Archive of Our Own

Aventurine is staying late at the office again. 

Okay, by late , it's not quite the 1am clock-outs he'd put himself through while he was busy clawing his way up the corporate ladder. No. He's his own manager now, so those minutes that fall past five-thirty are all his own doing.

“I'm sure you arrived adequately prepared with about a hundred reasons why we shouldn't pull the plug, Mr. Skott.” Tied to a static desk chair, the weaselly man flinches as Aventurine's shoes scuff across the carpet. “I would so love to hear it.”

Call it dedication to the bit, but he didn’t get where he is today by slacking.

“You can’t do this— this is illegal!” Mr. Skott warbles, swaying backwards in his seat. 

It’s kind of funny. Never once has Aventurine resorted to violence. See, he’s not immoral. But wrongdoers are wrongdoers, and much like a cat, he prefers to play with those who do him wrong. A little bit of light tormenting, a few thinly veiled threats here and there, but never violence.

“Illegal? No, no, Mr. Skott. You stealing from me — that was illegal. I’m simply…correcting an oversight.”

“I didn’t steal! I just—”

“No, you’re right.” All effortless grace, Aventurine crouches to meet his debtor’s gaze, keeping his smile polite—disarmingly so—like a man offering condolences at a funeral he orchestrated himself. “You didn’t steal. You simply moved the money. Quietly. You thought I wouldn’t notice, but I always notice.”

“I can pay you back! I just need time—”

“Time.” Aventurine laughs, steepled fingers pressed to his chin. “See, Mr. Skott, time is a funny thing. I never seem to have enough of it. But you? You’ve had plenty.”

“I swear, I—”

“You’ve been swearing a lot. You swore last month, and the month before that. Although, I must admit, you have been very creative. Sick mother, a lost bank transfer, an unfortunate clerical error. All very compelling stories.”

“...Please, don’t make me beg—not when my associates are just outside. They don’t know… I just need— I need a little more time.”

“You were quite the risky gamble, Mr. Skott. But you did promise me a significant return,” he muses, walking his fingers up the slope of the armrest. “Lucky for you, I’m not ignoble. So here’s what’s going to happen.” Retrieving the pen peeking up from Mr. Skott’s breast pocket, Aventurine speaks the words as he scrawls them across the man’s cheek. “Everything you owe me… plus interest… twenty four hours. I presume I don’t need to bring you up to speed again on what happens if you don’t deliver?”

“I—”

Aventurine straightens again, tucking the pen behind his ear. “I’m an investor, Mr. Skott. I don’t like throwing good money after bad. And right now, you’re looking like a bad investment. Do I make myself clear?”

The clock is ticking closer to seven. An hour and a half late isn’t too bad, all things considered. He had hoped to wrap this little interrogation up a tad quicker, but between a lengthy conversation about the importance of not withholding corporation taxes, and the current case of mysteriously disappearing money, he can’t say he hadn’t anticipated this.

The man had been trouble right from the start. Thankfully, Aventurine is nothing if not keen to take risks. 

Sue him, he likes making these ivory tower brats squirm.

“...Crystal,” Mr. Skott says, a long and uncomfortable beat later.

“Pleasure doing business, Mr. Skott.”

It takes a couple of minutes for Aventurine’s bailiff to make herself known; far less time to get the man untied, to watch him scurry out of the room like a roach underfoot.

Of course, Mr. Skott won’t pay. Not voluntarily anyway. Those born into inherent privilege never do. Aventurine’s enforcers will need to get creative to wring any blood from that stone. But today? For today, business is done; the ball is out of his court.

The air of the office is always controlled; perfectly tempered, not a single thing out of place. The late-evening city, on the other hand, is messy. Alive. The air bites harder than he’d expected and the pavement is mottled with puddles, rippling lines of reflected streetlights. Strangers bustle about loudly and unscripted—each with troubles of their own; joys of their own, living lives of their own to the score of distant car horns and sirens. It adds some modicum of unpredictability to his usual regimen of waking, working, and sleeping.

This is where he thrives. It keeps him sharp, keeps him breathing.

But for all the chaos, the highlight of his evening is always the same.

Mrrr, meow.

“Hah, I would’ve thought you’d be taking cover somewhere from the rain,” Aventurine says, crouching down to the ground, heedless of his suit. 

Sprawled out on their back with the kind of insouciance that Aventurine can only aspire to outside the uniformity of his office, a cat blinks up at him with lazy familiarity. Affectionately dubbed ‘Scrappy’ , with dandered tabby fur and the little healed chunk taken out of their ear, this stray - along with a handful of others - is a staple of his commute.

(He parks his car a few blocks away for this very reason, and quietly thanks his lucky stars that the cat distribution system had smiled upon him when he started his company.)

Scrappy purrs at the usual scritch behind their ears, a throaty rumble that vibrates through Aventurine's fingertips, but then hardens into a sharp, grating yowl a few seconds later. It draws a couple of passing stares their way, and Aventurine pauses mid-stroke, glancing down.

There, on Scrappy's left forepaw, a shallow cut—red and raw against clammy fur.

Not particularly au fait with the temperament of cats, Aventurine makes the mistake of thumbing over the dry-blood mottled scrape—earning him a swipe of a scratch in the process.

A mental note to check he's up to date on his tetanus shots stored distantly in the back of his mind, he scoops Scrappy into his arms with singular, tender urgency; not a single thought in his mind outside of a hard-hitting empathy about exactly what he should be doing in this situation.

Veterinarian, right? They deal with animals. There'll be one within driving distance, likely… Will they treat a stray? Does he need some variation of insurance? Are they open past seven? Does he need to make an appointment?

“I'd wager the other guy looks worse,” he murmurs. His thoughts, as they often do, drift back to his time as a scrappy little orphan, defending himself against the terrors of the night.

He's in his car two blocks away before he even pulls out his phone to run an internet search for nearby veterinary clinics, with Scrappy perched in the passenger seat, licking their paw nonchalantly, as if they hadn't made the most god awful sound ten minutes ago. And then, like a man unchecked, he's pulling out onto the main road, driving as carefully as he can in this state of urgency. In a night filled with unpredictable chaos, helping Scrappy is the single constant he's unwilling to compromise on.

Why he's cutting into his free time to help a cat he barely even knows, he's not so sure himself. Perhaps it's that strange sense of kinship. Perhaps it's because he wishes somebody had done the same for him when he was small.

Exactly eight minutes later, he pulls up at a humble little vet clinic that his GPS claimed would take fifteen minutes to find. Scrappy protests briefly when Aventurine lifts the cat back into his arms, half draped over his shoulder, claws biting into his suit jacket.

Despite the blatant ‘24 HOURS’ sign tacked to the door, he deflates in relief as the automatic doors slide open for him. At the reception desk, a young assistant glances up, jostled from her late-shift peace by the wet squeak of shoes on vinyl; doubly as such at the sight of him, suit soaked through and cradling a scraggly little tabby.

“Sir? How can we help you?” She asks softly, sitting firmly on whatever judgements she may have.

What does this scenario demand of him? Mask-on or off? How does one navigate the menial stuff when he's a big shot corporate CEO, currently panicking over a cat — a cat that isn’t even his cat — with little more than a grazed foot?

“Ah, uh. This cat—it's a stray, and…do you treat strays? I have credits. I think it's injured.”

The woman raises an eyebrow, regarding him as if to say, ‘you're new to this, aren't you.’ But she nods in kind, handing over a clipboard and a pen. 

“Fill this out. Don't worry about the cat's name, it's more of a paper trail than anything else,” she explains, marking out all of the necessary dotted lines. “Our head vet will be free shortly.”

Out of his element, Aventurine nods and balances the cat over his shoulder with one hand while mindlessly filling out the form with the other. 

He absolutely fills in the cat's name as ‘Scrappy’, because he knows how it feels to be dubbed a stray—a nameless number in a flawed network. The foster care system can be brutal. 

