He would maintain in all future tellings that he did not pass out in the alley. He was meditating.
On his back, granted. Behind a Dumpster. Meditation is a flexible art.
When he pulled his focus away from the constellation of pain (right ankle, almost sprained; right rotator cuff possibly torn; a spray of welts across his chest because bullet proof does not mean impact proof) he was immediately aware of a cluster of tiny heartbeats inches away from his ear and the musky smell of cat filling his nose. He turned his face towards the noise and got a mouthful of fur for his troubles.
"Mrr?"
One cat, he realized. One very pregnant cat, who had decided the crook of his right shoulder was a nice place to lie down. At least she hadn't tried to climb on the shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbled, pushing himself upright with his left arm. The cat made another noise of protest at being disturbed, then yawned. "Me too," Matt told her.
She heaved herself upright and tried to waddle into his lap.
"No," Matt said, gently pushing her back. Judging by the snatches of car radios and late-night TV he could pick up, it was nearly four, when the first trickle of early-risers started their days; he needed to get off the street.
The cat wormed her way under his hand and beached herself across his thigh. She was purring.
He let his hand rest on her back; there were at least eight distinct flutters inside her belly, maybe nine, giving her the overall feel of a particularly fluffy cantaloupe. He had no idea if eight kittens was a big litter or not. He had no idea how close to delivering she was. He remembered a stray cat giving birth in the sacristy at St. Agnes, when he was fifteen, the smell of blood and fluids overwhelming in the small room. How many kittens had there been originally, five? Not all of them had made it.
With some effort, the cat rolled onto her back, dirty paws tucked up to her chest, warm and heavy between his legs. He had the feeling she was looking at him.
He was gonna have to walk home anyway, to avoid making his injuries any worse.
"Fine," he said, and scratched absently behind the cat's ear. She twisted her head and caught one finger in her mouth, not hard enough to penetrate his gloves. "But you still have to let me stand up."
Carrying a fat, squirming cat in his right arm was...not a good idea. Definitely a rotator cuff problem. He managed to get her to settle in the crook of his left arm, where she promptly went to sleep, while he limped home from shadow to shadow.
Minifill: Mat and Cats
On his back, granted. Behind a Dumpster. Meditation is a flexible art.
When he pulled his focus away from the constellation of pain (right ankle, almost sprained; right rotator cuff possibly torn; a spray of welts across his chest because bullet proof does not mean impact proof) he was immediately aware of a cluster of tiny heartbeats inches away from his ear and the musky smell of cat filling his nose. He turned his face towards the noise and got a mouthful of fur for his troubles.
"Mrr?"
One cat, he realized. One very pregnant cat, who had decided the crook of his right shoulder was a nice place to lie down. At least she hadn't tried to climb on the shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbled, pushing himself upright with his left arm. The cat made another noise of protest at being disturbed, then yawned. "Me too," Matt told her.
She heaved herself upright and tried to waddle into his lap.
"No," Matt said, gently pushing her back. Judging by the snatches of car radios and late-night TV he could pick up, it was nearly four, when the first trickle of early-risers started their days; he needed to get off the street.
The cat wormed her way under his hand and beached herself across his thigh. She was purring.
He let his hand rest on her back; there were at least eight distinct flutters inside her belly, maybe nine, giving her the overall feel of a particularly fluffy cantaloupe. He had no idea if eight kittens was a big litter or not. He had no idea how close to delivering she was. He remembered a stray cat giving birth in the sacristy at St. Agnes, when he was fifteen, the smell of blood and fluids overwhelming in the small room. How many kittens had there been originally, five? Not all of them had made it.
With some effort, the cat rolled onto her back, dirty paws tucked up to her chest, warm and heavy between his legs. He had the feeling she was looking at him.
He was gonna have to walk home anyway, to avoid making his injuries any worse.
"Fine," he said, and scratched absently behind the cat's ear. She twisted her head and caught one finger in her mouth, not hard enough to penetrate his gloves. "But you still have to let me stand up."
Carrying a fat, squirming cat in his right arm was...not a good idea. Definitely a rotator cuff problem. He managed to get her to settle in the crook of his left arm, where she promptly went to sleep, while he limped home from shadow to shadow.