Sir Pentious

Alastor would have to pretend that Pentious did not just say that, not wanting to imagine the heinous scenario in which they did end up crashing to the ground. There was something to be said about the moderate faith the audio demon had in the serpent to not kamikaze them for the sake of the bit. Nervous or otherwise, he would give nothing away, watching as the little egg delivered the requested drink and releasing a small snuff of amusement at the goofy thing's honesty as to how he seemed to sus out the correct drinks.

That did not surprise him. They did not seem particularly smart, those eggs.

With his drink in hand, Alastor sipped at it to still whatever nerves about being so high up had broiled up in his gut, finding it easier to contend with as the warm bite of the liquor coated his throat and stomach, setting him more at ease.

"My health? You'd be the first to be so concerned about it," he replied with some wry amusement, but he lifted his own glass all the same in a gesture of mutual appreciation.

"I don't think we deviate from cheers very much. But tell me-" Alastor continued, not wanting to get carried away with too many pleasantries when he knew precisely where he was going and why. If he wanted to find out as much as he could about this territory he was going to, he would have to probe for more information beyond just what his eyes could perceive.

"How long have you held onto this city in the sky, as it were? Did you fashion it from the... cloud, up? Or has it been there prior to your arrival?"

"Before I arrived? No, no. The city was built and designed by me. Actually, we lived on the surface at the beginning of our settlement. But only for the while it took to make our initial engines," Pentious explained, happy to do so. He was well aware that it was an impressive feat to rise and stay even higher up than Sinners with wings did.

"We took flight in 1968, so we are approaching our sixtieth year above the clouds. Time fliessss." The pun was intended and much revelled in, followed by a chest-warming sip of whiskey.

The rumble of the engines told Pentious that the eggs had begun the lift-off protocols, and he leaned back in his seat to turn his eyes towards the large windows. He felt decidedly more relaxed when the ship lifted off and began its slow ascent towards his turf. But there would be quite a way until they would make it into the clouds.

"You might want to hold onto your glass," the serpent quipped. The rise was steady, but small objects could easily slide with the switches in altitude and angles. Pen smirked at his fellow Overlord, and the other memories that sparked upon recollection of the surface.

Not wanting to venture off to complete his errands right away, Alastor opted to stride alone, venturing out of the area's more populated spaces towards the wilderness where they had drifted to find his childhood home. He would not go towards it now, knowing that there was likely nothing left of it, but Alastor found a quiet solace at the edge of a murky looking river, staring down into it with muted contemplation.

Where did he go from here?

That was the question, wasn't it? His mother had all but entirely betrayed him - had moved on. Had forgotten him. And now, surely, she was in Heaven, living free and without consequence. His next step would have to be to get up to see her. To question her.

And if necessary...

To seek retribution.

In the bare reflection of himself in the water, he could see the hint of his own shadow, peering over his shoulder in a loom, its hollow gaze narrowing at him. A challenge. 'Should we?' it asked him.

Yes.

But not yet.

Alastor was still bound. Too bound. If he wanted to have the leverage and to ensure that Rosie held up her end of the bargain, he would have to play things carefully... and patiently.

His mother was going nowhere.

With that in mind, the radio demon stepped away from the water's edge and carried on, recalling what he had been tasked to do and finding some flowers and beignets to bring back to their meeting place. The flowers he'd elected were an assortment of magnolias and other, smaller and more colorful buds tucked in between. The pastries were still warm when he spied Pentious from afar, nestled in a marked bag that he offered to the other as soon as he came within arm's reach. Alastor did not look fully recovered from his melancholy, but with fresh determination in mind, he was not moping.

"Here we go," he said aloud. "Fresh. The line for them was a bit egregious. I'd not realized how popular they'd gotten as tourist treats."

And, as a brief thought that he did not want to pass up, he plucked one of the smaller, yellow flowers from the bundle he'd gathered and tucked it behind Pen's ear. He would not be able to maintain it that way for long, but it was cute while it lasted.

"My dear," Pentious greeted, visibly elated to see his companion return in one piece. He accepted the basket with open arms, inhaling the scent of the pastries with a wide smile on his lips. The grain and sugar of Earth had such a clean aroma, and could hardly be replicated. "Thank you for tolerating a queue for my sake."

His smile didn't diminish when Alastor decided to adorn him with a yellow flower, appreciating the special opportunity to do so. Pen would surely miss his visible ears.

"Almost. Just one more thing left," he said, placing the basket down on his suitcase so he could reach towards Alastor too, and gently bring his fingers towards his jaw.

"I want to remember your face. In case returning someday will be difficult."