Scrappy has stopped fighting Aventurine's jacket for long enough to curl up in his lap when they're finally called into examination room 2 , crossing paths with a forlorn looking puppy, fated to spend the foreseeable days in a plastic cone. It’s not a long walk by any means, just poorly signposted. (If rooms 1, 3, and 6 are on the ground floor, why are rooms 2, 4, and 5 up a flight of stairs? Make it make sense.)

The door is partly open when he gets to it, adorned with silver plaque reading ‘Examination Room 2—Dr. V. Ratio VMD’. Aventurine knocks anyway before poking his head in, that office-culture propriety stark here, too.

“You don't need to posture,” the man calls from inside, back turned to the door, all broad shoulders and wavy violet hair. Not at all what Aventurine had expected a vet to look like, if he’s honest with himself. “I was expecting you.”

Despite himself, Aventurine beams. Call it gluttony, but he thrives on this particular flavour of snark. Keeps things interesting. “Oh, my apologies, doctor . I simply didn't want to catch you unawares.”

Only then does he find himself on the receiving end of the head veterinarian's scrutiny. It would be intimidating if Aventurine weren't half the man he is today, with half the… colourful experiences he'd had; if staring down the barrel of a gun hadn't become something of a bi-monthly occurrence. But he digresses.

So-called Dr. V. Ratio VMD could probably bench press him into the heavens. Hell, he'd welcome it. He might even go as far as to thank the good doctor for his generous service. 

“You can place the cat down on the bench,” the vet says dryly, squaring him up without budging. “Aventurine with… Scrappy, yes? I take it you were the one to name it?”

Aventurine laughs, light and unbothered. “Do you subject all of your new clients to this level of judgment, or am I just your lucky hundredth visitor?”

Smoothing down Scrappy's rain-sodden fur, the vet raises a brow. Scrappy, for some reason, seems perfectly content to flop onto their side on the examination bench. And the vet, clearly wise to feline tricks, pointedly avoids touching the cat's belly — a tip Aventurine had had to find out the hard way some months ago.

“Stray?” The other man asks, and then elaborates when Aventurine's gaze flickers to and from the clipboard. “Are you certain it's a stray? Cats are natural explorers, and while they don't tend to venture out past their own determined boundaries, it's not uncommon.” 

“I see Scrappy daily, both to and from work, so I'd say it's definitely a stray, yes.”

Sunset eyes sweep over Aventurine in a glance that feels more diagnostic than friendly. It’s not unlike the way Aventurine looks at his own clients, should they dare to cross him. It’s not hostile by any means, just… dubious? Disinterested?

Eventually, the veterinarian nods, brushing on a latex glove with a cool snap.

“Tell me about Scrappy. His temperament, his usual environment. What flagged to you that this was an urgent enough matter to warrant destroying an expensive suit jacket?”

“Oh, hahaha. He yowled.” And then, because this is apparently something Aventurine cares to know. “He’s a he ?”

“Mm.” The vet lifts Scrappy's paw with a devastating kind of tenderness, murmuring reassurances when the cat growls in protest.

It gives Aventurine pause. Just one. Just for a moment.

Now, hypothetically, if Aventurine were to adopt a cat, and if he were to bring his cat here once in a blue moon, he might actually deem it to be quite the treat to have this unfairly handsome stranger look at him, all mildly perturbed like that, while using that softer underbelly to coo a feline into a state of begrudging relaxation.

“He’s been hanging out a few blocks away from the financial district for about a year now,” he explains, idly picking tufts of fur from his ruined suit jacket so he doesn't have to spend another minute intently watching the other man work. “Usually, he's fine. A little scrappy, obviously, but always in good spirits. Steals my tuna sandwiches sometimes. Tonight was the first time he'd made a sound like that. I couldn't exactly leave him there in the middle of the city.”

“Superficial,” this Dr. V. Ratio says, and Aventurine’s gaze snaps back up again. “The wound. It's just a minor laceration. Probably pavement glass or a poorly chosen fence post. Ultimately, it is nothing to be too worried about.”

The relief is almost disorientingly instant. Which is ridiculous, really. It's just a cat.

Just a scruffy, patchy-furred, sharp-eyed little creature who waits for him every evening like clockwork. Who just so happens to look at him like he means something.

Aventurine clears his throat, shifts his weight, and plasters that corporate smirk back on his face. “You're efficient, doc.”

Dr. Ratio gaze is inscrutable when he glances up, mid-unfurling a bandage roll. “And that comes as a surprise to you? I'm merely doing my job.”

“Nope, not surprised. Just—” Just what? It's not like he'd expected anything less from a professional. It's just… this man is calm in a way Aventurine isn't used to. And while Aventurine's colleagues and clients alike would sputter and scramble to please, he's not used to this flavour of impassiveness. Still water, not stagnant. Collected; grounded. The kind of calm you can't fake.

It's mildly jarring. 

Inexorably attractive.

Huh.

“Hold him for me, please.” The vet asks, steering Aventurine's thoughts back on course.

“Sorry?”

“Scrappy. If you want to make yourself useful, hold him still for me while I wrap his paw. He trusts you already.”

Trust. That's a new one.

“I suppose if the life of a financier doesn't pan out, I could always moonlight as a veterinarian's assistant.” That earns him another exasperated stare. It's riveting in ways he can't explain, the sheer normalcy of this situation. “Like this?”

Removing his gloves and his rose-gold lenses, Aventurine places a hand gently against Scrappy's side, and simply makes himself present, following the little rise and fall of breath against his palm. The cat makes a soft sound — somewhere between a purr and a grumble — and leans into him ever so slightly.

“Hold him like so. Speak to him if you must. Just keep him still.”

The silence is comfortable enough as Dr. Ratio gets to work, broken only by Aventurine murmuring words of reassurance whenever the cat begins to squirm at the sting of antiseptic. This close, he can count flecks of gold in the other man's irises; he can see the slight furrow of brows in the throes of concentration.

“Ever consider a career in corporate team building?” The responding glare he gets only widens Aventurine's grin. “Just saying, you've got the magic touch. And yet, you kind of have this… icy air about you.”

“... So I've been told. Hold Scrappy still.”

“It's handsome. In that intimidating sort of way. Hell, you could strike the fear of the Aeons into my clients, just by looking at them like that .”

The subtle tremor of his fingers betrays him. There's relief that his friendly neighbourhood stray is alright; residual adrenaline from this situation as a whole. There's a weird humanity to it, too, in this easy banter. Like, he's just some guy . It's been a long time since he's felt like just some guy.

“I communicate better with cats, frankly. Cats don't respond to corporate pep talks. They just are .”

He laughs—a real laugh, half pleased that the vet would deign to entertain this banter. “Oh? Pray tell, doctor, what do they respond to? — Stock options? Hostile takeovers of the treat jar? I'm quite sure that Scrappy would tolerate listening to my quarterly reports if he had a soft couch to sleep on and a can of tuna to eat from.”

Dr. Ratio, for all of his willingness to play along, mumbles something along the lines of ‘don't let a cat eat directly from a can, lest they cut themselves’. Grinning, Aventurine pats Scrappy on the head for braving the visit to the vet clinic, and receives a brrt of acknowledgement in return.

“So, Dr. V. Ratio—”

After securing the bandage in place, the vet makes haste removing his gloves. Bustling around the examination room, he plucks a couple of pamphlets from an acrylic wall display — something about ‘Essential First Aid For Your Feline’.

“Just Ratio is fine.”

“Just Ratio.” Aventurine parrots. This time, Scrappy climbs up onto his shoulder by his own volition. “And the V? What does that stand for?”

“Very busy.” Ratio hands him the pamphlets. (Aventurine's pulse absolutely does not jump at the warmth of the doctor's fingertips. Not at all.) “However, speaking of a soft couch to sleep on — I would recommend that you allow Scrappy to stay indoors for the next few days. Or, at the very least, somewhere dry. If the rainwater soaks through his bandage, it will create a breeding ground for bacteria, and my work will have been for nought.”

