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Rain, cold and dreary on the windowsill, racing snakes of water on the chill autumn day. Perfect weather for spiked coffee and a shitty book. So Solo sat curled in the warmth of his armchair, reading to the chorus of half-hearted thunder. Movement caught the corner of his eye, however, effectively dragging all of Solo's attention away from the protagonist's fateful decision on what to wear.
None of the heroine's ballgown options would've been particularly helpful to the man on the sidewalk.
He was bundled appropriately, sure, but the autumn rain in London had a tendency to soak through to your bones, no matter the amount of layers. The poor creature was a rather pitiful sight; shivering as he stapled yet another missing poster to the telephone pole, only to watch it plaster to the wood and nearly disintegrate.
This was the fifth day the man had been out with stacks of flyers tucked into his coat. And Solo didn't have the emotional investment in animals that he'd seen in most people, but he did have an invested interest in the giant, stoic man he thought had no capacity for emotional investment in anything.
So he watched. Quietly, curiously. From the warmth of his own apartment. The man was a brick house– silent, sturdy, muscled. Solo had only exchanged brief greetings with him when they passed each other in the lobby of their shared apartment building. But he didn't seem the type to care about anything or any-one, let alone a scrawny black cat with a white splotch on its chest. Sue Solo for wanting to know more.
Baked goods. An icebreaker and a way to get the guy warmed up. He couldn't be comfortable, soaked with ice cold rain, walking around in the biting wind. And the shops were only a short walk away.
Solo closed his book and dressed warmly, bringing an umbrella and a tote bag on account of the weather.
If he happened to pick up a tin of cat treats while he was out, that was between himself and the cashier checking him out.
Solo was on his way home, bag full of ingredients, when he stopped and really examined the poster for the first time. Obviously he'd seen the black and white photo in the center passing by. It was the same one on every flier; the tiny thing in an admittedly adorable twist, fast asleep in a comfortable looking cat bed. The rest of the poster appeared to be handwritten, in barely legible script. No wonder he hadn't gotten any tips.
The ink of the phone number at the bottom bled to the point of being indecipherable, but in bigger letters, written just below the photocopied photograph, were the words: “Answers to ‘Sputnik’.”
Sputnik. Solo had judged the man's accent as eastern European, definitely Slavic, but the name suggested Russian descent. Was that why he wouldn't speak to him?
As sad as it was, it would make sense. A self-defense mechanism. The only way he could be sure to keep himself and his surprisingly beloved Sputnik safe. Something tugging on the corner of his bag broke Solo from his thoughts and he lifted the tote at the same time he looked down to investigate the source.
Solo froze in place, locking eyes with a very wet, very skinny black cat. It flattened to the ground, its drenched fur bristling as much as it could and its piercing green eyes staring into his soul. Its white-tipped tail thrashed and its ears pinned flat, but it made no move to run. Solo flicked his gaze to the poster again and saw the very same distinct white tip of a tail.
“Sputnik?” Solo asked softly, riddled with disbelief. The cat's tail stopped twitching and its ears unpinned, and despite himself, Solo's heart leapt into his throat.
However, the last booming roll of thunder from the dissipating storm spooked it and it jumped two feet into the air before darting up the fire escape. Solo frowned after it, watching its agile movements and leaps until it vanished over the roof ledge. With a deciding breath, Solo marched inside of the apartment, thinking through plans with every step. The door to the roof was locked, and though he had no doubt he could pick it, he couldn't be sure if it had an alarm and he really did not want to explain to Mr. Waverly that the reason his apartment was flooded with cops was a goddamned cat. With that being the only roof access, Solo didn't have another choice.
He was going to have to climb the fire escape.
Seeing no point in changing into dry clothes, Solo set the tote bag down on the counter and quickly unloaded the ingredients he had bought. He left the two cans of tuna and the canister of cat treats in the bag, then rather unceremoniously looped the handles around his neck. After making sure no one was around to see, he unlocked his apartment window– the very same he had just been reading in front of– and wrenched it open.
Wind and rain battered him. The fire escape creaked menacingly under his weight. For a tumultuous moment, Solo questioned why he was even doing this in the first place.
Then he began to climb.
Likely, the journey felt more precarious than it was. Between the weather and the rust, it certainly seemed like a dangerous operation. Solo climbed the steep stairs more like a ladder, hand over slippery hand, all while gritting his teeth against the grind and groan of the metal. It was awful. He was cold. Even his protective trench coat was sticking to his frame. The closer he got to the roof, the more he felt for poor Sputnik.
Solo threw a leg over the ledge, filled with newfound determination. Steady on his feet now, he carded his fingers through his hair, drenched to tight ringlets. He took the tote bag off from around his neck and pulled out one of the cans of tuna. As quietly as he could, he searched the rooftop, struggling to open the can.
“Sputnik,” Solo called gently, just above the rain. He clicked his tongue invitingly, finally able to get the can cracked open. “Kis-kis-kis….”
Just when he was about to give up and just leave the cans for food, he spotted two pale green lights studying him from a dry, shadowy crevice. Hope sparked in his chest, and he slowly dropped into a crouch, setting the can between himself and the cat.