Pen tilted Alastor's face a bit downwards so it faced his own straight on, and scanned through features that were only borrowed from the past right now. He ran his finger over Alastor's small earlobe, his untamed, dark curls, and fixed the position of his spectacles while he could.

One layer down, Alastor wastes little time in replacing his hand where the cinch had been before, drawing fingers up and along Pen's side while his other arm supports the other man's new positioning in his lap. The closeness between them is satisfying (though not nearly satisfying enough, he thinks), and he basks in it when Simon's lips find their way to his face, uttering his suggestive words that come with a dose of sobriety for the seriousness of this exchange.

Alastor has never given such intimate acts much thought. It's never been a priority for him in the way that perhaps Simon might now begin to feel. But if he is to pursue this path with anyone, then there are no other candidates than the one who is settled against him now, turning his head to nose against the side of Pen's face to reciprocate a bit of that affection.

"I am flattered and privileged that you've picked me then," he responds for lack of knowing what to say about his own desire (or lack thereof). It is a fitting enough reply, he thinks, before his attention is stolen down to his lower half, brows raising only slightly.

Pen is bolder than Alastor gives him credit for, and after only a few seconds of consideration, the young Hartfelt nods.

"Of course."

Under any other circumstances, he may be... nervous as to what he possesses and if it is of any real note. But in this scenario, Alastor does not believe Simon to be particularly... expectant of anything. And in that, he tries to take solace, leaning ever-so-slightly away so that he can provide a decent avenue for the other's hands to do the work that they need to.

"I feel so shy, even though it's you." Pendleton chuckles at himself in exasperation. "Isn't that silly?"

There is quite literally no inch of his best friend that he has not seen before. But their current circumstances have thrown everything into an entirely new concept, unknown and exhilarating. It's still a first, and a meaningful one at that.

Simon comforts his nerves by continuing his gentle quest, Alastor's heavy belt unbuckled and discarded with his careful hand. He swallows as his fingertips meet the swell still hidden beneath fabric, searching for the clasps on Alastor's trousers. His careful fumbling and cluelessness feel less severe when Alastor coats his neck in kisses, and Simon lets out a sigh that's audible enough for him to hold his breath for a moment thereafter.

But no one has heard, and nobody comes.

Finally, Pen releases Alastor from the constriction of the trousers, pale fingertips inching inwards to gently press against flesh. He knows enough to caress Alastor in his hand with steady, experimental slowness, lest he hurry or hurt him in any way.

Sensing the kittypet's hesitation at such a statement, Stagtooth made a mental note not to mention it again, especially given that Precious had not exactly given him much of a response to it. Perhaps it was silly to think that he might stay. Not when he had a warm bed inside a twoleg nest with food whenever he wanted it and safety for the kits, especially.

Why he was even considering that Precious might think about living as a wild cat was beyond him.

Occupying himself by reaching out with paws to lightly bat at the kits as they trounced around the pair of them, he listened to the other tom recount his conversation with the medicine cat, ears perked to pay attention and finding himself somewhat surprised that there seemed to be something to the dream.

"Really?" He asked, a bit baffled by that. "I've never heard of a kittypet being given dreams by Starclan..."

Absently, he gently smushed one of the kits under his big paw, watching as it rolled happily underneath the attention. Stagtooth thought through what that could possibly mean, but the dream's message did not make much more sense to him than it had when he'd first heard it. "But it must be important."

His ears tipped back, thinking through what that meant for Precious being there at all, coming to an eventual conclusion.

"Maybe it was on purpose that you were lost. Why else would you end up here specifically with our clan with a medicine cat who had the same dream? That can't just be a coincidence, can it...? I've never spoken to Starclan myself, but... The way the rest of the cats talk about them, they seem as though they're almost all-seeing. Maybe they see something in you that you do not even know about yet."

Stagtooth snuffed gently.

"But I'm no expert. I just know what I've been told."

He blinked once or twice in a sudden revelation.

"...Perhaps you should go to the Moonstone. The place where medicine cats and leaders go to commune with Starclan. Maybe there.... something might become more obvious...?"

It was a thought, but after a few seconds, the large ginger tom puffed out an exhale.

As concerning as the dream itself was, Precious had a sense of pride in managing to impress Stagtooth in some way. He now knew of the unfavourable image clan cats had of kittypets and their relatively easy lives, and was glad he could shake up the perception of his uselessness a little bit.

Though, as he reminded himself, Stagtooth had already seen and even approved of his hunting and the trick he used to evade the monsters on the thunderpath. Stagtooth didn't seem to think he was a useless kittypet. He treated him courteously and did not tell off the kits either.

Perhaps this dream actually proved something to Precious himself.

