Archive of Our Own

One moment Matthew is packing to ready himself for a well deserved summer off (because he is finally a Stanley Cup winner, suck it to all those who doubted him), and next he knows, he’s sitting on someone’s porch and his view of the world is much much lower than it used to be.

What the fuck? he thinks to himself, wondering if the dizziness is from all the alcohol he’s been having since winning the Cup.

He tries to get up.

Only, he can’t quite seem to get his legs under him properly and when he looks down, he makes an undignified noise when he sees paws instead of feet.

Holy shit, what the fuck, what the fuck, he panics.

Except, instead of words, it comes out as a series of very plaintive meows.

Matthew’s ears swivel when they detect the sound of scrambling paws from within the house and unmistakable heavy panting.

Instinctively, he shrinks away from the door as the fur along his back stands up.

“Lenny?” he hears someone say, before footsteps join the cacophony of noise from within the house.

Matthew winces, his hearing is so so sensitive and he desperately hopes this is a fever dream.

He is contemplating if he should hide when the door cracks open and the puzzled face of one Connor McDavid peers out at him.

What the fuck, Matthew thinks hysterically, well aware that he’s been repeating it on loop in his mind the past few minutes but unable to articulate his disbelief at the sheer strangeness of the situation with any other words.

Because why the fuck is he sitting on Connor McDavid’s porch?

“Oh,” Connor says, peering down at Matthew, “um, er, are you lost?”

Lost my mind, Matthew thinks dazedly.

He meows.

Connor’s face softens a bit, then he looks down at the snout that’s been stuck through the tiny opening with a fond sigh. “Lenny, down boy, sit.”

The snout disappears.

Seconds later, the door properly opens and Matthew is woefully unprepared for the large dog that immediately barrels out at him from within, heedless of Connor’s commands.

Matthew sits, frozen still, as the dog sniffs at him curiously.

“Shit,” Connor curses, “fuck, Lenny down, no. Bad.”

Lenny whines but obligingly backs away.

Matthew allows himself to breathe out, trying to settle the panicked beating of his heart.

Slowly, telegraphing his movements in an exaggerated fashion, Connor kneels down in front of him and proffers a hand in front of Matthew’s nose. 

Matthew stares at it.

He has no idea what Connor wants him to do.

“Well hello,” Connor says softly, “you’re a pretty one.”

Absurdly, Matthew feels himself flush.

He shoves that reaction into a box for later dissection.

‘Connor,’ he tries to say but it comes out as a purr.

“Oh,” Connor says in response, a hint of a laugh in his voice, “did you like being called pretty?”

Which.

That’s besides the point.

Matthew swishes his tail back and forth in annoyance, then has to stop and twist upon himself to stare because holy shit he has a tail?

It is a giant fluffy orange-furred monstrosity.

Oh my God, he thinks frantically as the clues come together, I’m a fucking cat and at Davo’s door.

“Don’t be mad sweetheart,” Connor remarks gently, “promise not to tease you anymore.”

Matthew turns his head back, ready to chirp about the lack of creativity at the term of endearment, only, as he’s about to say it, one of Connor’s hands settles over his back and half-scratches, half-pets him.

He purrs before he even realises what he’s doing, which is utterly humiliating. 

It takes Matthew a moment to realise that his eyes have slipped shut and then he’s panicked all over again because what the fuck is happening.

‘Help me Davo,’ he tries to express, setting two paws on Connor’s chest to stare at him directly.

Connor looks hesitant.

“You’re a friendly one,” he observes and Matthew has to suppress a snort, “where is your collar sweetheart?” He carefully rakes his hand over the extra fluffy fur around Matthew’s neck.

Matthew bats at Connor’s face with a paw, ‘focus dude, it’s me, Matthew Tkachuck.’

Connor smiles at him, a soft little thing that makes his eyes crinkle.

It’s stupidly attractive.

Matthew is purring again before he knows it.

Come on dude, it’s just Davo, he thinks despairingly to himself, so what if the man is more handsome up close than you remember? There are plenty of good looking players and you’ve scored with hot dudes before, have some self respect man!

Whilst Matthew is mentally berating himself, his purring seems to decide it for Connor because before Matthew can react, he’s getting picked up by careful hands and scrambling to stay within Connor’s arms.

‘Holy shit, Davo, what the fuck,’ he yelps as he is suddenly lifted feets off the ground. He very kindly does not scratch Connor or sink his claws into the other man’s skin, but it’s a near thing.

“Alright, you’re coming inside with me, maybe I can find your owner,” Connor announces.

Matthew debates the merits of running away versus letting himself be kept and decides the option which means he’s under a warm roof is infinitely better than potentially needing to forage for food and shelter by himself.

Even if it means he has to temporarily be Connor’s pet.

He stays relatively quiet as he’s taken within and is deposited on an incredibly fashionable leather couch for his troubles before Connor disappears into the hallway.

An excitable bark draws Matthew’s attention back to the dog from earlier.

He stares at him.

The fluffy dog wags his tail and woofs softly again, pressing his face onto the couch and nudging his nose against Matthew’s front paws.

‘Uh Davo,’ Matthew meows, ‘your dog is real friendly, he’s not going to try and sniff my butt is he?’

“Lenny,” Connor calls out as he pads back into the room with a cellphone in hand. He settles onto the couch beside Matthew, conscientiously keeping a bit of space between them so as to not unbalance Matthew when he sits down and the couch sinks under his weight.

Connor pats a hand against his thigh, “come here boy.”

Matthew’s brain short circuits.

He resolutely does not watch as Lenny scrambles to get up and into Connor’s lap, a rather comical sight given how big the dog is.

(He is also not at all jealous.)

“Hello?” Connor is saying into the phone, “yeah, McDavid? No, I mean, I’m not calling about Lenny, I ah, I found a cat on my porch?”

Matthew settles into the couch, he bets money that Connor is calling a vet and whilst he would much rather steal the phone so he can try and type with his clumsy, too big paws, he also gets why Connor would want to have this conversation first.

“No collar, um, I’m not sure what breed, he or she is really fluffy? Uh, pretty big for a cat I’d say.”

Matthew’s ears flick in Connor’s direction at the description and he turns to glare balefully at the other man.

‘I am the perfect weight,’ he grumbles.

Connor cracks a smile at him, “sorry sweetheart, I meant that you’re almost as tall as Lenny.”

Appeased, Matthew blinks at him and meows once to indicate his forgiveness.

Tentatively, Connor’s hand reaches over, above Lenny’s head, and gently rests on Matthew’s back fur once more.

Lenny whines.

Matthew tries not to preen too much about the fact that Connor chose him.

He then immediately wants to punch himself in the face, because he should not care if Connor would much rather pet Matthew than his dog.

It’s not a competition.

He is not going to compete with Connor’s dog for the man’s attention.

Jesus.

“-that possible? No, I didn't see any microchip but happy to come in so you can check.”

Matthew perks up.

Connor looks over and graces him with another one of those gentle smiles. “I’m sure your owners miss you sweetheart,” he says, uncaring that he’s still on the phone.

‘Uh, I mean, if by owners you mean my parents, who are probably going to hound me down when I’m not in my room and don’t message them then yeah,’ Matthew replies.

“Yeah,” Connor laughs at whatever the person on the phone says, “really chatty. It’s kinda cute actually, such a big cat and such squeaky meows.”

What?

Matthew’s pride immediately forces him to shrug off Connor’s hand.

He hisses at Connor.

‘Squeaky?’ he repeats with an affronted look, ‘look who’s talking you chipmunk looking motherfucker.’

“Oops,” Connor says, looking genuinely a bit sorry, “sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

Matthew bats Connor’s hand away when he tries to reach out, too affronted to allow an immediate reconciliation.

“Oh come on,” Connor cajoles, then sighs, “nope, don’t think he or she liked my comment about the meows. Yeah, we can come by tomorrow afternoon, thanks for squeezing us in.”

Matthew swishes his tail angrily.

He waits until Connor is looking at him again to imperiously meow at him, ‘let me at your phone Davo.’

“Are you still mad?” Connor asks, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes.

‘Yes asshole,’ Matthew retorts, ‘I’m a fucking cat when I should be partying it up with my family and friends, what do you think?’

“Or do you miss your owners?” Connor looks wistful, “I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

Matthew resigns himself to having a one way conversation before he refocuses.

The cellphone.

He scrambles up and tries to move over, but his progress is immediately halted by the presence of Lenny when the dog enthusiastically twists and tries to swat at him playfully with a paw.

Matthew flinches backwards.

“Lenny,” Connor sighs out, and moves the dog off of his lap with a quick nudge which has Lenny sliding off with a surprised woof. Lap free once more, Connor turns back to Matthew with a beckoning hand, “did you want to come here sweetheart?”

Matthew’s heart does not skip a beat.

That would be weird.

But like, the image of a casually dressed Connor McDavid patting his stupidly thick thighs and asking him if he wants to come over while calling Matthew a sweetheart is a lot to take in.

A lot.

Matthew is only a man, okay? 

He can admit that he’s weak.

But in his defence, he can’t help that he’s always found competency to be unbearably attractive (and Connor is arguably one of the best players of their generation), add in the double whammy of also being called sweet and, well, Connor’s just not playing fair at that point.

So Matthew should definitely be excused if he swoons a bit. 

Just for a bit though, because cat or not, he still has a reputation to maintain.

Matthew very conscientiously does not hesitate for more than a few seconds before he gathers himself and pads over, traipsing over Connor’s very inviting lap to get at his phone.