The thing is, Aventurine's apartment is not built for pets. It's a penthouse, sure, so there's plenty enough space for two… or seven. But those furnishings he had custom made? Yeah, they did not come cheap. Not to mention, where would he find the time? The energy? What do cats even need?

“Absolutely,” he says instead with a resolute nod. “He can stay with me for a few days. But don't say I didn't warn you — I may come back in shreds. Scrappy is a free spirit. He'll riot.”

Ratio's sigh is long-suffering. “Keep an eye on his bandage. And follow the pamphlets to a tee. Call the clinic should you need advice.”

Aventurine gasps dramatically, ring-clad hand pressed to his chest, but the twitch of his mouth gives him away. “Are you calling me incompetent, Dr. Ratio?”

He's deflecting. He knows he is. How many years has he worn this position of power like a second skin now? He's not used to surrendering his upper hand like this, and for a street cat no less, at the request of a devastatingly pretty veterinary doctor.

“My next client is in seven minutes,” Ratio states dryly, and hands Aventurine another leaflet for good measure—a first-time pet owner's guide to keeping a cat. “A parakeet with a vitamin deficiency. In my experience, people need things to be spelled out for them.”

It seems some grievances do transfer from industry to industry. If Aventurine had a single credit for each time his clients had made excuses for not listening, he'd have purchased a planet of his own already.

(Skott springs to mind.)

“Hah. Fair point.” A beat. Aventurine shifts his weight awkwardly, idly bouncing Scrappy like a child. “So, uh, should I come back in a few days?”

“That won't be necessary. He’s a cat with a minor scrape, not a diesel engine. It’s just basic wound care.” 

“And if I need you?”

Pausing in the midst of sterilising the examination bench, Ratio stops to stare. “Need me?”

“Professionally speaking, of course. Cat things. You understand.” Aventurine’s grin is downright crafty as he pulls his gloves back on. “What if he develops a limp? He might even, I don’t know, decide to take up the dramatic arts. He'll be feeling exceptionally woeful without the street pigeons.”

“So a textbook thespian cat.” He puts it down to a trick of the light, the way Ratio's mouth twitches. “I'll pen you in for three day's time. I trust you can survive forlorn feline dramatics until then?”

“Three days? That urgent?”

“Rabies shot,” Ratio says, like it's just that obvious, leaving no room for debate. “I'd be remiss if I didn't follow preventionary protocols in case of... future mishaps. Unless, of course, you’re against protocols?”

Aventurine's laughter is immediate, a bell chime of a sound. “I sit at the helm of a multinational corporation, Dr. Ratio. I love protocols.”

Aventurine's penthouse isn't equipped for strays.

That is to say, it wasn't even equipped for him once upon a time. It took a whole lot of reasoning with himself to accept that he was deserving of his success, his wealth, a clean space to eat and sleep.

Scrappy, on the other hand…

9:30PM

“Cats require a meat and/or fish-based diet, rich in protein, amino acids, and taurine.” Aventurine reads Ratio's pamphlets aloud, pacing the kitchen. 

(Quietly, he's glad that the good doctor had deigned to spell it out for him — he had no idea that canned tuna was only okay in moderation.)

“They should avoid raw meat, onions, garlic, grapes — wait, cats should avoid milk ?” Scrappy chooses the very moment Aventurine baulks to sit primly at his feet, unhelpfully licking his bandaged paw. “Isn't milk kind of a cat's thing ? What do you mean, ‘many cats are lactose intolerant?’”

In the end, he settles for scrambled eggs — made with water, mashed up into bite-sized pieces, sprinkled with a handful of cooked peas and carrots. Truly, the pinnacle of fine dining. It's more than Aventurine cooks for himself, usually, on those rare occasions that he has the energy.

However, the mere concept of eating from a dish is enough to make Scrappy hiss, knocking the bowl off the counter in offence. That's one expensive piece of dinnerware to start his tally of damages.

“Rude,” he says, and he crouches down, eye-level with the cat. “That was Michelin grade, you little anarchist.”

Scrappy struts along the kitchen counter unrepentantly, scraggly tail flicking behind him. It's a sight to behold: this cat, limping on his front leg with every fourth step, easily launching himself from the counter, looking every bit as graceful as a flightless bird, as if Aventurine hadn't paid out-of-hours premiums for some antiseptic cream and a bandage.

Alright. Maybe there was the joy of meeting a handsome face; the even more peculiar delight at being on the receiving end of some icy quips. But he won't dwell on that. He's a man of taste. Sue him, he likes pretty things.

… Although, come to think of it, what would Ratio suggest in this situation? None of the pamphlets go into the processes one should undertake for a stray cat's first night in a CEO's apartment.

“I'm gonna tell him you're a maverick.” Aventurine isn't mad. Not really. For someone who religiously rotates house slippers to coincide with laundry runs, watching Scrappy claw at his hundred-thousand credits rug isn't half as painful as he'd expect. “I'm gonna tell him that three days is too long.”

It's a blatant lie. There's a certain warmth to coming home to some semblance of life and sound. Comfort, too. He's not alone.

He reminds himself of that incessantly later on, when Scrappy vomits chunks of feathers on his pristine white couch.

“That's…organic,” Aventurine laughs weakly, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his face. “Very farm-to-table. Bravo.”

11:00PM

It's been four hours since he left work — about two and a half since he left the vet clinic. He's already sent a message to his most trustworthy subordinates to hold down the fort at work for a few days, has spent the past half hour trying to fashion a cat bed out of cushions and designer scarfs—just for Scrappy to decide that he prefers the foot of Aventurine's bed.

It isn't until Aventurine finally gets comfortable with the unfamiliar weight atop the duvet at his feet that the cat makes a point of leading Aventurine into the kitchen, perching pointedly upon the counter where dinner had gone awry just hours prior.

Without the panic of knowing he has to keep this sentient creature alive thrumming under his ribcage, Aventurine can take things slower. Scrappy doesn't take kindly to being offered a chopping board of fresh eggs, nor does he want to be fed canned tuna from a spoon.

By 1AM, Aventurine is cross-legged on the kitchen floor in his pyjamas, pulling apart his last slice of deli ham while the cat scrutinises him as a king would his subject.

“Come on,” he coaxes, wiggling a shred of meat in front of the cat's nose. Scrappy follows the motion as if dazed—as though suddenly learning the instincts of a house cat. “Eat the ham. I'll buy you a building.”

Of course, much like him, Scrappy seems to err towards the extravagant.

“Ratio, you wretch,” he says to the ceiling. Collapsing backwards to lay on the cold wood floor, he gets the absolute joy of learning that Scrappy doesn’t chew, but rather, inhales his food. “Your leaflets didn't prepare me for this.”

“You bought him a carrier,” Ratio points out, three days later, staring at the monstrosity Aventurine had had the audacity to lug into the clinic.

It's designer; Penacony-made — a sleek black capsule with golden accents, embossed with spades and diamonds; complete with ergonomic handles, and what would appear to be a built-in hydration system. Scrappy glares out from the inside, his face smushed against the mesh door like a disgruntled loaf of bread.

“Yes, well.” Plopping the carrier down onto the examination table, Aventurine doesn't even flinch when it begins to rattle like a feral washing machine – a caged beast gearing to catapult into carnage.

Truth be told, he must have spent the past few days possessed. Firstly, he's never called out of work in his life. He grants himself the ability to take PTO—perks of being the literal owner, and all. But that's just a formality, if nothing else. And yet, here he is, after having spent the past three days attempting (with no real luck) to cat-proof his apartment.