These thoughts paused only briefly as Stagtooth speculated, voicing something similar to what he dared to hope. Did this wonderful and wise Starclan have a plan for him? Did they think there was something more to him than to be a loyal two-leg companion?

"I'm... I'm just... Well. Maybe." Suddenly, the pride accumulated turned into a bit of embarrassment and coyness, and Precious quickly hid his nose behind a paw at the pretence of only giving himself a wash. "I want to make sure that the kits will be alright. If the Moonstone would help make sense of what to do next, it sounds like a good idea."

As horrible as it sounded to leave his kits for days. They had never been apart from Precious for such a long time. But if the Starclan saw him as favourable, maybe the clan would too, and Morningstar would openly invite him and the kits to stay and even help them back home... So many things to consider. Perhaps it would be something that would just have to be done.

He observed the way the kits danced around Stagtooth, and the patient way the larger tom handled them. It would be reassuring if Stagtooth joined him on such a long journey, but he'd be just as reassured if Stagtooth stayed back with the clan and near his boys instead.

Moonkit captured Stagtooth's large paw into his own claws, and bit it in a ravenous play-attack. Precious licked Pebblekit's black fur and allowed the smallest kit to press against his side and purr himself to sleep once more. Eggkit's attack on Precious' neck relented only as the older cat shook him off, urging him to jump on Stagtooth instead.

The amount of force required to lift a full person-sized... person was certainly enough to cause some harm. It had only been unfortunate that Alastor had not been an animal or one of the infected, as now he had to feel every agonizing pull of his muscle and bone with every attempt he made to stand. There was some surprise when the other finally handed him his weapon, but Alastor was not of a mind just then to take aim with it and fire, too preoccupied with trying to leverage it to get him back up to standing.

It was accomplished, but not comfortably, his twisted foot lifting from the ground. He tried not to wince, but there was no putting any significant weight on it, his brow beading with a bit of sweat whenever he made the effort.

But it was no good.

"Come to your camp," Alastor repeated with dull intonation. "Why, so you can break my other foot?"

His temper had not faded much, if any, but he knew better than to try and simply hobble off in a direction and hope he did not get picked off for his pride, a haggard and annoyed exhale leaving him as he leaned heavily upon his rifle.

"Oh, good." An utterance under his breath for the warning that this stranger seemed to give. But if he was warning him about the traps, then that likely meant he was not especially interested in killing him. Otherwise, it would have been far too easy to do so before now. Maybe he was just going to be robbed.

But what choice did he have, in the end? In the distance, his relatively keen senses picked up on shuffling further along in the brush, and Alastor was not about to be caught in the midst of the clearing without a quick escape if a few of the shambling sick made their way over.

"Fine," he hissed, turning to glare at the other.

"Where is it?"

Surely it could not be far. But it had to be safe enough for this man to find confidence in it, right?

"I wouldn't!" Pen objected. His lips were already pursed in worry after causing an injury accidentally, he would never hurt someone just stumbling his way in such a manner on purpose.

But he understood that it would be hard to convince the stranger of that without any proof. Eventually, the severity of his injury seemed to win the man over, and Pendleton gestured towards the treeline and a thicker part of the forest.

"It's only around a hundred metres from here. That is, uh-"

Pen paused to think about the conversion, briefly fiddling with his hands and tapping his fingers to help the calculation. "Zero, point....um- Well, one block away, approximately. Not far at all. I'll show you the way."

And as he began to lead Alastor through the path he knew and warning about the traps they passed, he too registered the sounds from somewhere not far enough. Damn it all to Hell, he thought, glancing at his hurt acquaintance and his very capable firearm, even as it was utilised as a crutch for now.

"Here," Pen said, handing back the rifle magazine from his pocket. Trust for trust, he supposed. "Please don't make me regret giving it back to you."

Stagtooth, at first, did not budge. But when his ears detected the kits in close proximity, showing off the 'moves' they'd begun to pick up from the other, older kits and no doubt the apprentices, the ginger tom opened an eye to peer at them with some amusement. With a small grunt, he rolled over onto his side, seemingly unbothered as the kits clambered up and down on his much larger body.

He was growing accustomed to it, it seemed. That alone, though it went unnoticed by Stagtooth himself, drew a few eyes from some of the other warriors and the queens, to boot. Not once had they seen him engage in such a way with kits before. A novel experience, by all accounts.

But the ginger tom was not paying much attention to that, glancing up at Precious who had come along with them, and he gave a small nod at the names that had been granted.

"Perfectly suitable for clan cats," Stagtooth agreed. "They'll be Eggkit, Moonkit, and Pebblekit. And-" He paused, as though considering what he wanted to say before he carried on.