He puts a paw on it.

‘Unlock it dude,’ he demands.

Connor ignores his plaintive meow in favour of stroking a hand down Matthew’s back.

Matthew taps his paw against the phone once more.

‘Focus Davo,’ he snaps.

“Did you want to play with the phone?” Connor guesses, looking puzzled, “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do…” He trails off in genuine astonishment when Matthew nods in response to his initial question.

They stare at each other then, slowly, Connor reaches past Matthew’s paw to grab the phone and unlocks it, before putting it down by Matthew once more.

‘Finally,’ Matthew huffs, he tries to open a texting app or fuck, anything.

He’s wildly unsuccessful.

‘Stupid paws,’ he rages.

It comes out as a long hiss.

“Uh,” Connor says, sounding a bit lost, then he blows out a long breath and says, more to himself than anything else, “shit I must be crazy.”

Matthew snorts.

“Right,” Connor sets his shoulders back and grabs the phone once more.

Matthew hisses his protest, he swears he was about to figure out the whole navigating the screen thing with his claws problem.

“Do you need the phone?” Connor asks.

Matthew nods.

Connor stares at him.

“Okay,” he says slowly, eyes starting to widen, “do you need a specific app?”

Matthew thinks about that, then nods again.

Technically yes, he needs an app where he can type.

Connor’s eyes are widening further. “Can you understand me?” he whispers.

Matthew meows but nods.

“Oh fuck,” Connor immediately says, mouth open, “is this a practical joke? Am I being pranked?”

Matthew shakes his head.

Well, this whole experience feels like one big cosmic joke played on Matthew by the universe but he thinks Connor means more like practical jokes or prank channel stunts.

“Are,” Connor swallows, “are you human?”

Matthew perks up once more.

‘Davo,’ he crows, ‘you beauty, you absolute fucking genius!’

He nods enthusiastically.

Connor looks horrified. “Do you know me?”

Matthew hesitates briefly but ultimately nods.

He thinks it counts given that they’ve played against each other, been cordial at events in the past and have mutual friends in common.

Connor furrows his brows. “Do I,” he clears his throat, “do I know you?”

Same logic applies as far as Matthew is concerned.

He nods.

Connor is turning a bit white in the face. “Who,” he starts then stops, obviously thinking hard. “Yes no questions,” he mutters to himself.

“Okay,” he says after a beat, “do we talk often?”

Matthew shakes his head.

“Do I know you from the NHL?”

A nod.

“Are you a player?”

Another nod.

Connor’s looking a bit like a truck has run him over now.

“Are you in my division?”

Matthew snorts, he doesn’t think Connor will understand if he tries to explain that in the past he had been as a Flame, he shakes his head.

But Connor must pick up on the prolonged pause because his brows furrow further as he guesses, “did you used to be in my division?”

Matthew nods.

Connor scrunches his nose in thought. “You used to be in my division but aren’t anymore,” he muses, “did we play you in the recent playoffs?”

Another nod.

“Did we,” there is a manic light in Connor’s eyes now and Matthew has a suspicion that Connor is honing in on the very impossible truth of the matter, “play you in the Cup Finals?”

Matthew nods, they’re so close to the reveal that he can’t help but meow and shuffle closer to put a paw on Connor’s leg.

Connor looks down at his paw.

He clears his throat but when he speaks, his voice is still raspy, “are you Matthew Tkachuk?”

Matthew meows and, once Connor is looking at him, he nods.

“Oh fuck.”

---

Matthew is ashamed that it takes him until the evening to realise something is off with Connor.

After the initial revelation, Connor had mumbled something about needing space and made a very quick exit.

His cheeks had been red.

Matthew hadn’t objected, couldn’t even if he had wanted to but he had understood Connor’s decision to make a speedy retreat. Matthew himself had wanted some space to process everything so he can empathise with the need to step away for a bit.

Lenny had followed his owner faithfully, leaving Matthew on the couch by himself.

Matthew had then spent some time thinking through next steps, which mostly consisted of getting Connor to help him, though he had no idea what Connor could do when Matthew himself had no idea why he’s a cat.

When brooding over the situation had proven to be unhelpful, Matthew then used a bit of time to explore the living room, blandly beautiful in a way that surely alluded to the involvement of an interior decorator, and had found nothing of note.

He had eyed a few of the potted plants with an interest that bewildered himself, and it wasn’t until he found himself contemplating a half full mug of tea on the coffee table and wondering if he could knock it off the table that he realised what was happening.

‘Shit,’ he had cursed in panic, ‘am I turning into a cat in my mind too?’

That was too depressing a thought to focus on so Matthew had expanded his explorations to other rooms, the glistening kitchen, some interesting recreational rooms, and he had peered out at the nicely maintained patio with open desire. 

Once he was bored with the first floor, he had then meandered his way up the stairs to the second floor, where he snuck into a few different guest rooms by the looks of it before he had paused in front of a closed door.

It was only then that he noticed he had been following a scent.

Nothing dramatic or anything.

Just the normal scent of a human, something undeniably male in the faint hint of sweat and musk.

‘Fuck me,’ Matthew had meowed with horror.

Had he been following Connor’s scent?

The obvious answer was yes, which was so utterly humiliating that Matthew had immediately made a strategic retreat back downstairs.

He eventually managed to turn the TV on with some ingenuity and good old hard work and tuned into the news.

He was morbidly curious to know if perhaps he’s been reported as missing.

No such luck.

It’s not until hours later, when the light outside is waning that Connor comes back down.

He looks sleep rumpled.

‘You took a nap?’ Matthew asks incredulously, ‘even though I’m still stuck as a cat?’

Connor freezes at Matthew’s little growling sounds, pausing partway through the living room.

He visibly swallows and rubs at his eyes. “You’re still here,” Connor says, “uh, Chucky?”

Matthew nods and raises a paw in greeting.

Connor stares at him.

Abruptly, he turns and continues walking into the kitchen.

Rude.

The sound of Connor rummaging around reaches Matthew’s new, incredibly sensitive ears, and he is debating if he should follow when Connor returns with a bottle, a glass and a plate of something or the other.

“I have no idea what you can eat but the internet says cats can have this?” Connor explains apologetically as he sets down the plate on the coffee table.

Matthew squints at it before he leans forward to have a better sniff.

‘Canned tuna?’ he guesses.

Except, Connor is too busy pouring himself a drink to respond.

Matthew hesitates, but now that he’s smelling the food, he realises he is hungry. However, he feels a bit self conscious about eating as a cat in front of Connor.

His brain tries to mentally figure out how he would go about eating and can’t conjure up an image beyond him awkwardly sticking his entire face into the fish.

Very dignified, not at all mortifying.

In any case, it’s getting late in the day and he presumes Connor would also be eating dinner soon so perhaps he can hold off until Connor goes to make himself some food?

Then Matthew can eat without worrying about further damaging his dignity.

Satisfied with the idea, Matthew looks over, at which point he pauses, because Connor doesn’t look like he’s about to prepare dinner. He’s settled comfortably into the couch and is taking careful but frequent sips from his glass.

Matthew takes in the dark circles under Connor’s eyes and the way his hand is trembling ever so slightly, causing the liquid inside to splash, and thinks something might be amiss here.

He sniffs again.

Vodka?

If he had eyebrows in the truest sense of word, Matthew is certain they would have just shot up.

‘Everything alright Davo?’ he questions.

Connor takes a deep drink, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

It leaves his lips pink and slightly wet.

Matthew stares at them longer than he would care to admit.

“So I might be going mad,” Connor begins haltingly, “but why are you a cat?”

Matthew growls.

Given the way the question is phrased, he can’t really nod or shake his head, even if he knew the answer, which he doesn’t.

Connor’s responding expression is not as gentle or patient as it was earlier, he looks exasperated. “Am I not allowed to ask? God, I mean, what are you even doing here Chucky?”

Another open ended question.

Matthew reaches out to swat at Connor for being annoying when he had been so good earlier, only sticking to yes or no questions.

“I really am going crazy,” Connor mutters to himself, “I’m talking to a cat. Who I think is Matthew Tkachuk. What is wrong with me?”

He takes another gulp of his drink.

Matthew watches on speculatively.

Whilst Connor is definitely not the hockey robot that unflattering media portrays him to be (he’s a real boy thank you very much), he has, however, always been, well, safe. By which Matthew means Connor is not the kind of dude who would end up on stage drunkenly singing with Mitchy at the club.

(That’s more Matthew’s style to be honest.)

But Connor isn’t a buzzkill. He has always been good about going out, he’s just not the type of person to drink excessively, much less on a potentially empty stomach.

All of which is to say, it’s weird to see Connor drinking so liberally.

Matthew considers it.

He’s only ever really been around Connor during the season or during competitions, and very rarely for summer training, so it’s not implausible that off-season Connor is different.

But something feels off.

“Maybe I have a concussion,” Connor continues contemplatively, “that might explain how insane this all is or why I believe you.”

Which.

Matthew meows softly.

‘Hey Davo?’ he tries again, ‘you know I appreciate this right?’

Connor responds by knocking back the rest of the glass, which might be more than Matthew had ever seen him consume in such a short period of time.

Matthew is suddenly very conscious that as a cat, he is completely helpless if anything should happen.

He can’t even dial 911 for fuck’s sake.

He moves over to where Connor is sitting and places a steadying paw on his thigh.

“Are you,” Connor asks in a nonplussed manner, “what? Are you feeling sorry for me now?”