What had ended up transpiring was a slew of impulse purchases. A cat tree (although, Scrappy prefers the box it came in), gourmet treats, a flat and inoffensive plastic plate, a donut-shaped bed…

“It's a ‘mobile wellness suite,’” he continues, feigning nonchalance as he adjusts his cufflinks. “Shock absorbent. Designed to minimise stress and promote healing.”

Ratio blinks. For the first time, it would appear that the good doctor is at a lack of words. “It's a cat carrier.”

“Your lack of vision is tragic, doctor. Truly.”

“Most people bring their strays in a cardboard box.”

“I'm not ‘most people,’” Aventurine points out with that same audacious dynamism that tends to swing business deals in his favour. “And Scrappy is not ‘most cats.’”

“Clearly,” murmurs Ratio as he fumbles with the latches to dismantle the top half of the carrier.

True to his nature, Scrappy launches like a bullet, ricocheting from surface to surface before coming full circle again, just to wind up bumping his face into the palm of Ratio's hand.

The doctor looks different in the day, illuminated by the golden hour through the slats of the blinds. Warmer, somehow. If Aventurine squints, he can almost make out the slightest quirk of a smile as Scrappy nuzzles into his palm.

“He gets bursts of energy like that sometimes,” Aventurine says, smoothing a thumb along the back of his hand. Beneath his gloves lie a plethora of scratches — small mementos of the times he'd had to learn things the hard way. “Usually around three in the morning, he goes berserk.”

“Zoomies.” Ratio begins to bustle about the office, leaving Aventurine to wrestle the cat down by the scruff of his neck. “Also referred to as ‘Frenetic Random Activity Periods’, or ‘FRAPs’, are sudden bursts of energy in animals.”

The uber serious businessman that he is, Aventurine snorts at FRAP. “Either way, I can't say I envy new parents too much. That first night, he fell asleep in my lap on the kitchen floor.” That is to say, Aventurine has grown attached. “This morning, I woke up to him sitting on my chest, staring at me like he was planning to eat me.”

“Well, lucky for you, you survived,” Ratio says, and the sarcasm isn’t lost on Aventurine. The vaccine is done in a flash — just a sharp pinch of liquid injected into Scrappy’s flank, followed by the press of a cotton ball to the site. “Hold this here for me.”

“Do you ask all of your clients to help you do your job?” Aventurine asks, but there’s no protest to it. If anything, he kind of appreciates the hands-on approach. It’s…different. “Why do I feel like I’m going to leave your office with an honorary diploma in veterinary medicine?”

“Far from it,” says Ratio, who is now unwinding the bandage from Scrappy’s paw, thumbing back tufts of fur to examine the wound. “But if giving you something to do keeps you quiet enough for me to do my job, then consider me a willing delegator.”

The laugh that bubbles out of him is riddled with the kind of boyish charm he’s seldom come to know. “Point taken.”

He watches on in silence as Ratio bends Scrappy’s joints, stopping every now and then to tickle the cat’s chin. His hands are confident, methodical—deft, yet never hurried. Scrappy, annoyingly, starts purring. The betrayal cuts deep.

“Clean healing,” the doctor confirms. “No swelling nor infections. He will be back to terrorising traffic cones and, what was it, stealing your tuna sandwiches in no time.”

Aventurine feels his chest tighten. Sure, he’s glad Scrappy is okay. Okay enough to be put back on the street, at that. For a guy who has an intern water his office ficus for him, he’s managed to co-exist with this creature for three straight days. Hell, he’d go as far as to say he’s enjoyed it.

What if Scrappy enjoyed it, too? What if Scrappy doesn’t want to be on the streets anymore? What if he likes deli ham and exotic leather couches more than dumpsters and pigeons?

“Keep him indoors for a few more days.” Ratio’s voice is softer now, somehow; his expression, frustratingly inscrutable. Aventurine carefully schools his face back to neutrality, dropping his hand from where he had been plucking at the threading of his cardigan. (Sandstone cashmere. A boxy fit. Half shredded from the mere act of trying to coax the cat into the carrier in the first place.) “Just in case. He’s still underweight, so a few extra proper meals might well do him a world of good.”

“I’ll treat him to duck pâté.” Aventurine nods solemnly, gaze drifting sideways. Scrappy takes that cue to yawn loudly before taking himself back into the carrier. “In excess. He’ll be — ah, what do the kids say? — an absolute unit before long.”

Ratio ignores him pointedly, but the jut of his jaw suggests that he had intended to lecture him on the dangers of overfeeding. Instead, he settles for tidying up the carnage wrought upon his office, meticulously re-organising the fixtures of his ophthalmoscope by size. And, well, even Aventurine knows when he’s overstayed his welcome. After all, there’s probably a ferret with a dental emergency or a trotter with pink-eye or…something equally outrageous just waiting for Ratio’s deft hands.

Plenty of interstellar species here. Plenty of ailments to be cured. A generic cat with a superficial injury is bound to be the least of the doctor’s worries.

Scooping up the carrier, he’s glad to know that Scrappy is just sulking quietly now, curled up in the blanket the way that something unaccustomed to luxury would. The way he had, once upon a time. 

“Aventurine,” Ratio says, rummaging around in the breast pocket of his scrubs. “You left these behind last time.”

Pausing at the door, Aventurine’s grin blooms, full of his signature flair, but no less honest. “Shit– my glasses.” He hadn’t even realised he’d forgotten them, too swept up in the cat-rescue debacle. And there’s a thought — it’s been years since he’s left his apartment without them, and here he is, barely noticing their absence. “Thanks, doc.”

So, Aventurine hadn’t intended to make a habit of this. 

Don’t get him wrong, he’d thought about it at great length. He’d extensively searched up ‘how to get a cat to feign a limp’, just so he could treat himself to another twenty minutes with that handsome doctor again. But alas, cats will be cats.

Three weeks later and Scrappy still hasn’t fled the nest, so to speak. It’s a mystery, really. One would think a cat would be tired of duck pâté, expensive deli cuts, and mercerised silk sheets by now, especially when there are perfectly good city pigeons just outside. Somewhere along the way, they’d established enough of a treaty for Aventurine to feel comfortable returning to the office. It’s all good — it’s for the greater good, really. After all, hadn’t the veterinarian himself said that Scrappy was underweight?

———

The second stray is a kitten he finds napping upon a bed of leaves in a puddle.

Much like last time, he scoops the cat up and swaddles it in his suit jacket. He drives to the clinic, greets the receptionist, requests to see Ratio in particular, and flashes a charming smile and a wad of credits for good measure.

“I think it might be hypothermia,” Aventurine insists, heedless of the rainwater puddle spreading across the table.

Oddly, Ratio doesn’t judge. Instead, he busies himself towelling the kitten off with gentle swipes — and even that is enough to jostle it off-balance. Those hands could easily envelop the kitten whole, and still have enough space to hold a pen.

“You said you found it in a puddle.” He exhales through his nose when Aventurine nods. In Aventurine's defense, the kitten is soaked. Its sneezes were soft but frequent throughout the drive here. “How deep was the puddle?”

Aventurine demonstrates vaguely with his forefinger and his thumb. “About this? Two inches, maybe. An insecure man would insist it was three .”

Softly, Ratio huffs, a quick, sharp sound through his nose. Whether annoyed or amused, Aventurine can't tell, but it fills him with warmth all the same. “Her body temperature is normal. Erring on the colder side, but normal nevertheless.”

Visibly deflating, Aventurine braces the heels of his palms against a cabinet. Where Scrappy's injury had been surface-deep at best, he'll admit, he’d expected the worst for this one.

“She's just… tiny .” It blatantly hasn't helped that tensions had been high at work today. Between the mysterious disappearances of old, loyal clients and the ever persistent worry that Scrappy might actually be lonely while he's at work (he has a pet monitor arriving tomorrow, accessible via an app — very smart stuff), his characteristic sangfroid has been shaken, ever so slightly. “And her spirit has been dampened. Just look at her aura.”