"Well. If they decide to stay. Or if you do... they will have the opportunity to earn their warrior names."

Though it was not just up to Precious, Stagtooth remembered, rolling back onto his belly so that he could sit up, sparing a glance over at Morningstar who had paused to also observe the kits in their afternoon revelry. The clan's leader, however, gave nothing away in his expression.

He took in a breath and released it before turning his own emerald gaze back towards the kittypet.

Sir Precious' eyes widened in surprise at Stagtooth's proposition. Stay? Staying had never been a possibility that Precious would have willingly followed. It was a fleeting hypothetical in the case that they wouldn't be able to return. But... they could, right?

He glanced down at his kits and could imagine them wanting to stay. With them thriving in the fresh air and so much socialisation with other cats. And of course, young and excitable as they were, they found the life of a wildcat exhilarating.

But just as soon as Precious considered all that, he recalled their first day in the wilderness. Cold, soaked in rain, running away from a badger, and suspected by all cats they came across.

And their lives only spared because they were lucky enough to meet Stagtooth and no one else.

The kits were Presh's responsibility. He had to give them their best chance of survival. And that was at home with warmth, an abundance of food and medication, and their loyal two-legs. Not here. They would have to return. As soon as... perhaps four moons had passed, when the kits were strong enough to make the long journey.

Sir Precious was glad Stagtooth changed the subject, bringing up the topic of his dream instead.

"My dream... yes," the kittypet said, lowering upon his paws and scooting closer to the other tom. What he was about to say next was highly confidential, which was evident in how quietly he meowed. The kits were busy at play, and wouldn't understand a word. It was fine that they were present.

"He thinks there is merit to it. He knows, in fact. Apparently, an ancestor visited him and told him the same exact thing I was told."

The kittypet let his words sink in for a moment. He had been explicitly told that Starclan only confined in clans, making the recent developments completely unprecedented. The medicine cat had been shocked, to say the least.

His ear flicked as Egg-kit climbed over his back and bit at the nape of his neck.

"Your parents have always been paranoid," Alastor tuts, but he gazes at Simon warmly all the same, for the first time in a small while realizing that Simon, pale and privileged as he was, was no longer the small, far-too-timid boy that he had been when they had first been brought together. He has filled out some, his skin smooth and soft, the swell of his hips fitting nicely into Alastor's hands as they continue to brush against different places along Simon's body, exploring with eagerness and favor.

Each kiss satisfies him, and yet leaves him wanting more, his head tilting slightly into Pen's wandering fingers that make their way up and towards his hair. He shivers, slightly, at the contact there, but it's not unpleasant.

"Mm, I am going to be greedy and say that you should fill mine," he hums, already beginning to pull Simon closer and up, so that he can situate across the young Hartfelt's hips. Alastor may not know precisely how to proceed, but he can pretend as though he does, eventually turning his attention back up to the strange corset-like garb that Simon still wears, beginning to tug just a bit more insistently at the lacing of it.

"May I?" He dares to ask, knowing that the fewer layers between them, the better, but he will not make presumptions. Comfort is king, and while Alastor soothes the potential for stress by leaning to press a few wayward kisses along Pen's shoulder while he waits for a response, he will not be put out if the answer he is given is a no.

Simon allows Alastor to tug him forward, and following the guideline of the watercolour cards and the inviting dip of Alastor's lap, he situates himself into his arms almost as if he were a bride.

"You may," he says, squirming slightly beneath the other's nimble fingertips despite the invitation in his reddened face. Simon's arms reach behind Alastor's shoulders, holding onto him as he allows his companion to unlace his cinch. When the constriction of the garment leaves him, he breathes a bit easier. It is comfortable, here.

Simon kisses Alastor's cheek, and his lips stay near his ear to breathe out words that tickle all the way in his chest.

"I always hoped this would be with someone I care about utmost."

And though this is not exactly what he expected, it's still exactly that. He is doing this with his best friend in the entire world. He is courting and practising relations with someone he'd trust his life to. Just the way it should be.

Alastor knew he was not in much of a position to demand anything, but his disdain for his current predicament was overpowering as he struggled against the strength of the net. He could not lose his weapon, he thought. Beyond it being one of the only things had kept him alive for as long as he'd been, there was a bit of sentimental value, too, a few small tally-marks etched into the wood finish. Losing it would mean losing too much - but he was not about to beg this stranger for leniency.

He would have rather died.

"Not marked well enough," the lone wanderer continued to complain in an angry mutter. In truth, he had simply been distracted, loathe to admit that reality to this accented trap-maker.

