Chapter Text
There was something so fascinating, so enticing, something almost… delectable about Puss in Boots.
The feline had such a special way of gripping onto his mind, sticking to his thoughts, preying on him like a goddamn parasite. He’d never met anyone like that before. It was infuriating, and admittedly, embarrassing. No one, in his eternity of roaming the earth for wandering souls, had ever seized his entire being the way Puss, that damned gato, did.
He’d made kings beg on their knees and pray. He’d made Gods tremble before him. Everyone feared him, for no one except Life could stand to be his match. No deity was powerful enough to conquer him. Even if they managed to escape him, he’d be back, waiting, and time would run its course. He trusted time. He’d grown to be an extremely patient man.
He hated to be conceited, but the rumours were certainly true; no one stayed alive for much longer once they faced him.
Puss was no different. No, Puss was the same, cookie-cutter, snobbish, arrogant soul as everyone else. He resisted, as they did. He panicked and fled, as they all did. It was a never-ending game, a silly charade that always ended the same, but with new players every single time.
He’d met felines before. He always thought how unjust and unfair it was, that millions of years ago they’d be blessed with almost immortality from a cat-loving divinity; nine lives, nine chances. Out of his colleagues, cats were his absolute favourite souls to gather, collecting them like trophies of some sort. It made his job all the more fun, due to their fatal flaws, their nature; their unpredictability and their curiosity. Cats were accident-prone. It was exhilarating to see them fall.
Puss was the same, notoriously ambitious, disreputably obnoxious, and worst of all… valiant. Ugh. They were all the goddamned same.
Yet… he wasn’t . He was different, in some way, somehow.
After meeting billions of souls throughout endless time, somehow the cat stuck out to him, and it made him sick. A cat , the vile, crafty creature, the nemesis of his being of all things, an exemption against the masses of the deceased, remained within him to prod his senses. He could remember every little detail of those wide, petrified emerald eyes, the way his tears welled into his eyes, the way his mouth dropped and claws flared at the sight of him…
Yet, conversely, the cat’s hardened, spirited gaze still affected his soulless heart in a peculiar way, and it was concerning. The way he stood proud against him, daring, confident, certain, yet very much still afraid. Of course, he was frightened, but his scent had a… a twang to it, a unique aroma that made him all the more curious. It was tasty, it was audacious, it was bizarre… it was delicious . It was almost romantic.
Death didn’t mean to impose upon the cat’s life, but he honestly couldn’t help himself. After weeks of pondering and contemplating and craving to see the cat once again, he’d given in when he’d found him and his merry crew travelling to Far, Far Away. There’d been a wrapped-up civil war in a nearby kingdom, and though it was brutal, it couldn’t have hurt to visit a dear friend while he was there scavenging up the souls that unluckily ended up in the bloodbath. It was, what was it… killing two birds with one stone?
At first, he’d been baffled by the decision in the first place. Why Far, Far Away? There wasn't much at that kingdom except for a glamorous front of stardom with celebrity fairytale elitists, dying movie stars and hopeless romantics selling their souls away for riches and catnip behind the stage lights. It was an utterly miserable place when you stay a little longer than you were truly welcome.
But, as it turned out, Puss knew the royals . He’d been invited to a ball, a celebration of some sort, perhaps an anniversary, he didn't care to know. But what he did care to know, was how on Earth did he know king Arthur? An outlaw, a wanted criminal, close to an all-powerful King?
It wasn’t difficult to discover that he’d been an accomplice along with a donkey in finding the lost king and bringing him home to collect his crown. Apparently, he’d been the Ogre’s personal assistant in royal duties beforehand. Apparently, he’d helped save the kingdom… multiple times.
So, in the king’s gratitude, Puss was living luxuriously. It was disgusting.
He was pampered up behind the palace walls. He seemed to be close with the Ogre they almost called a king before he handed the title to the princess’ cousin. The best decision after the death of the Frog king, really; at least the place wasn’t in total shambles. Death was quite a fan of the mortal dramas and gossip, he hated to confess. Hell, he’d been the one who collected most of the souls of the men who thought they’d be able to conquer the dragon that guarded the beloved princess Fiona. He thought the Orge would be the same, but was pleasantly surprised when his colleague broke him the news.
Death watched as he took his friends to the streets, embracing the glorious palm trees and neon signs. The mutt and the donkey seemed to get along nicely. They never shut up. Kitty and Fiona took to gossiping with the other princesses, and despite Kitty’s obvious displeasure, partook in some shopping. Puss even joined them eventually, and he was coddled, he was absolutely spoiled , enjoying it much more than his lover. He even bought a new, lavished cape, and a shiny new belt. Later, he ate at the royal table with his companions, showing off his freshly groomed whiskers.