“She's cold and hungry.” Ratio gives him a scrutinising stare. Where most would shy away, afraid of judgement, Aventurine finds himself yearning to allow himself to be perceived. “Perhaps in need of a night thawing out someplace with under-floor heating.”

“Are you asking me to babysit again , doctor?” Aventurine grins, and relishes in the infinitesimal gentling of Ratio’s gaze, the subtle feathering of those sharp edges.

“Let it be clear that you said it, not me.”

So, Aventurine adds a soggy kitten to the fray.

———

The third and fourth cats — a sombre looking calico and an emaciated tuxedo cat — are microchipped. Missing for three and seven years, respectively.

The good doctor, after conducting home-visits (although he makes them sound a lot like rigorous interrogations) manages to reunite them with their owners.

Aventurine asks for his phone number (“For the purpose of updates, of course! You see, doc, I can’t help worrying…”), and gets his office email address for his efforts.

He smiles all the way home.

———

The fifth stray Aventurine brings to the vet clinic is a three-legged tomcat he’s affectionately dubbed ‘Tripod’.

As if by muscle memory, he steps into the building with all of the urgency of a man smuggling state secrets, a lanky orange cat tucked under his arm like a football. The cat — who is missing one front leg — is glaring at the world with the jaded weariness of a retired mercenary.

“Code red,” he announces, bursting into examination room 2 . Ratio barely glances up at him over the rim of his glasses. 

It is a very good look.

“Hello to you, too, Aventurine.” The doctor’s exasperation is cute. Aventurine realises, not for the first time, that this is becoming troublesome—the way he’s plucking these cats off the streets like this, just to see Ratio. (And, well, because he does care.) “Do come in, won’t you(?)”

No prompt needed, Aventurine gently places Tripod upon the bench, smoothing down the fur on its back. The little stump where its leg once was wobbles from side to side, as though overtaken by the desire to swat at something. “Say hello to Tripod. I suspect that this one has fallen victim to foul play.”

“Are you just stealing cats outright now?” Ratio asks flatly, even as he squeezes his hands into a pair of nitrile gloves. Perhaps it’s the well-honed instinct of a medical professional flaring up within, but Ratio puts just as much meticulous care into this as he does everything else.

“Yep. Yep, that's exactly what I'm doing. In my best suits, wearing a ton of single-run jewellery — easily recognisable because I like living on the edge a little when I commit feline theft.”

Ratio's mouth twitches. This time, it definitely looks a lot like amusement. “Define ‘foul play.’”

“Espionage.” A beat. A moment of dramatic silence. “I found him outside the stock exchange. Coincidence? I think not.”

Finding himself on the receiving end of a stare that can only be described as downright tired, Aventurine shoves a hand into his coat pocket, fingers tapping restlessly at his thigh. He’s starkly aware that his reasoning is…terribly flawed, and altogether outrageous. This is unbecoming of a man of his status, after all. He’s supposed to be striking the fear of the gods into his adversaries — not fabricating all of these dramatic tales to a man who is, for one, far too smart to buy it. A man who probably doesn’t even spare him a second thought outside of these four walls. 

He tells himself that he doesn’t know what it is—why he can’t seem to help himself around the good doctor. 

(He knows exactly what it is, and he’s never felt more alive.)

“He’s three-legged,” Ratio points out.

“Exactly! I’ve seen it before: you off the competition; you leave a mark. A legacy.”

“ Or, ” Ratio’s gaze falls to the cat, who has been sitting primly, having spent the best part of the past few minutes licking a phantom limb. Carefully — too carefully for a man of his size — Ratio lifts Tripod off the bench, turning his focus to the missing leg. “He lost it years ago. See the scar tissue? That is a clean amputation, well-healed for a street cat. Believe it or not, cats are incredibly hardy. Simply put, he’s made the best out of a bad situation. He’s adapted.”

Biting back the smile threatening to split through the cracks, Aventurine side-steps, peering over the doctor’s shoulder. “Adapted? He’s a sitting duck, doc. What if his old crew comes back to finish the job, hm? Raccoons. Pigeons. Have you met the squirrels downtown?”

“...Squirrels.”

“The vicious little mobsters, that they are. All of those… nut-based grudges.” Aventurine nods earnestly, and ducks to stand behind Ratio’s other shoulder, lest the good doctor catches the twinkle in his eye.

Lest Ratio’s responding smirk arrests him for long enough to give him away.

They stand in relative silence as Ratio administers a course of routine vaccinations, the quiet broken only by Tripod’s protesting hiss. This, too, is comfortable. Ratio doesn’t move away when Aventurine cranes his neck for a closer look at the amputated site, but rather, parts the cat’s fur to give him a better view. 

He wonders distantly if this is standard procedure. If all vets let their clients get so hands-on. He hopes it’s not. He hopes, in some roundabout way, that he’s left a mark of his own on Ratio’s existence, by some miracle.

“He’s fine,” Ratio says, that steadfast calm keeping Aventurine at ease yet again. “He might even be healthier than you.”

Aventurine bristles. “Hey, I’ll have you know I could probably bench-press twice his body weight.” And then, throwing on his most charismatic smile — the type that captivates and unnerves his competitors in equal measure — he dares to peer around the doctor’s shoulder from beneath his bangs. “Though, if you need to confirm —”

Ratio snaps off his gloves, the snick of latex indication enough that perhaps the vague attempt at flirting had not been received well.

“Do you plan to bring all of the neighbourhood strays here?” Only then does Ratio move, disposing of the syringe and the needle, before returning with a flea collar. 

Aventurine blinks — once, twice — before laughing weakly. “I have the means. And I have the money to do so.”

“This isn’t a charity.” The doctor’s voice is strained, weary, though the clinic’s ‘no charge’ tally on Aventurine’s file for the past two cats begs to differ. “Are you not tired? Because this—this is bordering absurdity.” And then, exasperated, quieter. “Squirrels? Espionage?... Why am I even having this conversation with you?”

Aventurine’s smile falters. He opens his mouth, closes it again. The proverbial cat has gotten his tongue. His gaze drifts to the jutting tick of Ratio’s jaw, the bob of his adam’s apple when he swallows.

“Hahaha. Absurdity? Please . More like philanthropy… Or the cat equivalent anyway. Shall we say feline-anthropy? ”

Go figure, he’d go and ruin the first thing he’s felt in years. Of course he’d misread it. Of course he would.

“Aventurine. Why are you really doing this?”

“...You’d hate my real answer.”

“Try me.”

He hesitates, just for a beat, staring blankly at Tripod. Here’s a cat who has emerged strong, unbothered in the face of whatever danger had befallen him. A cat who hobbles along carelessly, still driven by those same instincts to hunt — to seek out sun-spots for respite.

Do people see Aventurine the same way? Strong; unbothered? Would they see a survivor? A fool? A king? Has his meticulously crafted facade done the trick, or has he only managed to fool himself?

“I can’t have them fend for themselves. I know what it’s like.” Each syllable feels like a shot fired from an empty barrel. Every word, a gamble. The stakes? His pride. The prize? Well, the last thing he wants is sympathy. He supposes all he’s ever wanted - and ironically, all he’s ever avoided - is to be seen. “To be left… to have nowhere. Game recognises game, I suppose.”

There’s no grand reaction. No stilling of the hands, nor even a shred of scrutiny. The world doesn’t burst into flames when he dares to lower the mask; his phone doesn’t blow up with a slew of calls from interns crying ‘fire!’. There are no emails reading ‘we know exactly what you are.’

Their elbows lightly brush as Ratio affixes the collar around Tripod’s neck. The world continues to spin as it always has. Aventurine is reminded of his inherent insignificance in this grand play of life — and he even dares to thank his lucky stars for it.

He reaches down, thumbing gently over the faded scar etched into the curve of Tripod’s ear, silently praising him for his bravery.

