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konstantyaTitle: Till You’re Walking Beside Me
Fandom: This Gun For Hire (1942)
Genre: AU, drama, friendship, gen?
Characters/pairings: Ellen Graham, OFC (implied Philip Raven/Ellen Graham)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,202
Summary: In which the only male Ellen can commit to is a cat. (That she names him “Raven” doesn’t mean anything, honest.)
Notes: Follows the same continuity as my other TGFH fics, which is to say: Raven somehow escaped at the end of the film.
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
Ellen sighed as she stepped into her apartment and flicked on the light. It was a few minutes after one o’clock, and she wasn’t tired so much as…restless? Disappointed? She wasn’t sure what the word was, but what she was feeling certainly wasn’t the giddy elation one should have felt upon returning from a date.
His name was Victor Baranski, and it was her second time seeing him. He was a handsome guy—medium height, with light brown hair and deep-set hazel eyes—who had a good sense of humor and a great fondness for Ella Fitzgerald. He’d been drafted into the Army Air Forces in ’42, but only served four months before being honorably discharged due to ongoing stomach issues. (“I’ve always had a fussy gut,” he’d laughed, a little sheepishly. “My mother even tried to warn them.”) Currently he worked as a barber, and hoped to open his own shop some day.
All in all, there was nothing objectionable about him and everything likeable. She’d even let him kiss her that night, and there was nothing objectionable about that, either—for a moment, she’d actually been caught up in the heady sensation of it all—but then she’d opened her eyes and…
It wasn’t that she was waiting to fall head over heels at first sight or anything. She was too smart to be excessively romantic like that. But she was waiting for…something. Something she couldn’t articulate. Something that Victor Baranski—as charming and attractive as he was—just didn’t seem to possess.
She shucked her shoes and slid her feet into her house slippers before dropping her purse and taking off her jacket. Maybe if she was lucky, he was actually a playboy about town, who had a dozen other girls at his fingertips, and so would soon forget her. More likely, though, he’d give her a call in a couple days, and she’d have to make up some excuse, or else go through the trouble of letting him down as easily as she could.
Well, either way, she’d survive it. And he’d get over it. After all, one hardly fell in love after a mere two dates, and who was to say a steady relationship between them would have lasted anyway? Indeed, better to call it off now than risk prolonging the inevitable.
A noise from outside interrupted her train of thought, and Ellen pushed back the drapes in her living room just in time to catch a smudge of black against her fire escape. She unhooked the latch and opened the window, letting the cool air of late September blow in. Out of the darkness, a pair of amber eyes blinked up at her.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me,” she chided the cat. “I can’t be at your beck and call every night, you know. And I’m sure you do your fair share of tomcatting around, so you should be more understanding when a girl has a date.” In response, the animal simply let out a raspy meow and began pacing under the window expectantly.
“Oh, all right, all right,” Ellen relented. “Give me a minute, and I’ll bring you your supper.” And with that, she pulled her head back in and padded to her kitchen.
The cat had initially shown up in the summer, looking half-starved and ready to attack at a moment’s notice, and she couldn’t say why exactly, but she’d felt sorry for the poor thing and so had taken to feeding him. First with bits of meat from her own meals, and then she’d progressed to periodically picking up a few cans of food specifically for him. She had, it seemed, created something of a monster in the process, because now he came by almost like clockwork.
She returned to the window with a small plate of sardines—now free of their tin—and bent over the sill to deposit it on the fire escape. The cat immediately started to dig in, and she took the opportunity to give him a couple quick pets. He hadn’t exactly turned into a sweetheart, but at least he no longer ran away when she came near. It was something, Ellen argued, and maybe one of these days she’d manage to get him on her lap.
With a deep breath of the crisp air, she leaned on the sill and watched him as he ate, waiting for the moment when she could pick the plate back up and put it in her sink. As his head moved, she frowned, and took a closer look at him in the low light that filtered out from her apartment. Sure enough, in the midst of his short black fur, she could just make out a dark red streak above his right eye.