And not once did he notice him. Not on his way towards a dingy bar downtown with his two friends, the Ogre and the Donkey, for a night of drinking. Not once, when the cat made his own presence severely known, dancing on tables like an undevoted fool in a fiesta. Death sat by a window, hood over his ears, listening as he mesmerised the entire bar to stop their own drinking to listen to his incessant rambling.
“And what did I do?!” Puss shouted with glee as he tapped his feet graciously on the table, “The bell went right to his head! Knocked him straight out! I single-handily vanquished the giant!”
Still as arrogant as ever. The men cheered and the women squealed and swooned. The Ogre placed the cat on his shoulder as Puss pulled out his sword to reenact his adventure through the enchanted forest, swiping and slashing his imaginary enemies.
“I fought against Big Jack Horner and his army of bakers effortlessly, laughing at their amateurish style, and befriended the bear crime family after an unfortunate first introduction, and then…” Puss paused his rambling. The bar went quiet, trapped in stunned, tense silence, totally entranced by the cat’s storytelling.
“Then…” Puss smirked, “I faced Death himself.”
“And what happened next, Puss?” The Donkey cried, “Don’t leave me hanging, man!”
“There was a great wall of fire surrounding me, my beloved watching from behind,” Puss started, “And Death walked through, his sharpened sickle pointed at my neck. Death was vicious and cruel. He was after my life. I was almost certain that that would have been the end of Puss in Boots!”
The bar collectively gasped. Death scoffed.
“And he asked me… ‘Life flashing before your eyes?’,” Puss continued, standing up on the Ogre’s shoulder, “But I stood tall and looked Death dead in his eyes, and I said ‘Just one’. And wham! Puss laughed in the face of Death!”
Puss swung his sword, “Our battle was fast, snappy, quick! I almost couldn’t keep up, but I stood my ground courageously. I swung my blade with precision, with grace, and knocked the damned spirit’s sickle right from his hand!”
Puss flipped from the Ogre’s shoulder and sliced his sword in the air, before tucking it back into its sheath, “And that day, I had Death himself shaking right before me!”
He was a goddamned liar .
Death gripped his mug and crushed the thick metal in his palm, Leche spilling between his fingers and all over the table. Of course, he hadn't told the story of their first meet, how Death was the first being to ever draw the cat’s blood, how he had to swim him through the sewerage and abandoned his sword to escape him, how he fled like a damned coward, almost each and every time he heard his blasted whistle.
But the cat was too focused on his adoring fans as he was plucked from his feet once again, too enraptured in the cheers of praise and glee, to notice him.
No, no, they didn’t need to know that the cat was a coward. That wouldn’t make for a good story, would it?
But to say that he’d made Death tremble?
It was bewildering. He’d forgotten who had made him who he was today. He’d forgotten about their pleasant little meet-ups, his little freakouts, his cowardice. He’d forgotten that he was very much mortal , now.
Eventually, he wrapped his night up and stood aloof outside the bar in the trashy alleyway while his companions argued about something unimportant. Death stood at the other side of the dark backstreet, watching Puss relax against the brick wall, arms crossed, cape draped carelessly over his shoulders, listening to his friends without much of a single word. He was vulnerable, entirely helpless.
Had he learned nothing?
Death licked his lips. He couldn't help the crooked smirk that spread on his face as he leaned his head up, and softly, gently, let out that eerie tune he’d grown to love, oh so much.
And there it was.
That smell. It was a pungent, intense, sharp, smell that entirely filled his senses. He could practically see it, a purple stream of bittersweet fragrance that emitted out of the feline in a single moment, a smell that he didn’t realise he’d grown to miss until he allowed himself to totally devour it.
He could see the cat’s fur start to rise. He could see his frame waver, his ears press against his skull as he lifted his hat, glassy eyes staring down the alleyway in horror. His hand reached down to the hilt of his sword, gripping it between a quivering paw, but he made no move to draw it. But then, Death was no more than a shadow, a mere silhouette of black against the brick wall.
Perhaps it had been a figment of his torturous imagination. Perhaps his delusions were taunting him.
But he was there, alright. And Puss, deep down, knew he was there, too.
“Puss?”
Damnit. The Ogre pulled Puss out of his trance, and the cat blinked, before waving casually, laughing at his paranoia, taking his friends away from the alleyway and down the street, back to the safety of the palace.