“I don’t know what happened to my family, but I ended up stuck in the system,” he continues, far too casually. “I was moved from home to home, so I got really good at just… leaving first. Cats don’t leave. Not if you give them something to stay for.”

Now isn't the time to admit to his second reason. 

How does one broach that subject with someone they've known for just a few weeks anyway? Moreover, how should somebody like him go about admitting to somebody of Ratio's disposition that these bite-sized interactions have been the highlight of his days?

He's clawed his way to the top by the skin of his teeth—built his house of cards from the ground up. And while that is a constant point of pride, old habits do die hard. Those inner voices from years passed rear in their ugly heads from time to time, reminding him of where he came from, of what he is, and what he does and doesn't deserve.

The clinic’s clock ticks louder. They must have long exceeded the standard granted twenty minute slot by now. There’s probably a rabbit with a hangnail or a sombre goldfish waiting outside, only to be relegated to a different veterinarian. All the while Aventurine gets to call dibs on the head vet’s time.

“I never would have guessed,” Ratio says, ever impenetrable, but Aventurine can practically feel the tension trickling out of the doctor’s body, every point of contact pressing easier against his side. 

Neither knows what to do with their hands, so Tripod takes it upon himself to lean into the attention. Aventurine scratches the soft tuft of hair behind the cat’s ear, while Ratio opts to lightly scratch its chin. 

“I kept Scrappy, you know.”

“That much, I had guessed.” And then, when Aventurine cocks his head, casting the doctor a questioning stare, Ratio elaborates. “You look like a human scratching post. Your coat is covered in white and tan hair — none of which belongs to you. And your sluggish posture suggests an unstable circadian rhythm.”

Aventurine laughs then, something that sounds slightly bittersweet. His bravado is paper-thin now, quivering at the edges. “I know how it all sounds. Some big-shot businessman, collecting strays like they're trophies. But not everything left outside needs to stay outside.”

“How many?” Ratio asks, not unsympathetically. No, the doctor's particular brand of sympathy lies in the finer details; the softening of his voice, the steady embers of his gaze. It's there, so long as you know what to look for. “Which cats are you keeping?”

“Heh, was I that obvious?” Aventurine forces a smirk — and then bristles pleasantly when Ratio seems to pierce straight through that, too. “Scrappy. The kitten. I called her Honey. And now…”

“Tripod,” offers the doctor. As though privy to the topic at hand, Tripod rumbles softly in response, a throaty ‘mmrrt?’ “If you're keeping them, I would be remiss as an advocate for animal welfare if I didn't assess their environment. Perhaps, after work tomorrow, as a matter of urgency.” A beat. “I trust you understand.”

“You already know that I do love a protocol.” Another laugh shakes out of him, this time about as giddy as it is off-kilter. “I get out of work at five-thirty.” (‘ Usually ,’ he doesn't say. ‘ Sometimes .’ But for this? — Yeah. He'll make sure of it.) “Dress down when you swing by. If you make contact with any surface in my apartment, you will leave covered in cat fur.”

“If I was opposed to that, I would not have pursued this line of work,” Ratio replies, matter-of-factly and wholly unbothered as he turns his attention back to the cat. And then, softer, his mouth quirking at the edges when Aventurine chuckles, “Idiot.”

It's not a date, Aventurine reminds himself. It's just a formality .

So there's no need to pay it too much mind. There's no space for anxiety here. It's just like each and every time he'd transported a cat to the vet clinic by his own volition. It'll be the same banter, the same snippity little jests and jabs, all in the cats’ best interests.

Only, it is different, isn’t it? 

First and foremost, Aventurine doesn't tend to host. The few times his subordinates have taken it upon themselves to bring deliveries from the office, he’d relegated them to standing awkwardly in the doorway, fumbling to squeeze boxes through the infinitesimal space he allows in the door.

In addition, he's not sure his apartment is up to scratch to please such a staunch animal aficionado. There's three half-built cat trees, a slew of cardboard boxes (because the cats like those better), a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city (and yet, lacking a decent view of the pigeons.)

———

Aventurine marches into the office at dawn on only three hours of sleep, cradling a flat white like a blunt force weapon. 

By 8:15am, he's mapped out an entire vertical integration strategy, sifted through a stack of due diligence reports, and reduced the CFO to a nervous sweat stain.

The interns scatter like startled pigeons whenever he sets down his coffee cup, braced to fetch him another espresso.

“Sir?” His assistant hovers in the doorway at nine sharp, clutching her tablet to her chest like a shield. “The Hombert-ơ call—”

“Reschedule,” he says, eyes glued to his phone. Onscreen, Scrappy is sprawled out on his back, basking in the warmth of a sun-stripe while pawing lazily at a glass paperweight perched upon his home-office desk. The corner of Aventurine's mouth twitches. Little anarchist. “Tell them that we need more insights into their precious minerals before we can begin collaborating.”

(It’s a barefaced lie. He’s had a proposal ready to go for weeks now.) 

By 11am, he finds himself only half listening to the VP droning on - something about ‘switching to synergistic acquisition models’. Aventurine makes his points, offers feedback where prompted, and then allows his focus to fracture once more when a new notification flashes across his screen.

‘Motion Detected: Bedroom’

Swiping to the live feed, he's temporarily warmed to see that Tripod is making good use of the makeshift ramp leading up to Aventurine’s bed. Even more so when Honey trudges up after him, her little legs working to catch up. Remotely taking control of the penthouse’s climate control app, he adjusts the temperature ( ‘74 degrees fahrenheit is ideal for short-haired strays,’ Dr. Ratio’s voice whispers from the forefront of his memory), quirks the blinds open just a little bit more, and sets some radio station to play quietly in the background — ( ‘Proven to relieve feline stress’ , according to Ratio’s care sheet.)

“Sir?” The VP nudges tentatively, misconstruing Aventurine’s smirk as approval. “Then, shall we discuss expanding into niche markets? I hear that holistic beard-care is quite the booming industry recently. Of course, there’s always plant-based meat replacements, and—”

“Cat food suppliers with upside potential,” Aventurine says instead, indifferent to the way the boardroom stands stock still around him. In his peripheral vision, Scrappy is pouncing upon a beam reflected from the suncatcher in his office window.

“Cat food, sir?—”

“Kibble, treats, gourmet human-grade meals, and the like,” he confirms, and waves away two interns, leaving them to scurry off to run a SWOT analysis on the pet food industry.

By the time late afternoon rolls around, he’s thoroughly distracted. In the grand game of mergers and acquisitions, Aventurine is as close to a god as one could be. But tonight, when the final call is taken, the last debt recovered for the day; when the lights dim and the office grows quiet, he’s just a man with a penthouse full of cats—and a stupidly pretty vet on the way.

And that thought — as outlandish as it is — softens his boardroom shark posture, just ever so slightly.

(He can’t go letting his employees think he’s going soft, after all. They don’t get to see the man beneath the suit.)

———

Twelve minutes late, the doctor arrives — something about an unforeseen emergency at the clinic that had required all hands on deck. Which is fine. It's fine . Aventurine knows all about the trials and tribulations of being married to the job. But he's been restlessly straightening and re-straightening ornaments and framed artwork in some anxious haste to make his apartment look more… more, what? More cat-friendly? More handsome-vet-friendly? 

Even Aventurine himself can't begin to decipher the inner workings of his own mind. It's been a very long time since he's allowed himself to feel like this.

“You said you'd probably be ten minutes late,” Aventurine greets with a smirk, just to preen when Ratio sees right through him again. “In business, I would have had no choice but to liquidate your position by now.”

Apparently, he's heeded Aventurine's warning about cat fur, too, dressed down in a gunmetal grey button-up, loosely tucked into devastatingly tight black slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is artfully dishevelled, falling in waves that frame the sharp edges of his face. 

It's a very good look.

Aventurine, on the other hand, looks every bit the overworked financier as he is, two top buttons unfastened and his tie hastily torn off.