Matthew hesitates.

He’s not feeling sorry per say but he is a bit worried given Connor appears to be acting rather out of character.

Come to think of it, why are they the only ones in the house? 

He’s pretty sure Connor is married.

‘Where’s-’ Matthew starts to ask then pauses when he realises he can’t remember Connor’s wife’s name, not that it matters when Connor can’t understand him anyway.

“What if I don’t believe you,” Connor is scrutinising him now, “what if all the nods were just by chance and my mind is fucking with me?”

Matthew shrugs.

Fair challenge, he’d probably think the same thing in Connor’s shoes.

He meows, trying to convey that he’s open to whatever tests that Connor is thinking of if they can just move past Matthew being a cat and focus more on how to make Matthew not a cat.

“How do I know this is real?”

Matthew shoots him a look, which hopefully says ‘how the fuck should I know?’

“Looking cute won’t help you,” Connor reproaches him.

Okay.

Wrong look.

Matthew hastily takes his paw back.

He meows.

“Just,” Connor continues with a long sigh, “why me?”

Matthew doesn’t know.

He wishes he did.

In fact, he wishes he could have been with his family instead, not that they would have been able to solve the mystery but at least they wouldn’t have left him all afternoon to himself.

He meows again.

“Right,” Connor takes in a deep breath, “I’m an idiot, I can just check.”

Matthew watches as he pulls out his phone and begins texting furiously while frowning at the screen.

“I sent a text to you,” Connor explains after a few seconds, “and if I get a reply then you’re obviously not Chucky and if I don’t, then, well, we’ll come to that when we come to it.”

He then pauses and scrunches his nose in thought. “You’d reply to me right?”

Matthew nods.

Whilst they aren’t close, Matthew has never been one to be blatantly rude off the ice or the type to ignore outreaches from other players in the league. After all, in the business they’re in, you never know who might be your future teammate or coach or whatever.

Also, it’s Connor, he would have been baffled by the sudden message but he definitely would have replied.

Connor seems to take momentary comfort in his nod, before he slumps back into his couch and raises an arm over his face.

“I must be crazy,” he mutters.

Matthew observes quietly and thinks Connor might be something?

Not necessarily crazy.

Maybe tired? 

Whatever it is that’s causing Connor to be in this state, he doesn’t seem like the undefeatable giant he normally is on the ice.

Unbidden, Matthew wonders how much of what he’s just observed might be due to the Oilers’ recent loss and how much of it might be Connor, desperately trying to keep everything afloat and living up to the weight of his own reputation for too long without allowing himself a chance to rest.

Matthew isn’t even judging, not when he can personally attest to the pressure and need to live up to expectations.

It’s why he had been so viciously relieved when the Panthers won.

The validation that he was, is, worth the trade.

That he isn’t just in the league due to nepotism or luck.

That he’s not just a pest but a valuable player in his own right.

Honestly, Matthew doesn’t think he could have lived with the reality of coming so close to the Cup only to lose in the last bitter moments a second year in a row.

Tentatively, because he is a cat but he is still Matthew Tkachuk and he isn’t sure if Connor would welcome the latter into his life the way he did the former, Matthew places both of his paws on Connor’s arm and leans up.

Connor stills.

Matthew hesitates because he has no idea how to comfort someone as a cat.

But Connor is staring at him, his mouth hanging slightly open and there’s a hint of wonder in his eyes that Matthew likes.

It makes him feel powerful.

Matthew gives in to the instincts and gently butts his head against Connor’s cheek, a slow purr starting as he tries to convey to Connor that he gets it.

“Now I know you’re not Chucky,” Connor breathes out, sounding faint.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Matthew responds jokingly, ‘I have my moments.’

“Can I,” Connor swallows thickly, an audible thing that causes Matthew’s ears to flick towards him, “can I pet, I mean touch, you?” 

Matthew feels his body heat, and he worries it has nothing to do with his new fur coat and everything to do with the desperate need in Connor’s voice and his choice of words.

Matthew has always liked being able to help.

It’s the people pleasing eldest sibling in him that he’s never quite been able to shake off, the one that makes him want to be everyone’s white knight.

So Matthew nods, racking up his purr when Connor’s hands settle over him and gently begin combing through the fur on his back and sides.

“I was annoyed at you, you know?” Connor muses after a few seconds that felt like they lasted much longer, “about what you said to the media I mean.”

Matthew meows.

He has no idea what Connor means.

He has said a lot of shit to the media in recent times.

Connor huffs out a small laugh. “Your comment to Calgary fans about not letting us win,” he elaborates, “it’s not enough you won, but there you go, running your mouth on top of it too. The guys were pissed in the group chat.”

Matthew preens just a bit.

He’s actually quite proud of himself for that one, it was a nice little acknowledgement to the Calgary fans that supported him in the past.

“You’re not even sorry are you?” Connor asks, hands stilling.

Matthew lets out a small growl and leans pointedly against one of Connor’s hands.

He then shakes his head in response to the question.

He is sorry the Oilers lost because he knows how it feels from experience, but he is not going to apologise for rejoicing in the Panthers’ win or for paying homage to the fans who cheered for him in the past.

Connor rolls his eyes and begins petting Matthew again.

Despite his supposed annoyance, his hands are still gentle.

Matthew begins purring again.

“Are you not hungry?” Connor eventually asks, smoothing a hand over Matthew’s tail.

Matthew opens his eyes.

When had he even closed them?

‘Are you not hungry?’ he asks in return and pointedly puts a paw on Connor’s face, and pats at his mouth.

Connor is silent for a few seconds before he laughs, causing Matthew to be jostled suddenly from where he is standing in the man’s lap.

Shit, when had he gotten fully into Connor’s lap?

“I don’t think you are Chucky,” Connor says, eyes twinkling and cheeks flushed, “not sure he’s ever been this nice to me.”

Oh, Matthew thinks as he takes in the warm and happy man in front of him, Davo might be a tad drunk.

Except, knowing that does not change the fact that his words still causes Matthew’s heart to start racing.

He none-too-gently head butts Connor’s chin, fully expecting to be scolded.

He is therefore flummoxed when Connor huffs a half laugh, half breath against his ear and large hands come up to frame his face and-

Matthew freezes.

Did Connor just kiss the top of his head?

‘Does this count as cheating?’ Matthew chirps weakly, trying not to focus on how nice that feels.

“You’re so soft,” Connor mutters, his lips tickling Matthew’s ears and causing them to twitch.

‘Didn’t peg you for a cuddly drunk,’ Matthew retorts, ‘Lenny? Buddy, where are you? Wanna cuddle with Davo?’

He must meow louder than normal because Connor startles. “Oh, sorry,” Connor moves back and retracts his hands, “didn’t mean to-” 

He stops himself, cheeks turning a brighter red. 

After a rather long pause, Connor clears his throat. “Can we just pretend that didn’t happen?”

Matthew nods immediately.

He’s not about to go around explaining to people he turned into a cat then cuddled in Connor McDavid’s lap.

“So,” Connor fidgets, “dinner?”

---

“Con?” a familiar voice calls out.

Matthew twitches in his sleep, allowing him to feel the fluff of his tail from where it’s draped over his face. He curls tighter into himself in hopes of staying in his dream world a bit longer.

He’s not ready to face another day as a cat just yet.

“Leo?”

“We still on for the-” footsteps stop close to where Matthew is sleeping on the couch, “you got a cat?”

“Uh.”

Draisaitl, and it is Draisaitl, Matthew would have been able to discern that much even without Connor’s help, sounds confused. 

“Con, look, no, don’t make that face. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have gotten a cat, I’m just worried about you, ever since Lauren’s left you’ve been-”

“Leo stop,” Connor snaps.

Matthew tenses at the sharp tone, any lingering traces of his sleepiness fading.

He looks up and stretches, sighing mentally when his paws come into view as he blinks the last dregs of sleep from his eyes.

Definitely still a cat.

‘Son of a bitch,’ he mutters.

“Oh shit,” Draisaitl remarks, “that’s a huge cat.”

Matthew is suddenly fully awake and very offended. He jerks up into a sitting position and aims a glare in Draisaitl’s direction.

Seriously, what is with these fuckers and commenting on his size?

“No,” Connor sighs out, “Chucky, wait, he just means that you're bigger than a regular cat.”

Matthew sniffs disdainfully.

“You named your cat Chucky?” Draisaitl’s voice sounds odd.

Reluctantly, Matthew peers up at his face to try and parse out the reason.

Draisaitl is looking down at him. “I mean,” he says slowly, “I guess I sort of see it, what with the curly fur and the blue eyes.”

What?

Matthew looks over at Connor, whose cheeks are slowly pinkening. “Leo,” he hisses, “shut up. It’s not what you think.”

Draisaitl makes a face and looks back at Connor. “Con, look, I wasn’t judging,” he puts his hands up defensively, “I mean what I said before, you could just text him.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “I have,” he mumbles out.

“I’m pretty sure he’d reply, you know?” Draisaitl continues blithely, then seems to process what Connor said because he immediately pauses and beckons Connor to keep going with his hands, “and?”

Connor throws a pointed look at Matthew. “He hasn’t replied yet.”

‘Hey!’ Matthew protests, ‘I would if I could Davo, not my fault I don’t have my phone on me?’

He’s perfectly aware that’s not the main issue.

He wouldn’t be able to respond even if his phone had magically been transported with him, not with how terribly his paws had fared with Connor’s iPhone.