There were no castle walls tall enough to keep Death out, nevertheless. He’d be waiting.
-x-x-
“Thank you again for your hospitality, senõr,” Puss thanked graciously, “And thanks very much to Arthur. He’s grown into a wonderful monarch! I shall send my regards in the morning!”
He, Kitty and Perrito had been given their own rooms for the week of celebrations, sparing them the efforts of finding a vacant motel. While they preferred to stick together, the three of them, perhaps some time to themselves would be appreciated.
Puss glanced around the room he’d been given like a spectacle. He checked inside the closet, under the bed, and outside of the windows, causing Shrek to quirk an eyebrow with disarray and tease the cat, “Oh, is it not up to the Puss standards?”
“Oh, no it's perfect,” Puss quickly reassured, “I just- I’m an outlaw, you see? I do this everywhere, a force of habit.”
“Right…” Shrek crooned, acting as casual as he could manage.
“The palace is full of guards, it has a moat, and no one could possibly get in here, of course!” Puss laughed, more at himself, and Shrek felt the need to chuckle along with him, though strained and tense. An awkward silence passed as Puss' ears twitched.
Shrek swiped a hand on his forehead to rid of a nervous sweat that was breaking, “It’s a wee bit hot in here, maybe we should open the windows-“
“NO!”
Shrek halted suddenly, baffled at the cat’s sudden outburst. Puss composed himself quickly, clearing his throat before continuing, significantly softer, “Erm, I mean… I mean the temperature is fine in here.”
“Puss…”
“No, really!” Puss walked to a window, as nonchalantly as he could, and flicked its lock, “I am most comfortable!”
“Puss.”
Shrek walked over to where Puss stood and knelt down to meet eye level, or as eye level as they could, and stared deep into Puss' eyes. The cat threw his hands behind his back, rocking slightly as Shrek studied him, avoiding eye contact as best he could.
“You okay, buddy?” Shrek asked earnestly.
Puss laughed, “Of course!”
“Puss,” Shrek frowned, “Something happened at the bar. What did you see?”
“Psht! Nothing happened, amigo, there is no need to worry-!”
“Puss, I’m your friend,” Shrek cut him off, “You’re not usually as… rattled as this. That’s not the Puss I know. I want you to know that if you need to talk…”
“I will come to find you,” Puss assured him, “But, senõr, I am not the same Puss you once knew.”
“Is that so?” Shrek chuckled, “At the bar, you were telling everyone about your face-off with Death in the flesh. He sounds the same to me… unless it's a made-up story to get chicks?”
“I am a devoted man! But it… it is very much true,” Puss said. While Shrek fully expected Puss to gloat again, as he usually did when he got rilled up in his tales, the cat decided that he’d rather remain quiet and reserved, instead. He’d suddenly lost the pride he once fully embraced an hour ago.
Strange.
“Okay…” Shrek stood up. He glanced at the time, and pursed his lips, “I think it’s time I best be in bed.”
“I agree,” Puss yawned, “I shall see you in the morning. Buenas noches, my friend!”
Shrek didn’t seem convinced that the cat was any more relieved, but he let himself out anyway, not before saying, “Good night.”
The night seemed calm, for the first few hours that Puss slept, or at least tried to, curled up against the pillows with the blanket strewn tightly over him, hugged to his chest like he was a child afraid of the boogeyman. To some extent, he was.
He was on the alert, unable to keep his eyes closed for more than a moment before a shadow would suddenly scare him out of his fur enough to rise and check out the window. There would be a slight movement outside, a guard calling out, a carriage riding by, and his body would be stunned awake. It was driving him crazy.
Midnight hit, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as the grand clock let out its piercing melody, and rung twelve times to indicate the new day. Puss, with a roll of his eyes, wrapped the blanket around himself, shoving his head into the pillows, practically forcing himself to close his eyes and relax. If he’d try hard enough, he’d be able to sleep. Perhaps if he held his breath, would he pass out? Perhaps if he-
A whistle.
His heart dropped right down to his stomach, and he felt like he was suddenly sinking deep into the mattress, his limbs suddenly turning to jelly, unable to breathe. Goosebumps rode up his entire body, the hair on his cheeks stood on their ends, his whiskers twitched disdainfully.
A click.
A creak.
Puss was absolutely paralysed. He couldn’t lift a finger, and despite how utterly desperate he was to leap out of his bed and get out of his room, he was unable to turn his head to face the window as a tall shadow appeared on the wall in front of him. The shadow took form as it wandered into his room, shaping its tall, thin ears, its nimble body, and there, a curled shape of a weapon appeared beside it.