Just as easily as everything else is with them, the doctor's clinical mask slips then. Aventurine is privately relieved to see that Ratio doesn't look at him differently now, ever since yesterday's bombshell. He's even more grateful that the good doctor deigns to just invite himself over the threshold. It saves Aventurine the effort of fumbling through the formalities of letting people in.

The penthouse is pristine, sans the few nicks in his couch, and the cardboard boxes laid out in a strategic row by the cat tree. Atop it, Scrappy snoozes away, oblivious and peaceful, as if having just climbed his own personal Everest. Further down, Tripod is wrapped around the kitten on the floor, a calculated snub to the orthopaedic bed gathering dust nearby.

“I see you've spared no expenses. Most of this isn't wholly necessary, you know,” Ratio comments, before taking himself off to say hello to the cats. “Most cats are quite content with food, a bed, and a couple of crinkly toys.”

Aventurine shrugs, smiling — again — pouring two glasses of cabernet in a bid to keep his hands busy. “High-risk assets require careful management.”

He gives Ratio a tour of the house, gaze flitting to the doctor every now and then, watching him take mindless notes as they move from room to room. By the second walk-through, Ratio wanders off by himself to delve deeper, checking food bowls (organic, grain-free), litter boxes (absurdly high-tech), and for any nondescript hazards. And Aventurine— well, Aventurine finds himself half-adrift.

The guy's hot, sue him. He's got a knack for cutting straight through Aventurine's bullshit. Not to mention, the cats love him, and there's something about that, too.

“Oh geez,” he mutters to the cat tree. “What am I doing ?” 

Tripod quirks open a single eye before stretching out, one front leg and one stump wobbling lazily in front of him. The movement stirs Honey, who begins suckling at Tripod’s fur. It warms something old and long-battered in Aventurine’s heart, to have these three little creatures making his penthouse into a home — to hear the distant pad of footsteps in and around his kitchen. Somewhere, deep down, his inner child aches for the notion of family.

“For a first time pet owner, you’ve certainly done your research.” Ratio re-appears some time later, brushing a tuft of fur from his slacks. Their elbows touch as he leans in, joining Aventurine at the cat tree. “She must have been separated from her mother too early. To compensate for the lack thereof, kittens will seek comfort as soon as they find it, and cling to it.”

That ache warms infinitesimally. It would be easy to slip back into old habits; to put that mask back on and make some comment rooted in vanity about how ‘he’s saved entire corporations from the brink of dissolvement — three cats is nothing.’ But he doesn’t.

Instead, he tugs at the lapel of his shirt and clears his throat. “Looking at me, nobody would believe it took years to believe this place was mine — that it wasn’t going to be torn away from me the moment I decided to get comfortable. Turns out, the only thing I needed was a reason to come home at night.”

Ratio nods slowly, folding his notebook closed. “They are probably worrying about the same. They don’t forget, they simply—”

“Adapt,” Aventurine offers with a wry smile. “Yeah.”

Ratio doesn’t look at him—just crouches down to find Scrappy weaving in and out around his legs. Aventurine laughs then, quiet, if a touch flustered, baulking as the good doctor gets that itchy spot behind the cat's ear.

“I thought animals hated the vets,” Aventurine comments idly. He sinks down to join Ratio on the floor, where the moonlight casts slithers of silver across zebra wood, and reaches for both wine glasses on the coffee table.

“They hate the experience of going to the vets,” Ratio replies, taking the proffered drink with a strange expression. “A good veterinarian will put them at ease.”

Tripod, ever the opportunist, drags a feathered bird-shaped toy into the space between them, his stance demanding an audience.

“He's persistent,” Ratio adds, and gingerly takes a sip of wine before placing it aside. “He must take after you.”

(Come to think of it, is it a breach of protocol for a client to offer their pet's doctor a drink on the clock?)

Leaning back against the couch, Aventurine casts him a sideways glance, one edge of his mouth turned upwards. “Ah, persistent. Annoying. Same diff.”

Placing the toy in Ratio's lap, Tripod sits primly before gazing off to the side. Typical cat , pretending indifference, all the while dropping the loudest hints.

“He wants you to play.”

“Nah,” Aventurine grins, leaning back on the heels of his palms. “He wants you to play. I'm just the wallet.”

With a soft exhale through his nose, Ratio flicks the feather, sending Tripod into a frenzy. Knee-to-knee like this, Aventurine can see the speckles of gold in the burgundy of the doctor's eyes. He can see the faint lines of a life well-lived — the crinkle of brows that often furrow in thought; the divots of a boy who might have once smiled a lot.

“You're staring,” Ratio comments without glancing up. 

Between them, Tripod scurries around on all three legs, pouncing spectacularly after the feather. Somewhere along the way, Scrappy crawls into Aventurine's lap. Honey uses Aventurine's sleeve as leverage to claw her way up onto the sofa like the soon-to-be feisty little princess that she is.

“Haha, just pondering, is all,” says Aventurine, absently staring into the swirl of his wine. If he maintains eye contact now, he fears Ratio will know all of his tells.

He expects some thinly veiled chide about how big-shot corpos don't ponder; they pillage. Just weeks they've known each other, and they've passed jests and jabs about like old friends. And now they're here — two grown men, cross-legged on the floor, somehow understanding each other when they should be talking about the cats.

“I know what it feels like,” Ratio says instead, seemingly measuring the words on his tongue before speaking them into the open. “...Certainly not to the same extent, but I do know how it feels to want for things you thought you'd never have.”

The silent ‘things you thought you didn’t deserve’ rings stark in that empty pause.

The observation is vague enough, but perhaps in some roundabout way, the understanding is mutual.

“Heh. I take back what I said back then. Corporate life probably isn't for you.” Aventurine wrinkles his nose petulantly, always leaning on that impulse to deflect whenever something gets too real. “On the other hand, you ever considered being a clinical psychologist, doc?”

“Aventurine.” A long pause. Aventurine finally looks to him. He finds Ratio looking back, that complicated expression softening at the edges. “They don't need you, you know.”

He knows. Oh, how he knows. In the same manner, Aventurine doesn't need his wealth. He doesn't need his company, nor the glass tower scraping the skies. All he'd ever dared yearn for was comfort. 

These cats — they're survivors. Hell, Aventurine had exaggerated their condition to no end, initially. Yes, to see Ratio, partially. But also because he cares. Too much, perhaps.

He always has.

‘Cats are incredibly hardy,’ Ratio had said. They would've simply survived, with or without him.

“If I were to open the door right now, they'd stay anyway. That's—” That's everything, he doesn't say.

“They trust you.”

“Trust?” Aventurine laughs, his line of sight falling to Tripod who is now curled up in the dip of the doctor's lap, chin resting upon his knee. “I think they trust the schmuck who feeds them duck pâté.”

Then his focus flits to Scrappy, fast asleep, whiskers twitching rhythmically in repose. Honey is snoozing away behind his head, her breath tickling his nape.

He can't say anybody’s really trusted him before.

“They look at me like I'm…enough.” His voice is quieter now, struggling to take shape around his thoughts. “No spreadsheets, no meetings. Just…”

“You.” Ratio shifts carefully, back resting against the couch, too. Mindful not to jostle Tripod, he reaches for his wine. “You are a madman, Aventurine. I would have advised against taking on three cats, but I suspect you wouldn't have listened.”

“Oh?” Grateful for the sudden jab to remind him to breathe, Aventurine laughs, head lolling back against the cushion. “Trying to tell me I'm not up to the job, doc?”

“No, you fool. Otherwise I wouldn't be here entertaining this.”

Cheek pressed to the edge of the couch, Aventurine looks at him. “So, care to tell me why you're still here, drinking my wine, petting my cats—” Softer, then. Painfully so. “Entertaining this?”

