoroughly cleaning them. 

He watches, bemused, at the feeble way they fight back. No matter how much they wriggle and writhe, they can’t seem to escape her determination.

Finally, it sinks in: he’s invited more than half a dozen felines into his apartment, and he only knows the basics to caring for one. His head drops into his hands as he rubs his temples. What else is there to do?

Warmth! The little voice of reason screeches at him. They need to be warm, idiot!

Hurriedly, he rushes away from the table, nearly slipping again on the puddled water on the hard floor. He trots to a closet, fetching a spare blanket and a towel before ushering back out.

Whiskey waits for him patiently. The evil intent has left her face, leaving her as what she is: a worried mother. She watches closely as Barker makes a bed out of the thick, insulated blanket. 

Tentatively, he reaches for the kittens in his coat with a shaking hand. His hands know war: guns and piloting, Titans and living under the radar. Never would he have thought that he’d be dealing with such a situation. He stops himself: if MacAllan were still around, it’d be a completely different story. He could’ve nearly guaranteed this would happen at some point.

He’s snapped out of his reminiscing by Whiskey bumping her head into the tentatively raised hand.

Well, his conscience (he thinks) says, that’s as much of an invite as you’re going to get.

When his hand finally reaches one of the damp kittens, he nearly retracts it just as quickly. Whiskey watches him calmly as he works his way through picking the first one up.

His heart pangs. He’d previously thought they were only a week or so old, but he realizes he’d overestimated. They’re barely days old. Their eyes are still shut and their ears are folded over. They’re pudgy. They’re warm. They’re so, so little.

He gazes at the first one he picks up. He’s nearly a miniature replica of Whiskey herself: orange with tabby stripes. His underbelly and front feet are white. Barker can feel the inklings of tiny claws against the pad of his thumb. He gawks for minutes. The little tabby settles down in the curve of his palm and nestles back down to sleep. It takes all his willpower to not leave it there. Gently, he tucks it inside the towel and blankets next to Whiskey.

The next one is just as orange as the last one, though he lacks the white patches. He sleeps the entire time Barker moves him. A third proves to be the first girl of the group. White with splotches of gray scattered haphazardly around. He’s not one for picking favorites--but he may have just found his favorite. Another orange tabby female. A little jet-black male. The final one is noticeably smaller than the others, and looks to be in poorer shape. He figures he’s the runt of the litter. Still, Whiskey takes him and tucks him into her tummy. Quickly, all six are back to sleeping, far more comfortable than before.

What does he do now? Instinct got him this far, but he’s clueless beyond that. A pit forms in his gut. What if he really can’t keep them safe and warm? What if Whiskey decides to just dump them on him and leave? He doubts she would, but the worry is still there.

He fumbles for his communicator, mindlessly typing in a name and praying they answer.

A sleep-muddled voice answers him. “Barker? Barker, is everything okay?”

[moss-sauce]

some more barker kitty hcs for yall

-whiskey has kittens barker didn't know about. she bring them to him on the third day

-the box he let them "sleep" in (bc we all know they're ending up wherever he's sleeping) is called the beer cooler. the kittens are named after beer brands. he is quite proud of himself for thinking it up

-he keeps a kitty brush where he keeps his liquor. he can go for it instead of a drink when he's out of it

-he INSISTS he's a tough sunnuvabitch who is NOT manipulated by baby cats. this is a lie.

-at some point during his recovery, he goes to relieve MRVN of its duties. he agrees to let it stay with him bc he feels guilty

-the aces are stunned when barker shows up with five kittens stashed in the pockets of his pilot suit. nobody dares mentioning it. which is sad bc barker wants to ramble about his kitty kids

[moss-sauce]

oh please talk about the old titan datacore i'm all ears

(I'm having to do this on mobile so lemme try)

basically, while out and about (buying stuff for kitties) he comes across this old, burned out husk of a titan. what catches his eye is that the datacore is still flickering, albeit weakly. barker, "doing what a good person would do" and NOT planning on keeping the core as a friend, takes it home carefully.

at home, he tries all he can to fix this ai. he's using his shitty old computer to keep it up while he repairs things. he is consulting google like one would consult a pastor. he gets it to a point where he can steadily interact with it, though it's still in a fragile state

but then his old as hell computer DIES!!! and barker is so worried about this ai that was on the road to recovery!! so he gets ahold of Briggs and absolutely DOES beg her for help. her techs went through with extracting BT from cooper's helmet, so they have an idea on what to do. barker sadly has to give up the ai for them to work on and drowns his sadness in kitties until the transfer is complete

then woah!! the core is put into a spare, skeletal-framed vanguard chassis so it can properly develop!! and barker absolutely ends up taking this huge robot home to the ACES base, where it just kinda hangs out and guards the place. when The Beer Cooler kitties get older, they go to live with the titan (who barker named brandy but everyone calls it andy for short) where they can have much more room to roam and play. andy is overcome with the power he has with the kitties by his side. the ACES regularly come in and see the kitties all grouped up in the cockpit.

basically It's Free Serotonin, Babes

[robinater]