He watched, however, as the other drifted to climb up the tree, twisting in the net to keep an eye on him as though ensuring the man did not see fit to cut him down before he was ready to hit the ground. It was a surprise to be lowered rather gently after all, until he lay on the ground in a tangled heap, his foot still in more pain than he would like to admit.

"Yes, yes, just get me out."

It came as a grouse, but a somewhat muted one. Until he felt the freedom that came with being rid of the net, eager to get back to his feet. From there, he presumed that this other man would not be prepared to handle an assault from the front with his knife, and Alastor had been about to reach down to snag the weapon from where it had been placed back into its small holster -

Only for a sudden sear of pain in his foot kept him from placing weight down onto it properly, and no sooner had he stood did he fall over as he tried to take a step, fumbling into the dirt with a loud swear.

"Goddamn you," he hissed, not clarifying whether he meant the offending foot or the other man, glancing down at himself in frustration. Could he not walk? If that were the case, he was in trouble.

"Oh shit," Pendleton cussed. He hadn't expected the stranger to actually have hurt himself in his trap - after all, it was not a bear trap, fortunately.

Begging for a sprain or even a dislocation instead of an actual break, he crouched near the man and complied to his demands for the first time. He unstrapped and handed the man his rifle, but fell back as soon as he did, still afraid of the stranger's possible retaliation.

"Can you walk? God, maybe you shouldn't..." But Pendleton immediately realised the futility of his words. As much as the man should avoid moving his hurt leg, they shouldn't stay out in the open. Without thinking about it much further, Pen made a decision. He wasn't cruel. He wouldn't let this stranger fare alone in the unforgiving wilderness. Especially when he had caused the other's injury.

"You should come to my camp for first aid. I don't have a lot, but that needs to get looked at, and at least kept elevated for a while."

Pendleton's eyes turned towards the wilderness around them, and the knowledge that a fungus infested mutant, a bandit or an animal predator would jump at the chance to take advantage of their predicament. And all the engineered ways Pen had tried to prevent them from doing so.

And way too much in pain to be able to be a proper 'enemy', anyway. Precious was glad he had not been through such a mutilation. And he was glad it was not a common practice, from what he understood.

"Large fish only have teeth. But they wouldn't be able to get into the nursery," he added with a light laugh, admitting to himself that he was just as out of guesses as Stagtooth was. Maybe his dream was just a dream. Nonsensical scene born out of memories and fear. Although a feeling deep in his gut told Precious that there was more to it than that.

"Yes, I think I will. After he tends to the injured cats. I do not want to bother him if it turns out to be nothing more than my imagination."

He appreciated that Stagtooth took his experience seriously. Sir Precious purred as the wildcat reached another hard-to-reach spot on his smooth fur, and returned the gesture by pushing his head against Stagtooth's chin and licking his cheek.

"Thank you for listening, Stagtooth."

The disapproving eyes of some cats further away in the camp urged him to stop before he could further groom the other cat, however. Perhaps they thought he was overstepping his rights? Or maybe they felt that Stagtooth shouldn't be sharing tongues with a kittypet?

He did not want the warrior to get into more trouble for his sake.

Precious licked his own paw, and stretched as he stood back up again.

"Their claws taken away?"" Stagtooth repeated, alarmed by the very prospect. He'd heard of cats whose claws had been torn in the middle of battle... or running over especially hard ground. But by a two leg? He could not help but shudder at the idea, his fur bristling before he could shake off the terrible images that his imagination was conjuring as Precious continued to speculate.

But said terrible imaginings were interrupted by the bunt against his own head and the lick that soon followed. The ginger tom blinked a few times, as though not expecting it, and cleared his throat awkwardly as he too noticed that they were being observed.

It was very much a distrust towards the kittypet that kept the others at arm's length - though any cats who'd had their wounds dressed by Precious during the battle seemed much less suspicious than the others.

"...I suppose I should," he mumbled, a bit disquieted by the looks of his clanmates as he pushed himself up to his paws. He shook his ears out once more before nudging the kittypet towards the nursery.

"Go on. I'm sure they miss you. And there will be more patrols later this evening. The clan needs to be fed."

But he did not think that Precious would be asked to attend them yet - he was not a clan member, and as Stagtooth trailed over to the medicine cat's den, he was probed, in passing, by a few other cats questing after an answer as to whether or not the kittypet would be a permanent installation in the clan.

Stagtooth did not quite know how to answer. He had his doubts, but he was not about to voice them one way or another, hiding away in the medicine den for long enough that his wounds could be addressed properly, and then returning out into the open to plop down in the middle of the clearing.

He was tired - and while the fresh kill pile was not hurting for prey, he was going to nap for a while. A badger attack and a skirmish with another clan all in the span of two days was a bit much, even for him. And while the other clan cats seemed to bunch together to take similar snoozes, Stagtooth was sequestered far from them.