The end of the bed sunk as something heavy sat on top of it, pulling on his blanket.
He still couldn’t turn his head.
A finger brushed against his shoulder, followed by something cold, something sharp, tracing down his arm to his wrist, slowly tugging the sheet from his shivering body along the way. Puss couldn’t bear to spare the figure a glimpse as it slowly moved behind him, just behind his ear. He could feel its cold breath respiring into his fur.
“Hola, gatito,” The voice purred. The weapon travelled back up his arm, hooking under his neck, forcing Puss to move his head, and turn to…
He stared into crimson red eyes, a gasp escaping from his mouth which hung agape before a finger pressed up against his lips.
“Shh, you wouldn’t want to wake your companions, would you?” The wolf whispered, pressing the sickle’s tip into Puss' cheek, almost hard enough to draw red, pulling him close, much too close.
“Lobo,” Puss forced himself to say. It was almost like he couldn’t believe his own eyes, the figure of his nightmares staring back at him once again, in the flesh.
Death sucked in a deep breath, engrossed in the cat's incredibly sweet scent, almost making his shudder as he hummed to himself as the fear loaded his senses. It spread through his veins, reaching from his toes to his ears, a scent that made him sway.
“Oh, how I missed you, Puss,” The wolf sighed, “I’ve heard you’ve been talking about me. Can’t get me off your mind, can you?”
“What are you doing here?” Puss cried.
“What’s this about…” Death said lowly, his other sickle now spinning as he tossed it mindlessly around in his palm, “Making Death shake before you? Tisk tisk, pussy cat, now that’s not the Puss I know…”
Puss shuddered as the blade was drawn from his face before suddenly his throat was squeezed, and he was hauled from his feet. He scratched at the hands that held him, the hands that trapped his throat closed, casing it tight, unable to allow oxygen to enter his aching lungs.
“You humiliated me,” Death growled.
“I am not afraid of you,” Puss hissed.
“It doesn’t look like it, mi amigo . I really thought for a moment that you’d learned your lesson, but I suppose not,” The wolf started, grinning as the cat writhed under his grip, kicking, scrambling for something to hold on to. Puss lifted his head as best he could, gasping. What a sight for sore eyes.
“I’m gonna give you to the count of ten,” Death groused, “You better get running.”
He dropped the cat, who wasted no time in scrambling out of the door, forgetting his uniform and weapon and slipping on his tail on his way out. The cat didn’t dare make a noise as he dashed down the palace corridor, straining his head over his shoulder to see the wolf counting down with his fingers, leaning patiently, casually, against the doorframe.
“Cinco… Cuatro…” The wolf glanced at his tapered claws as he muttered to himself, “Tres, dos, uno…”
With a roll of his shoulders and a relieved sigh, he clinked his sickles together.
“Cero.”
Then, he took off, hot on the feline’s heels as they skidded past corners, narrowly avoiding the decorations of pots and paintings and armour stands and weapons hung on the walls as the wolf slashed his sickles through the air, aiming for Puss' rear. The cat was quick, as quick as he could be, using his agility to prance from walls and slide under tables. But it wasn’t nearly enough before he found something hit his back, hard , and he was suddenly flying out of an opened window, falling two stories before colliding with tree branches, and then the ground.
He could feel his brain reverberating in his skull, his heart racing against his ribs, and his lungs aching as he struggled to catch his breath. The wolf didn’t need long to appear beside the cat, travelling through the shadows and gripping him by his tail, forcing him off his legs.
“What’s wrong, pussy cat?” The wolf hummed, “Life flashing before your eyes? You smell delicious tonight, amigo… ”
Puss hung upside down as he beat his feet against Death’s heaving chest, pushing, tugging, trying to get away-!
Puss, as soon as he was close enough, swiped the wolf’s nose with his claws. It caught the wolf off guard as he cried out, dropping the cat to hold the bleeding cut that then lined his snout. Puss scrambled to his feet and held up a sword he’d managed to swipe from the decor that lined the castle walls.
“I'm not afraid of you, Lobo!” Puss declared, holding his weapon close to him, “Now leave me alone! I’m warning you!”
There it was. That delicious scent, a sweet smell, luscious and alluring. It mixed with the metallic, copper smell of blood dripping from his snout and god …
“Ahhh, there he is,” Death hummed sweetly, licking the blood from his nose, “Oh, how I’ve missed this! Come on, Puss, hit me again! Come on!”