Draisaitl’s face is doing that vaguely pissed off look he always seems to have on the ice when Matthew is around. “Okay, if Tkachuk is going to be an idiot and ignore you, then fuck him,” he replies vehemently, then continues loyally, “you’re too good for him anyway.”

‘Fuck you asshole,’ Matthew hisses in response to the first comment.

He has no idea what to make of the second part.

Draisaitl looks down at Matthew, “exactly, see? Chucky here agrees with me.”

“Leo,” Connor groans out, raising up his hands to hide his even redder cheeks, “please stop talking.”

”Fine, but I’m just saying, there are other options,” Draisaitl reluctantly agrees. 

There is a moment of silence where Connor appears to be gathering himself, or praying for the floor to spontaneously swallow him while.

Draisaitl must decide to take pity on him because he ends up changing the topic, “did you want to go for that hike today? Last chance before I fly back.”

Matthew observes the exchange as they begin to discuss logistics, and quietly ponders at the conversation so far.

‘Davo,’ he muses to himself, ‘why does it sound like…’ 

He trails off, not sure what to say, because Draisaitl had more or less made it clear that Connor had been talking about Matthew to Draisaitl in the past.

But why?

Was it just because of his comment to Flames fans?

Then Matthew goes motionless when something Draisaitl had said when he was still trying to sleep comes to the forefront of his mind. 

‘Lauren left?’ he yelps.

“Wow,” Draisaitl mutters as Matthew’s loud meow interrupts their discussion, “he talks as much as the real thing.”

Matthew glares at him.

“Okay, I need a drink,” Connor declares hastily and sweeps out of the room, he calls from the kitchen, “I swear Leo, you better keep your mouth shut in there.”

Draisaitl snorts, then glances down at Matthew again. His expression softens, “where did he even get you from?”

‘Ain’t that the question of the day,’ Matthew replies, ‘what I wouldn’t give to know that myself.’

He watches warily as Draisaitl lowers himself carefully until they are more or less eye level, and internally sighs when Draisaitl raises a hand slowly and holds it in front of Matthew’s face.

Matthew still has no idea why people do that.

As a lark, he decides to just do what he would normally do as a human and taps a paw against it in a mockery of a fist bump.

Draisaitl’s normally constipated looking face splits into an oddly childish grin. He gives a low chuckle and reaches out to scratch Matthew beneath his chin. “Well I’ll be,” he mutters, “you’re as much of a smart-ass as the real one too.”

Matthew would be annoyed, except, whatever Draisaitl is doing feels actually really nice and a small purr begins rumbling in his chest automatically in response. 

He’s immediately and utterly mortified, but can’t seem to figure out how to stop when he’s so content.

Matthew is starting to realise that he’s incredibly easy to please as a cat.

Though admittedly, he’s terribly fond of affectionate touches as a human too so perhaps it’s not really a surprise.

Regardless, Matthew forces himself to at least stay still instead of leaning in, his pride can’t handle more embarrassment. 

“What are-” Connor comes in with a drink in hand, a pinched look coming over his face as he takes in the view.

Draisaitl straightens after giving Matthew one last pat on the head, “you good to go?”

Connor is still looking at them strangely.

“Con?” Draisaitl prompts, then he must see what Matthew sees because he frowns, “is that water?”

Matthew’s nose informs him that no, it is not water.

‘What the hell Davo,’ he scolds.

Connor looks between both of them, then, like a petulant child, he takes a long sip from the glass and stalks back into the kitchen.

“Connor,” Draisaitl curses out and follows, leaving Matthew by himself in the living room.

He waits a few moments to see if they would come back but when they don’t and murmurs start up, he jumps nimbly down from the couch and silently pads over to the kitchen. 

Matthew hesitates at the doorway before he tucks himself against the wall so he’s able to hear but isn’t in view of the occupants.

He knows it’s not right to eavesdrop but after what he witnessed last night and found out this morning, he’s concerned about Connor.

“-just worried about you,” Draisaitl is saying earnestly, “this isn’t like you.”

“I’m fine,” Connor asserts stubbornly, “it’s just one drink. Besides, it’s the off-season Leo, don’t make a big deal out of nothing.”

“It’s not just the drinking,” Draisaitl gently but firmly refutes, “you also adopted a cat and named it Chucky. Do you, are you seeing why I’m concerned?”

“People adopt pets all the time,” Connor mutters.

“Not grown ones, and definitely not without planning.”

There is a guilty pause.

Someone blows out a long, weary breath.

Probably Draisaitl, Matthew guesses.

“Look Con, I just want to help and so do the others,” Draisaitl admits, sounding almost at a loss.

“I know,” Connor replies immediately and then continues to reassure in a painfully earnest manner, “I’ll be fine, I just need time you know? It’s a lot to process at once.”

Matthew frowns.

He’s fairly certain that’s a lie given what he’s observed in the past however many hours.

The part where Connor asserts he’ll be fine, that is. 

Given what he found out this morning, he wholeheartedly agrees that losing a Cup and a wife in short succession is a lot to work through.

“Alright, so will you at least come to the team BBQ tomorrow night?” Draisaitl queries, “the boys would be glad to see you, even if you just show your face for half an hour.”

There is a pause which Matthew can’t quite interpret without any visual context.

“Otherwise I think Moose may actually follow through with his threat of getting Swedish voodoo involved.”

That makes Connor laugh, the first time he’s sounded happy since Matthew woke up this morning.

Matthew relaxes minutely.

He hadn’t realised how tense he had been up to that point.

“I’ll think about it Leo.”

There is the sound of feet shuffling and some other noises Matthew can’t quite decipher, he peers carefully around the corner.

Draisaitl is hugging Connor loosely and Connor’s face is buried in the other’s neck.

Oh.

Matthew quietly retreats from the kitchen.

He’s nosy, yes, but that kind of vulnerability isn’t something he’s meant to see.

He’s overheard enough as it is, and besides, he has a new mission.

Curiosity must have killed the cat because Matthew is practically vibrating with unanswered questions.

So he’s rather pleased that Connor is preoccupied since it means he can do a bit of reconnaissance.

Lenny is by the main hallway when Matthew makes his way up the stairs, making a beeline to investigate the one room that he wasn’t able to go into yesterday. 

Matthew spares him a glance when the dog follows him readily upstairs.

‘You are not coming with me,’ he warns, pausing to better drive the point home.

As if he understood what was said, Lenny whines softly and nudges him with a wet nose, he blinks his big black eyes at Matthew beseechingly.

‘That’s just unfair, fine, alright bud, you can come with,’ Matthew immediately caves in the face of such concentrated adorableness but points an imperious paw in Lenny’s direction, ‘but you better not rat me out.’

Lenny’s tail wags.

Matthew resigns himself to having a doggy shaped shadow for his explorations. He pads past the many empty upstairs guest rooms with purpose and very quickly arrives at Connor’s bedroom. The door is slightly ajar and after a split second moment of hesitation, he mentally says 'sorry' to Connor and uses a paw to nudge it open.

The room is a mess, and even without going in, Matthew can tell all is not well.

He traipses into the room and carefully avoids the random pieces of clothing on the ground, pausing temporarily at the face down photo frame by the bed before he moves onward. The walk-in closet is in a similar state of disarray and as far as Matthew can see, there doesn’t seem to be anything but Connor’s things thrown around.

In fact, now that he’s consciously thinking about it, Matthew takes a cautious sniff and does another loop of the bedroom to see if he can find any lingering traces of Lauren.

He bats at Lenny briefly when he follows too closely and bumps into Matthew.

Eventually, they wander into the spacious washroom and Matthew carefully jumps up to the counter by way of the toilet, thankful that the lid is down and he didn’t have to add onto the progressively long list of mortifying experiences he’s had as a cat.

The counter contains the usual items for a professional athlete but nothing Matthew would expect for a married couple.

In fact, the entire room smells like Connor, by which Matthew means there is no hint whatsoever of a female’s presence.

Not even a faint scent.

How long has Connor been living by himself?

Matthew is pondering this over in his head when he hears the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.

‘Shit,’ he mutters with wide eyes, ‘shit shit shit.’

He immediately jumps down from the counter and scrambles out of the washroom.

Lenny barks excitedly at his sudden motion and gives chase.

‘No, hush,’ Matthew admonishes, ‘remember we said not to-’

He comes to a rapid stop by the door.

“Chucky?” Connor asks from the doorway, expression unreadable, “why are you in my room?”

Matthew shrinks in on himself.

‘Uh sorry Davo,’ he meows out, ‘I was just wandering around, I promise I wasn’t trying to do anything weird.’

Connor stares at him for a while longer, then slowly he rakes his gaze over his own bedroom, his face tightening as he does so and by the time he looks back at Matthew, his eyes are hard.

“Did you have fun poking around?” 

Matthew shakes his head as adamantly as he can but Connor’s expression remains stormy.

“Sure,” Connor agrees bitterly with an uncharacteristic sneer, mockery evident in his tone when he continues, “I’m supposed to believe that you don’t think it’s hilarious that the great McJesus can’t win a Cup nor keep a wife?”

‘I don’t!’ Matthew protests loudly, padding over so he can put a paw on Connor’s sock clothed foot. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he continues, ‘Davo, I’m not that kind of asshole-’

He stumbles when Connor withdraws his foot without warning and steps around him to head into the walk-in closet without another word. 

Something leaden formalises at the bottom of Matthew’s stomach at the non-verbal rejection.

There is the sound of clothes rustling and when Connor steps out, he’s very noticeably dressed to go out.