“Hey, buddy. I've got some tuna for you. You don't look like you've eaten very much recently,” Solo rambled, then shook his head at the absurdity of talking to a cat, “Come on out, now, Sputnik. Your big scary Russian owner probably misses you.”
The cat still didn't budge and Solo's knees were beginning to ache. With a sigh and a grunt, he folded his legs and sat across from Sputnik, cringing at the squelch of his clothes.
“I know you're hungry. You tried to steal this out of my bag. Not that I blame you. I've been there. But you've got a warm bed now. Just–,” he slid the can more towards the cat, “–eat and I'll go tell your owner that you're up here, yeah?”
Solo held the staring contest with the cat for a few more seconds, then scrubbed his hands over his face. Why was he doing this? It would be so much easier to just leave the cat to the roof and rain and call in a tip the next day. The tug of war in his head was interrupted by the sound of metal scraping against gravel. Freezing again, Solo peeked between his fingers and subtly watched Sputnik licking at the contents of the can.
“That's a good boy,” Solo whispered, cautiously stretching out a hand, “Come on.”
Sputnik regarded his outstretched hand with a flick of his tail, then crept forward to investigate. He sniffed at Solo's hand, cold wet nose bumping the back of his finger. Taking a chance, Solo carefully adjusted to give the cat a scratch behind the ears. The change was immediate.
Sputnik's tail curled up into a question-mark shape and he began purring loudly, rubbing up into Solo's hand for more pets. “Well hello to you, too, Sputnik,” Solo laughed quietly.
The soaked fur and clothes didn't matter anymore. Sputnik trusted him. He could get him home safely. He could carry him to the mystery-Russian's apartment in the tote bag, be the hero, maybe even get invited in to dry off and offer to make those cookies he bought ingredients for–
Mewling. Mewling? Solo continued to pet Sputnik, but trained his hearing on the crevice. There was a chorus of tiny, pitiful sounds coming from inside. It was definitely mewling. He moved away from the cat (who chirped in protest at the loss of contact) and scooched up to the hiding space. He only hesitated a moment before reaching in, and his throat constricted as he brushed a bundle of soft, dry fur.
No.
Bundles.
Plural.
Solo dragged over the tote bag, miraculously still mostly dry on the inside. He gingerly scooped the first crying newborn into the palm of his hand and pulled it from the nest. Its eyes were just starting to open, and its gray tabby face was toothless and flat. Solo glanced back at Sputnik, who had returned to eating the tuna, and huffed affectionately, “You're just full of surprises, aren't you?”
All in all, there were four kittens, all in various stages of opening their eyes. The first gray tabby, one black-and-white cow-patterned, one nearly identical to its mother, and the last: a runt with pitch black fur and deep blue eyes opened wide. It didn't cry when Solo moved it to the bag. In fact, it just stared up into his eyes in silence. It tugged at his heartstrings in a way he couldn't explain.
Solo blinked away the emotions and tucked the little thing in with its siblings, taking out the tuna and cat treats to stuff in his pockets. He pushed himself to his feet and cradled the bag in his arms.
“Sputnik, I trust you'll follow?” He asked of the cat, looking down at her. She trotted over to him and circled his legs, so he took that as a yes and started back down the fire escape.
True to her “word”, Sputnik followed his every step, meowing up at her crying babies for reassurance. She jumped up into the window of his apartment ahead of him and made herself at home in front of the radiator. Solo rolled his eyes good-naturedly, cursing the cleanup he would have to do later, and searched for a more comfortable way to transport the kittens. He lined a box with a fleece blanket and transferred the bundles to it.
While he was packing the cat-related goods and human-food ingredients back into the tote, Sputnik trilled and hopped into the box with grace to curl around her newborns. They clambered over to her to nurse, and Sputnik casually groomed her drying fur.
Once he had everything together, Solo gathered the cats and the food and headed downstairs to the apartment number he'd seen on the man's key a handful of times. He knocked on the door without any thought to his appearance, and felt his ears burn as he waited for an answer. Solo was dripping water onto the floor in front of this poor man's apartment with an armful of kittens he didn't even know existed and–
The door cracked open, making Solo flinch. He met the cold glaring eye of the Russian and offered a wary smile.
“What do you want?” the man demanded in a voice that spread the heat from Solo's ears to across his face.
“I, uh….,” he swallowed the lump in his throat, “Did you know that Sputnik is a girl?”
“What–,” the blue flame of his gaze flicked down and the ice in his expression melted in an instant into one of sheer relief. He threw the door open and took the box, his mouth parted in awe, “I….I did not. Where did you find them?”
“The roof, believe it or not,” Solo shrugged, admiring the soft look on the blond man's face as he cooed over the kittens. He had never seen that emotion on him before. It was a good look. A beautiful look.
The Russian seemed to just then notice the state Solo was in and he stepped backwards, his cheeks flushing pink, “Come in, please, dry.”
“Thank you kindly,” Solo smiled, entering the apartment, “I apologize for the rainwater, I wanted to get them back to you as soon as possible.”
