Purrchance To Dream - Part 10

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This concludes the end of Act 1! Thank you for joining us for this occasionally bumpy ride! There will now be something of a hiatus before Act 2 but we hope you agree it’s a satisfying place to pause (paws).

Companion prose written by my wonderful co-writer Calico! Enjoy!

***

“What the—“ Her voice sounds like it was once clipped RP, now broadened with London edges. “Is this a dream?” 

“Er…” Crowley says, scanning around wildly, and plumps for, “yes?” 

He fans his hands around the cat, trying to draw her attention to it. 

“Yes,” he says again, nodding. “Dream! Gotta be. Gotta - gotta cure this cat. Or else!”

“Cure… this cat…” the vet repeats doubtfully, but despite herself she moves closer to the counter, frowning down at the still, fluffy creature, before looking back at Crowley. “Really?”

“Really,” Crowley assures her, darting out of the way and then darting back again. “Um, he’s - a he.”

She gives him a look. “Yes. That is… quite obvious.” 

“Right. Well. Can you save him?”

Her look turns dubious, and for a moment Crowley feels hopeless. But then her hands start moving over the creature, as if on automatic, manipulating his joints and limbs much more confidently than Crowley would have felt would be safe. 

“That’s right,” Crowley says, encouraged. “That’s it - that’s the job. What do you need? Beepy machine? Flashy light?”

The woman turns her head to look at him. She has immaculate eyebrows. “Some basic veterinary equipment would be nice,” she says tartly.

Crowley, in desperation, clicks his fingers again whilst thinking whatever you need and points at the cutlery drawer. “In there.” 

The woman’s eyebrows arch higher, but she reaches to pull over the drawer without comment. Inside, between the serried ranks of unused wooden spoons and pristine cutlery, a plethora of hand-held pieces of equipment seem to satisfy her. 

She twists her hair into a bun and secures it with some sort of small claw, puts on some thin blue gloves, then attends to the cat closely: poking here and lifting there, shining a torch in each eye in turn, eventually holding a stethoscope to the cat’s sides, gaze going distant as she listens in various places. 

“Well?” Crowley demands, when he feels like this rigmarole has gone on long enough. 

The vet pulls the stethoscope from her ears, and looks at him. “Your cat is fine.”

Crowley stares at her. Pushes his glasses up; she thinks it’s a dream anyway. Stares at the cat, then back at her, harder. “Fine?!”

“Fine.” 

Crowley feels his mouth work. “But he’s all… floppy.”

“Oh, yes, well he’s playing dead,” she says, as if this is a normal bloody conversation to be having. To her credit, she’s taking the yellow eyes in her stride as well. Quite the processional. “Have you upset him or something? This one can definitely hold a grudge. But I promise you,” she says, her voice going gentle, and lays a hand on Crowley’s arm, “he is absolutely fine.” 

Crowley blinks back a sudden, tearful rage. “But he, he can’t be fine, I hit him with my car—“ 

Her dark eyes widen. “You what?!”

“By mistake,” Crowley adds hastily, waving his hand and squeezing the bridge of his nose as the sting of tears glows behind his eyes, “but I thought I—I thought I—“

“Sir,” the vet says, still gentle but with a hint of something solid underneath. “It’s okay.” 

“I—fuck,” Crowley bites off, turning his head away and dragging in a deep breath, then another, shuddering. He doesn’t know where it’s come from, all this heat in his head, all this raw feeling.

“It’s okay, sir, and, I need you to calm down,” she says, in that same measured voice that contains just a hint of promised escalation. 

“Nnnng,” Crowley says, trying to catch his breath, or failing that, catch a thread of sanity, maybe? It’s just a cat!

“Mrrp.” 

Crowley freezes, and his eyes fly open.

The cat is sitting up on the countertop, with his head cocked, one paw reaching forwards a little - almost plaintive. 

He is absolutely fine.

“Oh, you little bastard,” Crowley breathes, rushing towards him, and without further ado the cat jumps up into Crowley’s arms. 

Crowley gathers him close, smoothing his hand over the cat’s back, and the cat starts to purr softly, putting its paws on Crowley’s shoulders and nuzzling Crowley’s chin in return. Somehow, this creates in Crowley a feeling like the smell of hot buttered toast. 

“Right,” the vet says, stacking the equipment back in the cutlery drawer as if it belongs there, then pulling off her gloves and scrunching them up. “Well, there you are. Glad you’ve made up. Lovely. But that is still going to have to be two hundred and eighty-five quid.”

Crowley arches his own eyebrows at her. Two can play at the eyebrow game. “Excuse me?”

She gives him a small nod. “Emergency call out fee,” she says, and lifts her arm, acknowledging her own pyjamas for the first time. “Decidedly out of hours.” 

“Ah.” 

“And pardon me for saying, but you don’t look the type to have insurance.”

“Nooo.”

“And we’re not even going to get into the fact that he’s not microchipped, he’s no collar, and I’ll bet my back teeth he’s not vaccinated either.” 

“Hm,” Crowley says, pressing his lips together. “Shall we just make it five hundred?” 

In his arms, the cat gives a loud, utterly contented purr.

***