‘Are you going on the hike?’ Matthew tries.

“I’ve cancelled the vet appointment, and there’s food and water on the kitchen counter,” Connor says flatly, “I’m taking Lenny with me so you can feel free to continue your tour of how spectacularly shit my life is and rejoice.”

‘I wouldn’t,’ Matthew snaps back, ‘I was just worried about you and wanted to understand. I admit I could have done it in a better way but- hey, wait, Davo!’

Connor gently bids Lenny to follow with a scratch on the dog’s head and steps past where Matthew is still meowing by the door. He thunders down the stairs with Lenny in tow.

Without another thought, Matthew follows.

‘Davo,’ he tries again once he catches up to Connor at the foot of the stairs, where he can see Draisaitl is waiting by the main entrance leading out of the house. 

Connor pointedly refuses to look at him whilst he gets his shoes on.

Matthew growls to himself, he knows he betrayed Connor’s trust and the man is rightfully upset but he hates being ignored. 

Blame it on being the oldest child and never having 100% of his parents’ attention, or on the fact that he’s just always naturally loved being in the limelight, whatever the reason, Matthew despises being shut out.

He meows again and puts his two front paws on Connor’s back since he’s hunched over.

“He really likes you. If he climbs any higher, he’d be on top of you,” Draisaitl remarks with amusement, “you wanna come with us?” The latter question is aimed at Matthew.

‘Uh,’ Matthew replies, unsure about the logistics of hiking as a cat and too distracted by the spike of heat at Draisaitl’s unintentionally provocative words to really think it through.

“No,” Connor says sharply, shrugging his shoulders to dislodge Matthew’s paws.

Matthew drops to the ground with a displeased hiss.

“Let’s go Leo,” Connor mutters, “see you around Chucky.”

He slams the door behind him when they leave.

Matthew flinches.

---

Matthew is not too proud to admit that he spends the next few hours sulking and stewing in his guilt and frustration.

By the time lunch rolls around and Connor still hasn’t returned, he forces himself into the kitchen and manages a few bites of the room temperature canned tuna on the counter, but quickly gives up when he realises the incident this morning has soured his appetite, not that he had much of one to begin with.

Connor’s house feels dismally empty without its owner and resident dog.

What’s more, even with the television speaking softly in the background, Matthew can’t shake the feeling of being horribly and achingly lonely.

He wishes he was still in Florida with his friends and family, a sentiment that only serves to worsen his mood because now he’s wondering how worried his parents are that he never made it home last night and that he’s gone radio silent. 

Or if his boys are trying to figure out why he never showed up for their night out on the town with the Cup.

Matthew doesn’t get dejected often, especially not after the recent Cup win, but he is feeling it now and he can’t do anything about it. 

This isn’t like losing the Cup in Game 5 to the stupid fucking Golden Knights, where as much as it sucked, there was still something he could do to fix the situation.

He has nothing now.

Matthew has no idea why he’s a cat.

He’s utterly helpless and at the mercy of the universe (and Connor).

He hates that he can’t communicate properly with Connor to avoid similar mishaps like the one that occurred this morning.

What’s more, even if he manages to somehow convey his request and Connor agrees to do him a fucking solid, despite being pissed at Matthew, and ships him over to Florida, there’s no guarantee that his family can do anything.

He might be stuck as a cat forever.

Matthew bites back the despondent yowl that threatens to escape.

He sits through the length of another news programme and miraculously figures out how to use his paws to unlock and painstakingly tug open the patio door long enough to relieve himself.

Yet another low point, but still preferable to shitting on Connor’s floors or carpet.

He’d have tried to use the toilet but he’s genuinely not sure he could live with himself if he accidentally falls in because he can’t quite manage to perch properly on the rim.

Matthew wanders back into the house once he’s done and carefully shakes off the extra dirt before he tracks it inside.

He dithers in front of the staircase a bit longer before he gives up and decides, in for a penny, in for a pound. He sighs when he makes it back into Connor’s bedroom but gamely begins to slowly organise the mess into something more manageable. 

Matthew loses himself in the rhythm of categorising the clothing into piles, those which obviously need washing and those which smell perfectly fine and just need to be put away. The washing pile is nudged into a corner of the room with his paws, because the smell alone is enough to make him consider hurling.

The cleaner items are left in another pile for the moment whilst Matthew diligently fixes the bed. It takes forever and the sheet is still decidedly wrinkled when he’s done but it’s visible to the eye that an effort has been made. 

Matthew determinedly starts on the pile of clean items and spends the next however long folding whatever he can and nudging them into one side of the bed when he’s done.

He’s dead tired by the time all of this is done.

Except, a cursory (and entirely unnecessary given how acute his hearing now is) check of the hallway confirms that Connor and Lenny still aren’t home, so he perseveres.

Matthew can’t quite vacuum but a thorough investigation of a small cleaning closet in the hallway yields a Roomba, which he manages to turn on as the button is thankfully easy to manipulate. He then spends a good few minutes standing in strategic positions until he is able to herd the Roomba into Connor’s bedroom.

By the time dinner rolls around, Matthew is inordinately proud of the progress he’s made.

He is also exhausted.

Matthew drags himself downstairs to have a few more bites of fish, except it smells so horrifically strong when he manages to get the covering off once more and he can’t quite stomach it. 

Since Connor and Lenny still aren’t home, Matthew instead makes do with some more water and drags himself back upstairs.

He falls asleep on Connor’s bed, surrounded by the lingering scent of something uniquely Connor and hopes this gesture is enough to demonstrate his remorse and will suffice as penitence.

Matthew sleeps fitfully and dreams of the hurt on Connor’s face when they argued earlier.

He hates it.

---

It feels like only a short moment has passed before Matthew’s new instincts drag him back into wakefulness.

The lights in the room go on.

“What the, Chucky-” comes Connor’s slightly slurred voice before he cuts himself off with an audible click of his teeth.

Matthew yawns and drags himself up from the rather undignified sprawling sleeping position he had ended up in.

‘Welcome home Davo,’ he greets sleepily, ‘did you have a good time?’

When he doesn’t get an immediate answer, Matthew blinks the last dregs of sleep out of his eyes and looks over at Connor with trepidation. He had hoped that his attempts at a non-verbal apology would have been sufficient to get them back to normal but he may have been mistaken.

Connor’s face is slack with surprise, and the flush he’s sporting indicates he’s perhaps had a few drinks. 

Matthew sincerely hopes he hadn’t driven himself home.

“Con, you good?” Draisaitl’s voice comes floating in and answers that question much to Matthew’s relief. Seconds later, the man appears as well, peering into the room curiously and gives a low whistle.

“Huh, did you finally clean like I told you too?” Draisaitl seems pleased, then he spies Matthew and snorts good-naturedly, “and you didn’t believe me when I said he’d be missing you, look at him, curled up in your bed and on top of your hoodie.”

Connor flushes a darker shade of red.

Matthew looks down and is taken aback to realise that he had gravitated towards the pile of clean clothing in his sleep, and had indeed snuggled up against one of Connor’s Oilers’ hoodie.

He scrambles out of it as gracefully as he can.

“You going to be okay?” Draisaitl is asking Connor carefully when he sways a bit, “want me to get you some water?”

“Yeah, please if you don’t mind,” Connor mumbles.

He staggers into the room and sits down heavily on the bed as Draisaitl leaves.

Matthew watches from where he’s perched on the other side of the bed, wondering if he’s been forgiven for his transgression this morning.

Connor lets out a long sigh and buries his face into his hands. “Why are you still here?” he mutters.

Matthew gives a disheartened meow, unexpectedly stung by the words.

Perhaps earning Connor's forgiveness is going to be harder than he thought.

‘I, uh, I can’t really go anywhere else,’ he replies haltingly, knowing Connor won’t understand but needing to say it anyway, ‘I wouldn’t keep bothering you if I didn’t have to.’

“How did you even do this?” Connor continues, looking up with a bewildered expression, “are you expecting me to believe you did all this as a cat?”

Matthew helplessly nods.

“Why?”

Matthew shrugs, the answer is because he doesn’t know how else to express how sorry he is. Only, he can’t answer Connor’s question because he is still frustratingly a cat.

Connor stares at him for a long moment before he collapses backwards onto the bed.

He doesn’t say anything else and, for once, Matthew stays quiet too.

They are still far apart from one another in their respective positions on the bed when Draisaitl comes back with the water and a bottle of Advil, both of which he sets aside on the bedside table. 

Matthew watches as Draisaitl peers down at Connor before he rolls his eyes and carefully wrangles Connor under Matthew’s laboriously straightened blankets, not bothering to change Connor out of his day outfit. 

He doesn’t seem surprised that Connor doesn’t wake up from the manhandling.

Now that he knows Connor is no longer awake, Matthew edges closer and peers at Connor’s sleeping face with some concern.

“He’s had a few too many,” Draisaitl says apropos of nothing, “not that I can blame him.”

Matthew cautiously looks over at the man as he slinks back to his previous location on the bed.

He wonders why Draisaitl is speaking, much less explaining the situation, to a cat.

A cold chill goes down his spine.

Unless Connor told Draisaitl that Matthew is the cat?

Matthew tries to shake off the unpleasant thought that Connor might have retaliated to Matthew’s betrayal of his trust earlier in the day by disclosing Matthew’s condition to Draisaitl.

“He might not admit it, but he’s been really down since Laur’s left,” Draisaitl continues as he gingerly raises the blanket so it better covers Connor’s chest, and walks around to where Matthew is now perched once more by the messily folded pile of clothing.