Death swiped his sickle, and Puss skillfully flew over its sharpened edge, aiming to strike the wolf again. Death was quick, and stepped back, before charging forward, missing every time the feline flipped backwards, struggling to keep up with his pace. He remained stoic, stagnant, twirling in the air like a dancer as he dodged the sickles. But he was careful, making sure his strikes were precise and exact, as he did so.
The cat had everything to lose. But it wasn’t enough.
Cling!
Puss' sword flew out of his hand.
“I swung my blade with precision, with grace, and knocked the damned spirit’s sickle right from his hand!”
Death tisked, and kicked the sword far from Puss, the words he'd spoken before in the bar resounding in his mind, “Aww… That's too bad. I won’t give you the benefit, though, not this time, gato.”
Puss hurriedly made a dash for the Royal garden, narrowly avoiding the sickle that flew above his head. He squeezed through the metal bars that kept the garden closed off, apologising profusely in his mind as he trampled over the unsoiled flower beds, now marred and destroyed. He could hear Death’s laughter in every direction, he could see his twisted, grinning face every place he turned.
“Here, kitty kitty kitty!”
A whistle caught his attention, and he turned to see the wolf again, only a few paces behind him, licking his teeth as he clanged the sickles together.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Puss took off again, and Death could only roll his eyes, “You can’t outrun me Puss! How many times shall we go through this?”
Puss turned to see Death no longer behind him. He wasn’t swift enough as he faced his front again, only to smash directly into Death’s body. He held his nose that suddenly ached, blood flowing from his flared nostrils, and tried to get back on his feet, crawling backwards, using his other hand to search the ground for anything he could use to defend himself. The wolf walked towards the downed cat like a predator, eagerly waiting for his prey to finish its writhing, to fully realise it was finally time to finish the chase.
Puss pressed his back against something hard. He was against the fountain, with gracious statues of angels spitting water out of their mouths, lily pads decorating the water in its basin. He tried to get up, to find another way away, but a sickle pressed against his neck, and he froze.
Death was looming above him, mouth watering and drool running down his chin along with the blood that dripped from his snout onto Puss’ head, searing his scalp and dousing his fur. Puss gripped the edge behind him, claws digging into the cold stone. The wolf’s eyes were crazed, bright and radiant, intoxicated from fear.
Pure fear.
His fear.
Puss in Boots was absolutely terrified.
“Don’t look so frightened, pussy cat,” Death leant down, practically chest to chest with the cat.
“You won’t kill me,” Puss rasped, “You won’t.”
Death could only smile, “And what makes you think that? ”
Puss swallowed as Death gripped his face harshly, claws squeezing and digging into his cheeks, forcing his teary eyes to stare deep, deep into Death's own crimson sights. He could feel his lifeless breath against his face, feel those eyes branding into his mind.
The wolf whispered, “I want you to remember something, amor .”
A sickle edged closer and closer to that cat’s face. Puss’ gaze flicked back from his reflection to the wolf, again and again, eyes wide, blown, petrified.
“Don’t you ever forget who you are!” Death suddenly spat, almost screaming at him, causing the cat to flinch, “Don’t you ever forget that you’re nothing but a damned coward. Without me, you are dead, you are nothing .”
Puss nodded frantically as Death squeezed his throat again, much tighter and much less remorseful. Puss couldn’t even hold onto his paws for long as his arms dropped, lack of oxygen making his entire body suddenly lax. He hung from Death like a corpse, his eyes turned up at the sky, black specks dancing his vision, his mind shutting down.
The cat’s eyes fluttered shut.
Every single vein and artery within him, every fibre within his body told him to keep holding on. His heart beat with pure adrenaline, his mind roaring at him to keep going, to never stop, to hold on, just a little longer, until the warm breath of the feline could no longer be felt against his paws.
Puss was suffocating. The cat was dying.
Puss was going to die .
Shit.
Death’s fingers slipped open, anyway.
The wolf let the cat go. Puss gasped, doubling over, forcing the wolf to step back as he took deep breaths, holding his throat desperately as he did. His body cowered beneath him, and his hands shook. He was crying, wheezing, tears streaming down his cheeks.
And his scent… god, his scent . It was intoxicating.
“And that day, I had Death himself shaking right before me!”
Yeah, right. The words ricocheted inside his head like an echo, and it had him shaking his head with triumph and glee. Death barely had to break a sweat as the cat bowed before him, on the brink of collapse. Oh, how divine he looked. He almost turned to leave, ready to call his night accomplished, but there was a snort behind him, and slowly, he turned back around.