“It– It's okay,” the man stammered, setting the box carefully down on a nearby armchair not dissimilar to Solo's. He extended his hand and nodded seriously, “Thank you.”
Solo shook his hand and electricity arched up his arm, “You're very welcome….”
“Illya.”
“Solo,” he returned, flashing a brighter smile. Illya nodded again, more bashful this time, and dropped his hand.
“Let me get you towel,” he muttered, ducking away in the direction of the bathroom. Solo's chest swelled with butterflies, chasing away the chill in his bones. Illya returned quickly and handed him a towel, then retreated to the box with another, smaller one. Solo dried his hair and took off his trench coat to dry the clothes underneath. When he was as dry as he was going to get without changing, he toed off his shoes and tentatively approached the box.
Illya whispered sweet nothings in Russian to the clowder, taking great care in drying off a loudly purring Sputnik. “I had no idea she was pregnant,” he mused.
“How long have you had her?”
The muscle in Illya's jaw flexed and Solo saw a glimpse of the danger this man could be.
“Found her in dumpster last month. Starving, alone. Small. She did not– her stomach, it was so….,” Illya scowled and paused in his efforts.
“She was probably too hungry to show. It's a miracle they all made it,” Solo supplied. The all-black kitten stared up at him. He gave the top of its head a gentle pet.
“That one likes you,” Illya muttered, “Sputnik looked at me like that when I bring her home.”
“Hmm,” Solo chewed the inside of his cheek. Maybe. “If you need help taking care of them, I'd be happy to take shifts.”
“You have already done so much–,” Illya tried to protest, but Solo shook his head.
“The fire escape wasn't that hard of a climb,” he shrugged, preening at the horror in Illya's eyes when he snapped his attention back to him, “Besides, I could use the ‘adventure’.”
Illya searched his eyes for any semblance of insincerity. Much to Solo's surprise, he knew that Illya would find none. He looked back down at the kittens and gave Sputnik a scratch under the chin. “Okay. Shifts.”
“Shifts,” he repeated in agreement, fondness slipping into his voice, “Oh, I, uh, brought a recipe. I flatter myself as a decent cook, and I have to say there's no better way to warm up than a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your oven?”
“Why did you bring cookies?”
“Celebrating the return of Sputnik,” a half-truth, “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“You do not have to.”
“I know.” They held eye contact, and Solo felt something deep in his chest click into place. He raised a brow and gestured to the kitchenette, “So what do you say?”
“I….would not say no.”
“Then it's settled,” Solo winked at him, then turned to retrieve the tote bag.
“You can borrow dry clothes,” Illya said quickly, flushed a whole new shade of scarlet, then evaded, “If you'd like.”
“I wouldn't want to intrude,” Solo lied.
“You already are by coming into my home and making cookies,” despite the deadpan delivery, there was humor in Illya's tone and Solo smiled.
“In that case….I wouldn't say no.”
Soon, Solo was wrapped in a warm and surprisingly comfortable black turtleneck that was a little too long, and thermal pants that he had to roll up at the ankles. The clothes smelled like Illya and made Solo's heart stick in his throat. Dusty rose decorated his own face as he baked, feeling Illya's eyes on him in ways he hoped was only partially wholesome. The apartment filled with the enticing scent of chocolate chip cookies and the two traded stories and laughter. Sputnik's kittens fell asleep, and she curled up in Illya's lap to do the same.
Once the baked goods were finished, Solo joined him on the couch with a platter to share. He sat close enough that their legs pressed together, and Illya made no move to distance himself. In fact, he invited Solo to spend the night. And who was Solo to refuse such an offer from such a kind, handsome soul?
Ten weeks later, Solo found himself curled up on the couch in his apartment; his giant Russian marshmallow of a boyfriend tucked under his arm and a pitch black kitten with dark green eyes named Adventure asleep in his lap. Solo sighed in content and ran his fingers through Illya's hair, stirring him from his book.
“Addy says it's nap time,” Solo purred, nodding down at Adventure.
“Mm,” Illya hummed, lightly running his hand down the kitten's back so as to not wake her, “For her. You are trapped here, now.”
“She'll be fine if I move her,” he dismissed, leaning in to press a tempting kiss to Illya's lips. He felt Illya smile against his mouth.
“But will you be?”
Solo scoffed and rested his head on Illya's, remembering every heartbroken look Adventure gave him when he had no choice but to carry her to another spot. “You're right. I blame you for the effectiveness of those eyes.”
“I think you have the blame for that. You volunteered to care for her.”
“In shifts. You're equally as responsible.”
“Okay, Cowboy,” Illya laughed, a velvet, rich sound that filled Solo's chest with love. He stole another kiss and snuggled closer, his head in the crook of Solo's shoulder, “Is nap time for all of us. Wake me when she decides it is time.”
“A fair deal,” Solo surrendered, nuzzling into Illya's hair, “Though I don't think this is the most ideal position for a nap.”
Solo was wrong. He fell asleep quickly with his boyfriend and his cat cuddled up to him. Solo had never been so happy to be so wrong about so many things in his life.