Matthew tenses.

Draisaitl slowly runs a hand down Matthew’s back, all steady pressure and comforting, calloused hands. 

“This is the cleanest his room has looked since she’s left,” Draisaitl continues quietly, “and today is the first time he’s come out with me since that last game.”

Matthew inwardly winces when he works out the timeline, that’s an awfully long time for Connor to have been moping by himself.

“I don’t know when he got you,” Draisaitl says, scratching Matthew behind his left ear, “but I’m glad he did.”

Matthew purrs in response, pleased despite himself.

He likes the illusion of thinking he’s been able to help, even if it’s not true.

‘You’re surprisingly not a dick,’ he concedes, ‘Davo’s lucky to have a friend like you.’

Regardless of not understanding Matthew, Draisaitl still smiles fondly down at him, “now if only your namesake will respond to Con so he can stop panicking about it. Did you know he spent most of the evening worrying that Tkachuk is mad? Something about a fight, which makes no sense when he says the dude hasn’t even replied to his texts.” 

Draisaitl is shaking his head, looking perplexed by Connor’s supposed drunk shenanigans.

Matthew perks up, sparing a small apology to Connor’s reputation going forward as a delusional drunk, because it sounds like Connor hadn’t told Draisaitl.

Matthew’s fears moments ago were unfounded.

He should’ve known that.

And, in all fairness, he had known that Connor is an upstanding dude but he’d never seen Connor that upset before, and well, who hadn’t done some fucked up shit before when they were angry?

Apparently not Connor.

Then Matthew processes the rest of Draisaitl’s words and an affectionate fondness bursts in Matthew's chest at Connor’s antics.

Draisaitl grimaces and shakes his head.

“Honestly, randomly texting yesterday and being upset he didn’t get an immediate response back,” he snorts, “I told him the dude was probably celebrating out with his team, I know we would be if-”

He stops himself and his hand stills on Matthew’s fur.

Right, Matthew reminds himself sternly, Connor hadn’t been the only one who had their dreams dashed in Game 7.

Despite his better judgement, he meows and puts a paw on Draisaitl’s arm.

It seems to get the man out of his head because Draisaitl makes a visible effort to collect himself. 

“Doesn’t matter, it’s late and I should probably go back.” He pats Matthew’s head once, “do you usually sleep with Con?”

Matthew’s brain stalls on the imagery that creates and therefore does not react in time when he gets picked up and dropped unceremoniously on top of Connor’s sleeping body.

‘Oh fuck,’ he gets out, right before Connor’s arms sneak around him to pull him closer and the man sleepily nuzzles into Matthew’s fur, ‘Draisaitl! Come back, you got it wrong!’

“Well, guess that answers that question,” Draisaitl remarks drily, then smirks, “I knew he wanted to cuddle Chucky but I guess this is an acceptable substitute.”

This again?

Only, before Matthew can complain any more, Draisaitl is saluting him cheerily as he ducks out of the room and turns off the lights on the way out.

Matthew blinks as his eyesight adjusts, blessedly grateful for feline genetics as his vision sorts itself out much faster than it would have if he had still been human.

He twists and peers down at Connor’s face where it’s tucked into Matthew’s chest.

‘Davo, you gotta loosen up your grip,’ he tries, ‘you, uh, you’re still mad at me I think. You don’t want me to sleep here tonight.’

Unsurprisingly, Connor does not respond.

Matthew tries to slink out of the man’s grasp, only to yelp softly when Connor simply reacts by gripping him tighter and pulling him closer.

At this point, Matthew decides to just give in, because being in Connor’s embrace is very cosy and he has been painfully alone the whole day.

Surely, no one would begrudge him this?

Or well, he knows there is a chance that Connor will be more infuriated when he wakes up the next morning but, for now, he gives in to his urges and gently wiggles until he’s lying even more comfortably in Connor’s arms.

‘Goodnight Davo.’

---

Matthew awakens to the sound of a phone alarm.

A hot puff of breath brushes past his fur and he meows softly in protest before burying his head further into the body next to him.

“What the,” rumbles Connor, voice hoarse with sleep, “oh fuck, my head.”

‘You have water and Advil,’ Matthew chides drowsily, ‘don’t be a baby.’

Connor groans next to him, and reaches out an arm to turn off the source of the sound.

They snooze for a bit longer but eventually, Matthew becomes aware of how perfectly spaced apart Connor’s breaths are and how tersely still he is holding himself.

‘You’re awake aren’t you,’ he states, less a question and more a fact.

Matthew waits for himself to be pushed away or for Connor to get up.

Neither happens, but neither does Connor reply.

Despite the tension in Connor’s body, the steadiness of his breathing and the quietness of the room eventually lulls Matthew back into a light doze. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, only that at one point, one of Connor’s hands begins to lightly stroke his fur, eliciting a rumbly purr from his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Connor mumbles suddenly, breaking the fragile tranquillity of the moment.

Matthew’s ears flick in his direction but he stays quiet.

Connor sighs. “I didn’t mean to leave you for an entire day,” he continues, “or to accuse you of trying to be an asshole.”

Matthew stops purring at the reminder of what happened yesterday.

He’s not sure if he’s happy or wary that Connor has decided that they need to talk about it now.

Connor presses his face against Matthew’s fur, and when he speaks next, his voice is a soft, trembling whisper that Matthew only catches by virtue of having superior cat senses.

“It's more that I’m upset with myself and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he takes in a shaky breath, “Chucky, I, I don’t think I’m ok.”

The confession is unexpected.

Not because Matthew isn’t thinking it, but because he didn’t think Connor would admit that out loud, much less to him of all people.

‘Davo?’ he questions.

Connor smiles from where he’s still pressed against Matthew’s side and Matthew feels the way his lips curl at the action.

It’s weirdly intimate but not at all off putting.

When Connor does not continue, Matthew does the only thing he can think of and starts purring once more, hoping the sound would convey his support and encouragement.

“Is this your way of saying I’m forgiven for being a dick?” Connor asks, huffing out a rueful laugh which warms Matthew’s fur.

‘Shit happens,’ Matthew allows, ‘and I shouldn’t have pried into your personal life, it was disrespectful of me and I’m sorry.’

Connor pulls away so they can peer at each other.

Realising what Connor’s looking for, Matthew nods a yes to the man’s question.

A small tremulous smile breaks over Connor’s face.

With his hair all sleep ruffled and his cheeks pink where it’s been pressed against the pillow, he makes for an unfairly pretty sight.

Matthew is entranced despite himself.

“Thank you for tidying up this room,” Connor continues after a beat, before he looks down, “it’s been hard, between the Cup and Lauren. I guess it had just been easier to let the mess accumulate, when I couldn’t find the energy.”

Matthew presses a paw against Connor’s cheek, wishing he could smooth the troubled expression off of the other’s face.

He wants Connor to go back to the smiling visage he was sporting moments earlier.

That’s the version of Connor he wants to remember after all this is over.

Connor cracks a brief smile and reaches up with a hand to gently tap at Matthew’s paw. “Is this your way of comforting me?” he teases.

Matthew hesitates briefly before he nods.

Whatever. 

Connor can chirp him for being soft if he wants to, but Matthew is trying to be good and, honestly, he thinks Connor might welcome whatever support he can get at the moment.

Connor’s eyes are wide and he breathes in sharply before he blows it out. “Chucky,” he gets out urgently then swallows and closes his eyes, “did you hear what Leo said yesterday?”

‘About Lauren or?’ Matthew queries even though he has a suspicion that it might not be what Connor is referring to, but he’s unwilling to say the other guess out loud in case it’s wishful thinking.

“Laur left because I couldn’t share the important parts of my life with her, the ice hockey parts I mean,” Connor says slowly, “don’t get me wrong, she really wanted to understand and she tried so hard. It, it’s me, I’m the one who didn’t want to talk about it.”

He huffs out a bitter laugh. “I thought I was doing the right thing, they have so much of me already and I just wanted our home and marriage to be just for me.”

Connor doesn’t elaborate on who ‘they’ are but Matthew can guess.

The organisation, the fans, the media, all of them blurring together and dragging Connor down, sinking him slowly but inexorably with the weight of their expectations.

Matthew hesitates momentarily, before he bumps his face gently against Connor, hoping it comes off as encouraging.

“But it got to be too much in the past month,” Connor explains, “she wanted to support me given it was the Finals but I didn’t want her to.”

“She didn’t understand, doesn’t understand,” he swallows visibly, “how could she when she’s never been in a similar position? So I shut her out.”

Matthew frowns. 

He doesn’t like taking sides, as he suspects he’s only hearing a snippet of what their married life had been like but if Connor had truly barred his wife from being able to support him emotionally for the past few weeks, he can see how that might hurt and isolate her to the point of considering leaving him.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand how much the Cup means to Connor after all.

But that is surely the tip of the iceberg, a million small things building up over the course of who knows how long until the Finals came along and tipped them over the edge.

“I came home after Game 4 and she was waiting for me.”

Matthew tries to imagine it.

Connor, on the high of winning Game 4 after a three game losing streak, must have been euphoric.

‘That’s when she chose to leave you?’ Matthew interjects indignantly, feeling rather unimpressed by the timing despite his empathy to the rather poor hand of cards she had been dealt.

Connor chuckles, reaching out to run a hand over Matthew’s side.