The cat laughed. Puss was laughing at him.
He was drooling, spitting at the wolf’s feet, snot dripping from his nose, but he had a nasty, viscous grin spread on his lips as he grasped at his throat.
“ Ay ay ay, Lobo,” Puss grinned, his voice raw and torn, “I told you so.”
Death couldn’t believe his eyes. He turned his gaze to stare at his hands, hands that had stolen the lives of millions, without mercy… all to spare a wretched, godforsaken cat.
Puss stared at him. His entire demeanour had changed within the second. Within his eyes, sat two distinct people, the arrogant prick Death once knew before, the one he’d been after for so long, and the new Puss, the abject Puss, the careful Puss. It was like he knew .
He was almost immortal, once again.
“Puss laughed in the face of Death!”
Those words...
There was a shout in the distance. Puss couldn’t hear it; his ears were suddenly ringing as he folded over himself, his vision fading in and out, spluttering all over the stone floor. But the wolf could, and he traced the voice back to the tuxedo cat that was hastily exiting the castle, cupping her mouth as she screamed for her companion.
Death shouted in rage, stuck his sickles back to their sheaths, and leaned down to Puss' ear, “I’ll be back for you, amor .”
The cat didn’t react. He was focused on himself. He was trying to check his emotions, pull himself together. But he’d heard the wolf, alright.
Death slipped into the shadows as Kitty found the cat crippled by the fountain, unable to breathe, unable to look at her, unable to retract his claws as he dug them into his own chest, blood soaking his orange fur, afraid that if he opened his eyes he’d see the wolf by his feet again, and his freshly beaten and rotting corpse, his corpse, beneath him.
For a moment, he didn’t want to see if he were alive. He wasn’t certain if he was dead or dreaming, but he was too terrified to check.
“Perrito, help! Puss, hey, look at me,” The soft voice was luring him, trying to calm him down. But he was far from calm. The back of his throat burned as tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to speak, say something, anything, but he couldn’t bring his voice to make any other sounds but harsh and mangled squeaks.
At least Death managed to make the feline freak.
Eventually, the dog came and attempted to rest his head on the cat’s chest, but he wouldn’t let him. He craved the comfort, but his body wouldn’t allow him to take the risk, fighting with everything that got too close to him. Fur ticked his chest, and instantly his mind flashed images of a crooked grin, pointed teeth, deep, red eyes…
Puss passed out.
They called for the guards, who took him to the infirmary, with the help of the ogre who came to the call for help and rested there all night with Kitty and Perrito by his side. As the sun rose, the castle was locked up tight, no one able to enter in or out until it was deemed safe. Puss woke up to intense nausea, and let out his last night's dinner. He couldn't bring himself to eat breakfast. He couldn’t bear to look his friends in the eyes.
He’d had a total, mental collapse. Death, somewhat, felt a little remorseful, almost guilty, for the cat’s injuries. But that’s all he’d ever give the damn thing. The cat looked exhausted, eyebags hanging ungraciously under his eyes, his mouth dry and dehydrated, his eyes dull.
But he was alive . Someway. Somehow.
His friends were there for the poor thing. Kitty and Perrito comforted him during the day and night, never leaving his side. The Donkey and Ogre visited him and ate their meals with him. Death watched as the cat recovered, so quickly that he was able to attend the ball the following week.
It was Puss in Boots, of course! He could get through anything! Everyone’s favourite fucking hero.
The cat danced and drank all night. The cat even sang on stage, dedicating a song to his beloved Kitty and his best friend Perrito, who stood amongst the adoring audience. He watched with his companions as the neon fireworks were let off into the sky, amongst the glimmering stars.
Almost as though… He’d never faced Death at all. As though it had been but a horrible nightmare.
Puss was mocking him. Puss was spitting right in Death’s face. Death wanted to jump out of the shadows right then and there, and slash his sickles right through his godforsaken neck. He wanted to bathe in his blood, to let it rain over his friends like the rain, dance amongst the carnage of the body he would rip to utter shreds.
He wanted Puss to suffer. But deep, deep down, buried in the pits of his stomach…
He wanted to see the cat live, just a little longer.
And Puss was damn smart enough to realise this.
Maybe that's why the feline was just so damn special to him. Puss had defied Death himself. Out of the hundreds of people who wanted the cat dead, he’d managed to make Death himself go against his entire being, his entire drive, his entire purpose, to keep him breathing.
The Gods would laugh in his face.
What the hell was happening to him?