“Curiosity, perhaps.” Ratio shrugs, somewhere between pretentious and frighteningly honest. Aventurine has long prided himself on his ability to read the steeliest of faces. He could have never prepared for the enigma that is Dr. Ratio. “The same reason you kept bringing me cats — even the ones with glorified papercuts.”

In his lap, Scrappy grumbles as if protesting in repose, before pressing his face into the vee of his arms with a huff.

“Guilty conscience?” Aventurine deflects. Always deflecting. Always joking, running—

“Contrary to the mask you wear, you are an awful liar.” As they often are, Ratio's words are far less unkind than they sound, tempered by a soft chuckle; the comfort of a gaze that only scrutinises impartially. “The cats weren't the emergency. Not after Honey. You said it yourself—you wanted them to stay. You wanted to be something worth staying for. I'm simply doing my due diligence. Call it…personal research.”

The truth lands heavy somewhere between them. Not for the first time, Aventurine thinks about…this. Him. Them. He thinks about all the ways in which Ratio has breathed fire into his routine where there had only been ice and stone. The ways in which the cats have given him a catalyst of sorts—a want for something greater. 

Aventurine stares blind at his hands—CEO hands, investor hands, hands that have built an empire and now tremble under a cat's purr.

“So.” He tries for a smirk and fails miserably. “What's the diagnosis, doc?”

With a sigh that could be perceived either as exhaustion or benediction, Ratio places his half-full glass aside in favour of touching Aventurine's wrist, thumb inadvertently skirting along the line of a day-old cat scratch.

I see you , that touch says. I'm here, am I not? It's almost laughable, this short time spent shooting their shit back and forth, and Aventurine can already hear Ratio's voice in his mind.

“I think I can see what the cats see in you.”

Daring to breathe, daring to want for more than just the material, Aventurine turns his wrist until the pads of their fingers touch. 

Ratio doesn't pull away — just allows them to exist like this.

“Hah. Does that mean I passed your exam? I get to keep them?”

Can I keep this, too?

“With flying colours. The words slip in, gentle as a cat nudging a door ajar. “So long as you trust them to stay.”

Behind them, Honey stretches out languidly, her needle-point claws catching in Aventurine's hair, one back-foot pressed flush against the doctor's shoulders. Tripod's tail loosely winds around Ratio's calf, and Scrappy curls into Aventurine's front, as though seeking comfort. Ratio's hair tickles his cheek when they both lean down to smooth out the fur on their respective lap-cats’ backs.

It feels a lot like home.

“So, not gonna ask to give me a penny for my thoughts?” When Ratio's brow climbs upwards in question, Aventurine grins, all puerile charm and absolutely no game. “I told you I was pondering earlier. I do that plenty, believe it or not. Don't you want to know what I was thinking about?”

“I was under the impression that when you felt ready, you'd tell me whether I asked or not.”

Aventurine's fingers twitch restlessly. Without a word, Ratio makes space for them between his own.

“I've wined you. I could dine you, too, you know. You, me, the cats. Make it a date?”

“Is this not already? By my calculation, this would be date number seven.”

Aventurine's chest tightens, that once-useless organ thumping erratically. It's not unpleasant. 

In fact, he finds himself thrumming with surprised laughter, shoulders shaking with it.

“Is that what this is? Are all of your appointments dates ? Are you an escort, thinly disguised as an animal doctor?”

The chuckle that earns him is nearly enough to flat-line him.

“Only the ones who come back. Incessantly. Chalk it down to pure luck on your part, but only one idiot fits that bill.”

Idiot has never sounded sweeter. 

Aventurine doesn't do dates. Or, well, he didn't. He didn't do the whole being a pet owner thing either, deeming himself far too busy, far too important for such menialities. But aeons, how he has wanted. 

There's intimacy here, in the way Ratio traps his fingers between his knuckles; the way the ridge of his brow grazes mindlessly over Aventurine's temple. Too much, maybe, for two people who still have yet to learn. Not enough for those same two people who have, incidentally, already learned so much. 

Scrappy stirs ever so slightly, but doesn't wake, when Aventurine turns his head. And Ratio meets him in the middle in a kiss that tastes more like ‘nice to meet you’ than anything driven by ravenous passion. 

They'll get to that part, Aventurine thinks giddily.

Steadily, Ratio deepens the kiss, his free hand moving from where it had lain supporting Tripod's rump to cradle the back of Aventurine's neck instead.

Neither of them speaks. They don't have to. This doesn't need their bantering commentary; this much speaks for itself.

This could either be the birth of something long coveted—or, if nothing else, just a chance to feel close to someone for a short while. For once, Aventurine doesn't think about expiry dates, but instead, allows himself to hope that Dr. V. Ratio might want to stay anyway.

———

Ratio doesn't leave until morning.

Aventurine gets the doctor's personal phone number and permits himself a day's rest at home.

Turns out the quote-unquote seventh date is as good as any for passion to build hard and fast — given the right environment and under the right circumstances. And Ratio hadn't been half as frigid as Aventurine had expected him to be.

(The cats weren't too keen on being closed out of the bedroom for an hour.

‘They'll have to get used to it,’ Ratio had said, before kissing him down into the pillow.)

The fluorescent lights are jarring this early in the morning, humming like a hive of drowsy bees overhead as Aventurine leans against the desk, two coffees in-hand, making small talk with the receptionist. 

They've built quite the rapport by now, Aventurine and Margaret. He supposes after several dozen visits—only a handful of which being for the clinic's intended purpose—it's only natural that Aventurine silently thanks her for assigning him to Examination Room 2 all those months ago.

“You're staring,” Ratio says from across the waiting room, busy checking the dew claws of a trembling chihuahua in a sequinned sweater.

“Just admiring your bedside manner, doc,” Aventurine whistles breezily. The dog’s owner, beside herself with worry, casts him an icy glare. “Anyway, Veritas, I brought you a croissant. Butter. Not margarine. As per your weirdly specific rules.”

It takes a couple of minutes longer for Ratio to clip the tips of the dog's claws. A moment more for him to placate the woman, stressing the importance of regular grooming, before he stands, peeling off his gloves.

He's been here over an hour already. Aventurine will get to his own office in thirty minutes, giving him this half-hour window to drop into the clinic and say hi. It's turned into something of a routine. 

This menial detour is the highlight of Aventurine's morning.

“You're becoming predictable,” says Ratio before kissing him in thanks.

Laughter bubbles up from the pit of Aventurine’s rib cage, mirthful and lively. “And here you are, still sticking around. You're always expecting me to find another stray, aren't you?”

“Hoping,” the doctor corrects, snubbing the coffee in favour of adjusting Aventurine's shirt collar. 

Not that there's anything wrong with it. But the pleasant ache of a calloused thumb tracing the dip of Aventurine's clavicle tells him all he needs to know about the trajectory of the good doctor's thoughts.

“Your clients won't take you seriously.”

“And here I thought you enjoyed leaving your mark on me. I can get fucked within an inch of my life and still smite debt-dodgers, you know.”

Behind them, Margaret pretends to dry heave before scooting over in her chair to answer a call.

She's used to it by now. Topaz and Jade had once called them a power couple for their ability to cause a scene in the way that they orbit one another — proud, shameless, inexorable. Subtlety isn't exactly in Aventurine's nature — nor Ratio's, in this case.

“And you,” he adds, just to see the head vet at Pier Point Veterinary Clinic squirm. “Can fuck me like I'm the air you need to breathe and still cure small animals with thise magic hands of yours. We call that duality.”

There's still so much left for them to learn about one another; so much to learn together. How Ratio likes his morning croissant is just the tip of the iceberg, but they'll get there.

It's all a learning curve. But he wants Ratio to stay. The cats certainly want him to.

“...Doctor—we just had a call from a business downtown in the financial district. There's an owl caught in some netting atop the roof of one of the towers.”

He's starting to believe that Ratio might intend to stay. That this is far more permanent than either of them could have anticipated.

After all, Aventurine knows what the V stands for now.