SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Domestic feral cats

Johnny's Point of View

By the time we finally decided to call it a night, Gibsie was snoring loudly from his dramatic sprawl on the living room floor – face buried in the couch cushions, legs halfway under the coffee table, one sock mysteriously hanging from a nearby lamp.
How it got there, I didn't know.
I wasn't even sure I wanted to know.

"I think he's dead." Maeve muttered as we tiptoed around him, her voice low with amusement. "Should we leave him there or shove him onto the couch?"

I sighed, glancing toward the couch, then back at the heap of limbs Gibsie had become. "Not worth the effort. He'll wake up at 3am, eat all the biscuits, and fall asleep again."

Maeve snorted. "That's oddly specific."

"Because it's happened. Twice."

She grinned as I flicked off the living room light and led the way toward the hall.

I opened the door and flicked the light on, revealing the usual organised chaos – rugby boots abandoned under the desk, a hoodie draped over the back of the chair, a few dog-eared notebooks stacked on the desk.

Maeve walked in without hesitation, already toeing off her boots by the door. "You still haven't put those boots away."

"I like living dangerously." I said, shutting the door behind us. "Adds a bit of suspense to my mornings."

"Yeah, nothing screams thrill-seeker like tripping over your own footwear."

She tossed her coat onto the chair, flopping down onto the bed like she owned it.
I kicked off my socks and dropped onto the mattress beside her, letting my head sink into the pillow with a sigh.

"You cold?" I asked, glancing sideways at her.

She shook her head, already curled up on her side. "No. Just tired."

Her voice was muffled slightly by the duvet she'd pulled halfway up to her chin.

She rolled onto her back, yawning softly. "You're staring."

"I am not."

"You are. You've got that weird soft-face thing going on."

I scoffed. "I do not have a soft-face thing."

"You do." She said, smirking. "It's like your face forgets you're supposed to be a grumpy bastard."

I turned onto my side, propping my head up on my elbow. "You're full of shit."

"Admit it, you get all gooey when you're tired."

"I do not get gooey."

"You do. You're practically pudding."

I rolled my eyes. "You're lucky you're funny."

"And you're lucky I haven't kicked you out of your own bed yet."

"Bold of you to assume I wouldn't just sleep on the floor."

Maeve raised a brow. "You would not survive the floor. You'd start whining about your shoulder within ten minutes."

"Lies. I'm rugged and durable."

"You're dramatic and full of complaints."

"Ouch."

She laughed quietly, tucking the blanket higher up around her shoulders. "God, I'm too tired for this."

"Then stop talking."

"You stop talking."

Maeve shifted slightly, the blanket rustling as she settled more comfortably.
I glanced at her again.
Noticed the way her hair had fallen over her eyes, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the little line between her brows that was only ever there when she was thinking too hard.