Sometime later, after Sir Precious had gone to see his kits, given them a meowing lesson and then sauntered off to speak with the medicine cats, the kits themselves were chasing each other in the middle of the camp.

"Stop! Look!" One said, nose pointed towards the sleeping heap at the edge of their meadow. The other two meowed in excitement.

"Big Warrior cat."

"Tagtooth!"

Happy to see their heroic saviour, the trio ran towards Stagtooth, their clumsy steps becoming slower as they came close to the large tom. From there, they surrounded Stagtooth, sniffing, pawing and meowing to him. They tried to get the Warrior to play by pouncing and rolling in front of him. Look how impressive we are, they seemed to say.

"I'm sorry, Stagtooth. I hope they weren't disturbing you too much." The oldest kittypet's voice came from the direction of the medicine den.

Precious tiptoed over and tugged one of the kits towards himself so he could bathe his short fur, earning squirms and frenzied mews.

"No, papa, no! No bath!" the kit objected, utilising a word heard and learned at their kittypet home. "Can do it myself!"

"Oh, right, because you're so big now," Precious said with a roll of his eyes, gaze then turning to Stagtooth. "The queen has begun weaning them."

As teasing as his tone was, Presh had to admit that his kits were visibly growing, bigger and more energetic and skillful every day. Their eyes were now bright, and could see things clearly. They had little claws and upturned ears. Presh looked at them warmly, patiently swatting them away when their little teeth tried to puncture both him and Stagtooth as they played.

"I've come up with temporary names for them, like you suggested, Stagtooth. Egg, Moon and Pebble. So they can... fit in a bit better until we return home."

His lap freed of Pen's presence, Alastor shifted so that he could scoot to the edge of the bed, and then pushed himself to his feet. The longer he remained here, the less likely it would be that he would feel particularly compelled to leave. This place felt like some sort of safe little hovel, for now - but that was likely only because Pentious was present.

Money offered, Alastor blinked down at it before reaching to take it. Sometimes, he forgot that currency was a thing that needed to exchange hands. It would get pocketed - and he would try to remember it, rather than simply taking what he needed and putting himself at risk of having to spend the next however-many-hours being accosted by a policeman for his audacity.

In a way, he was grateful for the opportunity to be alone, for a small while. Then, he would not have to feel compelled to pretend as though he were in any sort of feeling capacity.

So he nodded.

"I can do that."

Easy and simple. But so that he did not make the implication that he did not want to be around Pentious, he leaned to take the other's chin in hand, pressing his own lips to Pen's in a small, hopefully reassuring kiss. It did not linger - but it was not meant to be one to do that.

Just a means of expressing that he was not so distant that he could not recognize the other's contribution to simply... allowing him to exist in the way that he was.

"As long as you are careful."

Pentious was not some simpering woman, however. Alastor was certain he would manage himself well enough. But it was with that, that he decided to fully dress himself, ensuring that his hair was not too unkempt before he produced a cigarette for himself and made his way out the door. Flowers and pastries. Easy enough.

Pentious' hurried mood sobered as Alastor kissed him, recognising the other's effort to stay cognisant and present. He took Alastor's hand for a moment, and placed an additional peck over his knuckles.

"Only if you are careful too, dear," he said. The disguised serpent still wanted to give his companion a moment of respite from his own fussing, although at the same time he felt worried about leaving Alastor alone when he was feeling poorly.

A small moment alone could let him recharge. Hopefully.

After Alastor left, Pentious effectively emptied their room out of their things, before returning the keys to the reception and the young lady running it. He thanked the lady for the motel's great service, feeling a bit emotional to realise she may have been the last human he would properly talk to during the precious few moments left on Earth.

Afterwards, he made his way to town and dug out his phone to film whatever he could see. For the eggs, everything would be completely new and exciting, so Pentious was not particularly picky about his subjects.

"That's grass. That's a dandelion. That's a tree. That's the sky. Those are the clouds. Out there is a riverboat. Those are shops. In that window you can see a raincoat, because on Earth, rain is not acidic but only water."

He turned the camera towards himself, shakily.

"And that's me. Hello! Not quite as formidable as usual, but still very much myself. Observe my lack of sharp fangs and my protruding nose. This is what boss looked like alive...." He monologued his way down the streets, taking many more photos and videos as he did.

Once he reached the spot he and Alastor had agreed to meet back at, near where they would be fetched back to Hell, he stopped and decided to take a look at all of his gathered images. His eyes fell on the one he had taken with Alastor, in front of the mirror in their motel room. It wasn't a professional portrait, but one so significant that Pentious definitely wanted to print a copy. He touched Alastor's screen face with the pad of his finger, as if giving him a pat on the head.