“I can guess what you’re thinking and no,” he corrects gently, “she was ecstatic for me and she wanted to celebrate but I- I just couldn’t. I tried to tell her it wasn’t a big deal, that we were still two games behind and on the chopping block every game we played against you. But I think it really was the fact that, in my head, she wasn’t part of this.”

Connor blows out a tired breath, “and I think that was when she realised that I would never be able to share that part of myself with her. Not truly. Not to the point where she could be there for me like she wanted to be.”

He trails off, “only, well, it’s such a big part of me that I’m withholding, one that impacts me, well, us on a daily basis. It also dictates our schedules, because we have to fit holidays around my work, and I just, it didn’t seem fair by the end.”

Connor musters up a resigned smile. “In the end, it seemed healthier for us to split than to stay together,” he admits, “we’re still friends I guess, since it was an amicable separation. But well, it was just one more area of my life where I couldn’t keep it together you know?”

Matthew winces inwardly and shifts outwardly at the self-deprecating tone and, when he notices Connor peering at him, restarts his purring.

Connor slides his gaze away, cheeks flushing.

After a long comfortable moment, he quietly draws in a breath and continues in a whisper, “it also didn’t help that by then, I may have discovered that I was potentially interested in someone else.”

The purring stops once more as Matthew’s heart lurches in his chest.

Connor clears his throat. “I, ah, I think Leo already alluded, but I, um, yeah, I might also be into guys.” 

Matthew wants to bite him for thinking that confusing jumble of words was somehow meant to elucidate the matter in any way.

He nudges Connor gently instead with a paw.

‘You’re going to have to spell it out for me Davo,’ he says.

Connor squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You, I might be a bit interested in you,” he confesses like it’s a curse, “I realised I was perhaps staring at you so much on and off the ice not because you were a damn good player or a pest but because I liked looking at you. That when you chew on your mouthguard, I wasn’t watching because it was annoying but because it was distracting.”

Matthew’s stomach is doing somersaults nervously. 

He has no idea how, even though it is Connor who is taking a risk here, that he also has butterflies in his stomach, like he’s a teenager fumbling with his crush for the first time.

“You don’t uh,” Connor continues, eyes still shut, “I’m not telling you all this to pressure you, I just wanted to explain why I was such a dick yesterday.”

“You can imagine how it feels to see the person I was interested in discovering how much of a mess I’ve become, not really putting my best foot forward,” he jokes mirthlessly, “I also don’t need to explain that on top of everything, we lost Game 7 to you. So it's been great, having you witness all my failures in recent days.”

Matthew’s heart yearns to wrap itself around Connor until the man is smiling once more, or maybe until Connor calls him sweetheart again. He wants to protect Connor from all the expectations that come from being one of the best players, to tell him how good he is (on and off the ice), how amazing he had been all series, how the Conn Smythe was deserved.

He just wants.

Matthew has been wishing he could go back to being a human since this whole fiasco started but now he wants it more fiercely than ever.

Because here Connor is, offering Matthew a reality where he not only wins the Cup but also might get a chance at pulling Connor fucking McDavid, a guy so out of Matthew’s league that he’s never even entertained the possibility.

He wonders how much of this is still Connor thinking he’s just a cat and if Connor will still admit to this when Matthew is human once more. He desperately holds onto the conviction that it’s ’when’ he’s human once more and not ‘if’.

“But, that’s enough of that,” Connor says briskly and interrupts Matthew’s thoughts.

Connor opens his eyes and aims a decidedly more serene smile Matthew’s way, “I’ve been wallowing for long enough, what do you say we make the most of today to figure shit out with your cat curse?”

Matthew nods and mentally catalogues the way Connor’s eyes crinkle when he grins, like an etching he wants to preserve for life because regardless of what happens once he’s human, Matthew wants to remember this moment.

---

As if their one sided conversation flipped some sort of switch in his brain, Connor seems a bit more like his normal self the entire morning, purposefully throwing himself into what Matthew started yesterday. He makes a quick breakfast for all three of them, lets Lenny out in the back yard to roam, and gets to work to finish cleaning up his bedroom, setting laundry to wash, and straightening things whilst Matthew observes.

By lunch, Connor is back on the couch with Matthew and they spend an hour trying to figure out what could have triggered the series of events to no avail.

It’s not even the language barrier at this point.

Just the fact that neither Connor or Matthew have any idea how Matthew could be in Florida one moment and a cat in Edmonton the next.

It defies all rational logic.

Around the early afternoon, they mutually agree to give up and Connor then spends a few panicked moments trying to formulate a message to Brady in such a way that it would explain Matthew’s absence without it coming off as incredibly suspicious. 

He fails.

But to be fair, Matthew isn’t sure there is a way to convey the sheer absurdity of the situation they found themselves in.

He also does not begrudge Brady’s incredulous and increasingly less polite replies back to Connor.

Connor gives up after Brady pointedly stops replying to his messages.

Matthew butts his head against Connor’s arm when the man grunts in exasperation.

‘Good try Davo,’ he consoles, ‘we knew it was going to be a long shot.’

Somehow or another, they wind up on the couch once more, listening to some Sportsnet broadcast with the volume down low.

It’s nice.

Matthew secretly relishes the serenity in Connor’s face, sandwiched as the man is between Lenny’s sleeping form on his left side and Matthew’s quiet purring on the other side.

He wants to think that his presence is helping but that might be giving himself too much credit. 

Still, regardless of the reason, he’s proud of Connor. 

It really feels as if his earlier monologue rattled loose the last of the painful weight that he’s been carrying on his shoulders, a cleansing of sorts which leaves him more like the Connor Matthew has interacted with in the past.

Matthew has no illusions that Connor is now okay.

He knows that emotional matters can’t be resolved with one conversation, and he thinks Connor may benefit from speaking to a therapist to perhaps work through what’s causing him distress, but it’s still nice to see this side of Connor.

Purposeful and determined, like a force of nature poised to set the ice hockey world on fire.

Honestly?

It’s captivating to see.

Matthew considers Connor’s profile in the afternoon light.

He’s not handsome in the traditional sense of the word, not like Draisaitl, but there’s something sweetly earnest about his features, and without the playoff beard, he looks shockingly young.

Connor must sense he’s being observed because he looks down with a half quirked smile. “See something you like?” he chirps.

‘Actually,’ Matthew replies, ‘yes, I do.’

Never let it be said that Matthew does not go after what he wants.

He gets up deliberately slowly, ignoring Connor’s look of confusion, and steps over Connor’s thick thighs and into his lap.

Connor tenses beneath him.

But Matthew has always been tenacious, he’s had to fight for his parents’ attention, for his reputation when people labelled him as a nepotism hire and a terrible trade for a team looking to win the Cup, and so much more.

Fighting for a chance at securing Connor’s affection (even if it’s a fleeting fling) is just one more hurdle, and it’s one that he’ll gladly undertake.

‘Relax Davo,’ Matthew reassures as he settles into the man’s lap, purring starting automatically once he’s comfortable, ‘I can’t put the moves on you like this so your virtue is safe.’

Connor huffs, “you’re terrible.”

Matthew momentarily purrs louder in response, because he’s pretty sure Connor doesn’t mean it.

A tentative hand brushes over his back fur and begins combing through it carefully.

“Do you even know what you're doing?” Connor asks, voice small.

Matthew has no idea, and can’t explain given it’s yet another open ended question so he just double downs and nuzzles into Connor’s thigh.

“You’re going to fuck me up,” Connor admits, then he laughs incredulously, “and I’m going to let you.”

Matthew purrs louder.

They stay like that for a while longer, until Connor’s phone begins vibrating on the coffee table and he has to bend over to grab it.

There is cheerful shouting and laughter when Connor answers, loud enough that Matthew’s ears pick it up despite the phone not being on speaker.

“Hey, no, I’m still home,” Connor says, hand stilling on top of Matthew’s fur.

“I mean,” Connor dithers, fingers tapping nervously against Matthew, “I just adopted a cat and I’m not sure it’ll be a good idea to leave him alone for-”

He pauses when the other side interrupts him.

“Oh really,” he deadpans a few seconds later, “Leo said that did he?”

He sighs, “no I’m not going to promise that but I’ll see.”

The sounds from the other end are quieter now, as if the caller had walked away from the fray, but they’re speaking still.

Connor’s voice softens in response to what was said, “I know, yeah, I’ll be there for sure. See you soon.”

Matthew looks up and lets out a questioning meow.

Connor smiles ruefully down at him, “you fancy going to a party with me?”

Matthew thinks about saying no, mostly because he’s grown terribly fond of being in Connor’s lap while being petted, but the Connor of today seems determined to start facing up to his demons, including seeing his team after their loss.

Matthew doesn’t want to stand in the way of that progress because he thinks that it would probably be in Connor’s best interest to go to what he suspects is the Oilers' year-end bash. 

Even if Matthew would rather they both stay in and cuddle.

But that’s not fair to Connor, so Matthew can be selfless for one night and share, he will hopefully have ample time to properly get to know Connor in the future.

Hell, if Connor allows it, Matthew is even willing to play the long game and perhaps try and lock down the possibility of a relationship.

He meows and carefully gets out of Connor’s lap.

When Connor raises an eyebrow at him, Matthew pointedly nods.

“Oh,” Connor mutters, “you wanna go?”

Matthew shrugs then places a paw on Connor’s leg.

“You want me to go?” Connor revises.

Matthew nods.

Connor stares at him, “but you’d go with me if I asked?”

Another nod.

