Curate, connect, and discover
“Okay, Quintin,” Davey sighs, arms folded at the little tuxy squatting precariously on the ajar door. “I don’t think you’re meant to be up there-“
The kitten’s paw whips forward, batting Davey across the face, and perhaps Jack has been watching too many soaps, because he can’t help his dramatic gasp. Davey only blinks, his glasses now dangling askew from his nose.
“You’ve assaulted me, Quintin.” Davey says flatly. “I will never forget this disrespect.”
Quintin hunkers down in shame, mewing piteously from his perch.
“No, there’s no room for excuses now,” Davey scolds in that same flat tone as he reaches on his tiptoes, his shoulders pulling at the flimsy hem of his work polo. “You are being unreasonable, Quintin. You are making a scene.”
It’s truly, honest to God unfair how well Davey pulls off a shitty work polo.
Quintin squirms on the thin line of the door, still not wanting to come down but growing more and more aware that he is a very wobbly kitten on a very small surface. He mews irritably, if only to prove he can, and Davey tuts his tongue against his teeth. He slides a hand under Quintin’s soft white belly and pulls him down in one slow and fluid motion, cradling the little thing to his chest as Quintin meows furiously.
“Right, then,” he mutters in a faraway monotone, as if his consciousness has left the human world in order to communicate with this very bad-tempered kitten. “To jail with you, young man – no, no, I shan’t hear it-"
Jack can only watch as he drags Quintin’s yowling little self back to the cattery, rambling nonsense while a kitten squirms and whines in his arms. Jack swallows, bracing one arm against the desk.
Davey may be the first man in all of history to make the word “shan’t” sound sexy.