Still swinging uncomfortably up in the net, Alastor scrabbled a bit to get himself into an upright position that did not make him look a fool, the fabric of his clothing causing more harm than good just then, and frustrating him further. No, he might not have been in a position to demand much of anything from the other man, but that did not keep him from making an attempt through his anger.

"Don't touch that!" He snapped as the stranger made a grab for his rifle and removed the magazine from it, his brow furrowing further as he made an attempt to struggle to reach the knife that he had strapped somewhere near to his boot - but even as he did pull it from its holding, the blade did nothing to the cord. Beyond that, his foot was still trapped at an awkward angle, and he would undoubtedly just injure it further if the net dropped out from beneath him.

Alastor's gaze turned downwards to the other once more and he huffed.

"I'm not hurt."

Even if he was, why would he share that? But the answer to the first question gave him enough of a pause. How should he answer? If he mentioned that he was alone... would that not give this stranger more leverage to do something to him? And if he said he was with a group, would that encourage him to dispatch his ensnared prize to ensure that said group did not find him?

With frustration, Alastor gave in.

"I am alone. Which is why I need that gun. Because insane people such as yourself are out here setting traps without effectively marking them!"

The Britt startled at the stranger's shout, but did not move a muscle to return the gun to the way it was. He felt much safer without the danger of it firing during this exchange, accidentally or not.

"Calm your bosoms, you'll get it back," he snapped, quickly cocking the rifle. Not to point at the man - futile without the magazine, anyway - but the tree trunk and the slab of red painted across it.

"I do mark them. Bloody yank muppet... Hold on, I'll lower the net as slowly as I can."

It was only fair. The man had answered his question, after all. And Pendleton really did plan on returning the rifle. After the situation was de-escalated, and no adrenaline- or testosterone-fuelled hormones could urge them to act irrationally and violently.

Pen stored the rifle over his other shoulder, stepped beside the tree and used a protruding root as a foothold to climb onto the lowest branches, where he could reach the trap's mechanisms. They were carefully untied and loosened, and the man cranked a repurposed winch to lower the net and its captive back onto the ground.

Pen jumped back down, nearly tripping and falling on his bottom as he did, unaccustomed to the added weight of the firearm.

"I believe I will."

Alastor, even now, would never pass up an opportunity to eat. And while flesh was certainly one of the few things that he knew Vox kept a supply of to feed his more carnal instincts and desires, the audio demon could be kept relatively placated with any other good meal, as long as it was made with consideration for the very craft of cooking. He did not do much cooking himself anymore, but when he did, it was impeccable, if one were to ask him.

Glancing towards the lounge, he almost hesitated, a preference for continuing to explore very near to winning out in a battle against his desire to not topple over when the thing took off. But self-preservation seemed to have the smallest bit of advantage, and Alastor gave a nod.

"If they have any sort of whiskey available, I might be convinced to partake," he said in response to the offer before waving a hand in a slight flourish as if to say: That's all.

From there, he turned to begin his descent down towards the lounge area, his steps elegant, even as he began to understand just how out of his depth he might have been in such a large flying machine.

"Please do your utmost to not send us plummeting back to the ground! I have appointments tomorrow," he called in jest before finding himself a seat and waiting patiently for the attendance of the eggs.

The dome window did pull his attention, however, glancing over but not necessarily wanting to get too close.

Paranoia told him that the thing would shatter and he might be its one casualty for the sake of curiosity.

"I would not dream of that. It is such a mess when the ship crashes. And that is not only in regard to the metal," Sir Pentious joked back. Perhaps he wouldn't be so open to implying his ship could plummet to the ground, but with the deer having caved in one window already, he felt a quick jab was deserved.

With amusement, he observed Alastor's easy manner of existing in a space that wasn't even his. In comparison, he was fidgety and a bit uncertain, so unaccustomed to improvised socialisation.

"How lucky. I am partial to some Sssscotch, myself." At least Scotch-style, with Hell's resources.

Sir Pentious followed Alastor's descent after making sure that each egg was in proper attendance for the take-off, hands joyously lifted over his chest. Like a proper host, he waited for Alastor to take a seat before sitting down on one of the comfortable velvet seats himself. How long had it been since he welcomed a personal guest on board? Or enjoyed a drink while actually seated, for that matter?

As if reading his thoughts, Frank arrived with the requested tray, two glasses filled with ice spheres, and a new bottle of whiskey.

"MacHellan, local to my turf," Pentious said. "Smoky, spicy and oily. Good choice, Frank."