However terrible the party is going to be, it is not going to diminish the fondness that flares up in Matthew’s chest when Connor beams at him, looking more like a kid who’s been told Christmas has come early and not like one of the most famous ice hockey players of their time.

Matthew feels intoxicated by his ability to make Connor smile.

He’s still not sure why it is that Connor is interested in him, but he’s not going to squander this opportunity, not when every smile he coaxes out of Connor feels like the best kind of prize.

He purrs.

---

“Chucky,” Draisaitl greets as Connor walks into what must be Hyman’s living room, “why am I not surprised to see you here?”

Matthew meows as a greeting.

“Well,” Connor replies, “someone apparently told the boys I got a ‘big ass cat’ so I was told to make sure I bring him as my plus one.”

Draisaitl snorts. “Don’t front,” he rebukes fondly, “as if we’d see you if we didn’t say you can bring the cat.”

Connor flushes.

Matthew watched the exchange with interest as Draisaitl moved closer to give Connor an one armed hug, careful not to squish Matthew where Connor’s cradling him in his arms.

This close, Matthew allows Draisaitl to scratch him beneath his chin, purring his approval.

Connor watches it happen for a few seconds before he steps away so that Matthew is out of reach.

Draisaitl makes an exasperated noise, “seriously Con? Not even allowed to pet him now?”

“No?” Connor says, but it doesn’t sound very convincing to any of them.

Matthew wants to laugh at Connor’s display of pettiness but he refrains because it’s a tiny bit endearing, so he ends up gently butting his head against Connor’s chest instead.

“See?” Draisaitl points out with a wave of his hand, “you have nothing to worry about, he’s obsessed with you anyway.”

Matthew inwardly snickers.

Draisaitl has a strange way of putting his finger right on the pulse of things.

“A cat!” comes an excited squeal and Matthew hisses in protest as his ears flatten in an attempt to protect himself.

Still, duties must and all that, so he spends the next bit of time entertaining the various children who are at the party and quite a few of the WAGs.

Connor is amusingly protective, refusing to move too far away despite the constant cajoling from his teammates.

Matthew plays with makeshift toys and generally acts like what he thinks a cat would do, he allows people to pet him how they wish, and endures it when small grabby hands tug on his tail.

He isn’t expecting to be picked up by a huge pair of hands midway through chasing a ball and has to actively work to not yowl or scratch.

“Moose,” Draisaitl reprimands from where he’s slouching on the couch besides Connor, pausing where he had been ready to take a pull from his pretentious German beer, “you better put Chucky, yes the cat, back on the ground before Con here gets his underwear in a twist.”

“Fuck off,” Connor retorts automatically and tries to facewash Draisaitl, they scuffle uselessly whilst Moose and Matthew stare at each other.

“You are not the Chucky I was wishing for,” Moose says very seriously to Matthew.

Matthew blinks.

The words are nonsensical to him.

He discretely sniffs the air.

Moose does not smell drunk but honestly, there’s so many new and overbearing scents that Matthew can’t quite keep up. He now gets why most cats disappear at the first sign of company, the sheer volume of noise and scents is overwhelming.

“What did you say?” someone nearby prompts.

Moose shakes his head and moves to place Matthew back into Connor’s arms.

“I wished for Cap to find happiness with the Chucky he mentioned,” Moose says sadly, his words coming slowly the way it always does when non-English players try and think through what they want to say.

Draisaitl sighs. “Didn’t we say not to do the voodoo magic stuff?”

Moose looks up sharply, “it’s not voodoo, it’s a spell of good luck.”

Draisaitl says something back but Matthew is no longer listening because Connor’s grip is suddenly uncomfortably tight around him.

Matthew tentatively looks up.

Connor is looking down, he has his media face on, but his uncharacteristically tense hold on Matthew betrays his feelings.

“I’m sorry Davo,” Moose says morosely, “I will find a way to reverse the spell since it didn’t work.”

“No worries Moose,” Connor looks away from Matthew and forces a smile onto his face, he sounds decently casual when he continues, “how do you normally break the spell?”

“You don’t?” Moose looks puzzled, “if it was successful, it would naturally wear off once your love and you share a kiss.”

“Oh man,” someone Matthew doesn’t recognise chirps, “like a ‘true love kiss’?”

Draisaitl begins humming some Disney song that Matthew vaguely recalls from his own childhood.

Moose nods and half heartedly growls at the mocking nudging and chirping he gets, repeating stubbornly, “it works.” 

“Well,” Draisaitl stops humming long enough to chuckle, “not in this case, Chucky left our fearless captain on read.”

Connor steps on Draisaitl’s feet in response before he gets off of the couch. He declares he needs a drink and leaves for the kitchen with Matthew in tow before anyone could protest.

Matthew is momentarily worried that Connor is actually going to grab a drink when he has been good and stuck with a can of beer thus far, but the concern dissipates when Connor walks through the kitchen and out the back.

Given how dark it is, he manages to more or less sneak around the house and get back to where he has parked his car a block away without encountering more people.

They sit in the silence of the car.

Matthew is glad for a break from all the noise, he normally loves shindigs and is usually one of the last to leave but there are other things on his mind tonight.

Case in point.

“You don’t think,” Connor starts then stops, his tone unreadable.

‘I mean, your baby defenseman was pretty adamant we need to kiss,’ Matthew says slowly, Moose’s words still ringing in his mind.

In the dim lighting of the car, it’s hard to make out Connor’s expression.

For the first time since this whole mess began, Matthew is glad that he is a cat because it means Connor can’t see his conflicted look or know the way his metaphorical palms have started sweating.

Or the way his heart is pounding in his chest.

Matthew pauses as his ears swivel to pinpoint the source of the other sound. 

Oh.

Actually, his heart doesn’t seem to be the only one that’s beating frantically in the car.

He risks another look at Connor, taking in the man’s stiff shoulders, the way he’s gripping his hands on his thighs, the faint flush rising up his neck-

Huh, Matthew thinks dumbfoundedly to himself.

Connor is nervous.

That same heady thrum of power he felt earlier in the afternoon comes back.

Who knew that of all things, little old Matthew would be what causes the great Connor McDavid to be wracked with nerves?

‘Davo,’ Matthew says fondly, ‘you’re an idiot. Pretty sure I was a done deal as soon as you expressed any kind of interest my way.’

He somehow knows that Connor wouldn’t initiate the first step, not when he can’t understand Matthew and is only guessing at what the past few days have been like to Matthew. Besides, he’s too much of a nice guy to try and force something on a supposed rival turned cat.

Especially without consent.

Matthew isn’t as much of a gentleman.

He figures the very touching confession earlier today suffices as consent for now, at least until he’s back to human and can ask with actual words instead of meows.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ Matthew says resolutely, padding over the drive stick and into Connor’s lap, placing his front paws onto the man’s chest to elevate himself.

He stares at Connor’s face and tries to identify any potential threads of regret or panic at what he’s about to do, but nothing comes.

Kissing as a cat is not something he ever thought he would have to do but he gamely pushes his muzzle up and brushes his mouth briefly against the corner of Connor’s mouth.

They both cringe at the sensation.

“Chucky,” Connor says with chagrin in his voice, but then his eyes widen and he repeats the nickname but with more urgency.

Matthew would respond but he’s too busy flailing as he is suddenly human once more and they have to contend with the impossible feat of having two bulky-ish professional ice hockey players share one standard sized driver’s seat.

“Ow fuck,” Matthew curses as he tries to get up only to smack his head against the car ceiling.

He looks down and lets out a slightly hysterical laugh at the gobsmacked look on Connor’s face.

“Hi Davo,” he greets with a grin, giving up all pretence of propriety and sinking himself down into Connor’s lap, leaving his arms loosely wrapped around the other’s shoulders and the back of the seat.

“Tka-Chucky,” Connor gasps.

Matthew sniggers and leans in so their foreheads are more or less touching. “Davo,” he whispers, delighted when Connor shivers and trembling hands come up to rest on his hips, “I know we need to talk but first, will you let me try that kiss again? Promise I can do better.”

Connor’s mouth drops open as his gaze darkens, and he licks his lips as he stares at Matthew.

Matthew tries not to preen.

Having Connor’s undivided attention is no less heady as a human.

In fact, he shifts none too subtly in Connor’s lap, biting back a laugh when Connor tenses and lefts out a soft curse.

“Oh fuck Chucky,” Connor’s eyes are dilated, and he darts a look down at Matthew’s mouth, “you think you can do better?”

Matthew smirks at the challenge and grinds down against the half chub he feels forming against his ass.

“Mhmm, I don't know, are you going to let me try?”

Connor is the one who kisses him this time and, well, it turns out Connor isn’t much of a gentleman either.

Not that Matthew is complaining, because Connor’s lips are softer than he imagined and his mouth, once he parts his lips with a low moan and lets Matthew lick into it, is warm and wet and fuck-

Matthew breaks away so he can pant against Connor’s neck.

He whines a bit when the movement pushes his semi-hard dick against Connor’s stomach and he grinds his hips out of desperation to chase the sensation.

“Davo,” he chokes out when Connor begins biting a mark into his neck that he’s going to have trouble explaining away and hot hands creep under his shirt to touch his bare skin.

He has no idea what comes next but, right now, sitting in Connor’s car whilst they make out like stupid teenagers again is all he wants to do.

Later, they can chat through what this means and Matthew will do his best to persuade Connor that he’s willing to wait however long it takes until Connor is ready to give this thing between them a fighting chance, implausible and difficult as it may be.

But that can all come later.

Much later.