"I go by colours," Frank said with a pleased smile, surprisingly nimble hands pouring the two Overlords their whiskey. Pentious lifted his glass and nodded to Alastor, doing a bit more than usual to ensure he did not spill.

Sharing tongues was just... something done when a cat began to live within a clan. It was a gesture of comradery and appreciation - and while Stagtooth still did not know how sold the kittypet was on abandoning his belief that he might return to his twolegs eventually... Precious had tended to his wounds more than once now. A bit of grooming was not out of the question when it came to offering gratitude in turn.

Silently, he listened to the other recount his dream, pausing in the grooming for a few moments as Precious carried him through the details. A large she-cat? But not his mother... and glowing. So perhaps it was an ancestor... or surely, a cat that no longer walked the forest alongside any cat of the present.

Then, Stagtooth's eyes widened slightly with intrigue at the words uttered by the mysterious she-cat... and he mulled them over in his head for a few moments, only able to come to the conclusion that... he did not know what that meant.

"Only bares their teeth...?" He repeated, trying to pluck through what he knew of a cat's enemies. "It... can't be another cat then. Cats use their teeth and claws... Maybe... Maybe a dog?" From what he understood about the dogs he'd come across, they had a tendency to favor using their slobbering jaws - but they too had claws. Lesser used, perhaps, but still there. That would also disqualify things like badgers and foxes...

Stagtooth shook his head.

And way too much in pain to be able to be a proper 'enemy', anyway. Precious was glad he had not been through such a mutilation. And he was glad it was not a common practice, from what he understood.

"Large fish only have teeth. But they wouldn't be able to get into the nursery," he added with a light laugh, admitting to himself that he was just as out of guesses as Stagtooth was. Maybe his dream was just a dream. Nonsensical scene born out of memories and fear. Although a feeling deep in his gut told Precious that there was more to it than that.

"Yes, I think I will. After he tends to the injured cats. I do not want to bother him if it turns out to be nothing more than my imagination."

He appreciated that Stagtooth took his experience seriously. Sir Precious purred as the wildcat reached another hard-to-reach spot on his smooth fur, and returned the gesture by pushing his head against Stagtooth's chin and licking his cheek.

"Thank you for listening, Stagtooth."

The disapproving eyes of some cats further away in the camp urged him to stop before he could further groom the other cat, however. Perhaps they thought he was overstepping his rights? Or maybe they felt that Stagtooth shouldn't be sharing tongues with a kittypet?

He did not want the warrior to get into more trouble for his sake.

Precious licked his own paw, and stretched as he stood back up again.

Though there is a brief lament for the loss of warmth between them, Alastor eases back patiently, waiting for Pen to situate himself. Slightly blurred though his vision is, the young man watches intently as Simon sheds that strange gown and allows it to fall away, leaving them shrouded in a much dimmer light. He does not know what to make of the clothing that Simon still has, but as the other returns to nearly drape himself against Alastor's slender, but slightly muscled form, his hands return to Pen's sides.

Words are hard to come by when his lips are occupied, but he smirks all the same when the kiss is broken, and he nods.

"I had no intent to do so," he reassures.

But there is a pause as his fingers begin to wander over the details of that corset, curious about it and its purpose. It keeps Simon looking slender... but what point is there when there is no one around?

...Besides himself, that is.

With some slight subtlety, his fingertips search for the laces on it, his other hand smoothing over the fabric that remains on the other while his kiss deepens - perhaps as some distraction from his exploration. But he realizes, after a moment, that the fabric of his own shirt is a bit annoying - and though he does not break the kiss, his hands do return to himself to begin the steady removal of it, leaving behind a few leather cord necklaces that he'd been wearing prior, still resting against his collarbone.

"You know my parents. They get so worried that I get too cold and die," Simon remarks with a dry chuckle, though his skin bristles in appreciation as Alastor's fingers dance upon the laces of his cinch, just like they earlier did to his thigh.

Although the memories are hazy, he knows that he first arrived to Alastor's, or rather, Madame's, cottage bundled up in layers upon layers, even though summer was in full bloom.

The latest summer is already gone, although the days are still warm. The coolness of the nights brings hints of the upcoming winter, visible in the goosebumps on his and Alastor's skin. Pen sneaks little peeks of Alastor's well-formed chest between mouthfuls of curious kisses, and runs a hand between the cords of his necklaces.

A heat in contrast to the coolness of the air sparks within his being, and he is overcome with an affectionate desire to be even closer to Alastor.

His hands explore the other man's pointed collarbone and climb up to his beautiful curls. Have they always looked so exquisite? Has Alastor's scent always been so comforting and enticing?