“What in the world happened to you? Did you get into a fight? You should know better than that,” she gently admonished, though she obviously knew it wasn’t so simple. Life on the streets was hard, after all, no matter what species you were.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t do something about it. Mind made up, Ellen straightened and went to her bathroom, rushing to collect everything before he ran off. She pulled an old wash cloth from a cupboard then turned on the tub tap, counting the seconds until the water heated up. When it was good and hot, she doused the fabric, wrung the excess out, then went back to the window and carefully hauled herself over. It wasn’t the first time she’d joined him outside, so thankfully the action didn’t entirely spook him. The plate of sardines was now almost empty, and she sat down on the stairs that led to the next story, waiting for him to finish. When he finally had, she gingerly leaned forward and dabbed the warm, damp cloth across his forehead. The cat merely turned his head away the first couple times, but then she must have hit the scratch nice and solidly, because he suddenly gave a sharp yowl and leapt away, retreating to the opposite edge of the fire escape. He growled at her in warning, and then, with what Ellen imagined to be extreme offense, started licking his paw and cleaning the scratch himself.
She sat back down on the stairs, propped her chin on her palm, and smirked at him a little ruefully. “You know,” she drawled, the realization dawning on her with a measure of amusement, “you kind of remind me of a guy I once knew. He similarly made a big stink when I tried to play nurse.” Thoughtfully, she tilted her head at the creature. “Maybe that’s what I should call you. You come around here often enough—it’s probably about time I give you a proper name. So what do you say? How do you like the sound of ‘Raven’?”
It was strange, speaking the name after so long, and predictably, the cat neither responded to nor even appeared to hear the question, still focused wholly on his cleaning. Ellen briskly folded the now-stained cloth in her hands and regarded him. “Well. I think it suits you. And not just because you’re difficult and aloof. Raven,” she said again, trying out the sound of it once more, and all of a sudden she was put in mind of the ludicrous divination games played by young girls. If she said the name into a mirror three times, she mused, would the man spontaneously materialize behind her?
Ellen sighed and wrapped her arms around herself as she looked out into the night. She hadn’t thought about Philip Raven in months—maybe more. He’d haunted her dreams in the weeks immediately following their interactions, but that had eventually tapered off, and as far as her conscious mind went, well, she’d done her best to simply forget about her time in California. It had proved surprisingly easy with her move to Chicago—which had been her plan all along when she’d gotten back in touch with Millie, a little over two years ago now. A new city, with new faces, that weren’t constant reminders of a love she’d lost and a bizarre, frightening adventure she’d endured.
Where was he now, Ellen idly wondered. Still alive, she hoped. And hopefully doing something different to earn his living, though she honestly couldn’t imagine what that something different might be. All the same, the memory of that signed confession burned, so she wanted to believe her words had somehow made an impact. Wanted to believe her worry for him wasn’t, in fact, wasted effort.
In the early autumn air, she shivered. The cat had wandered back to within arm’s reach, and Ellen smiled at him, shaking off her reverie. It must have been coming up on two o’clock, because she was finally getting tired—tired enough to take off her make-up and brassiere, at least, if not actually crawl into bed. With that, she chanced one last stroke of his fur, careful to avoid his injury, then lifted herself up and climbed back through her window. From what she could tell, the cat was content to stay there on the fire escape for the time being, so she picked up the empty plate as an idea took root in the back of her head.
“Goodnight, Raven,” she said to the newly-named feline. And goodnight to you, too, she silently added into the sky. Wherever it is that you’ve gone off to these days.
---
“So,” Millie said the next morning, as they got a late breakfast at one of their favorite diners, “how was your evening with Mr. Baranski?”
“Oh, it was all right,” Ellen replied. Her omelette had arrived, filled with mushrooms and cheese, and she sprinkled a bit of pepper onto it. “We saw Arsenic and Old Lace, then went out to dinner, then we ended up at this little cocktail bar his uncle owns. I now know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ in Polish,” she finished matter-of-factly.
Millie grinned, then popped a canned peach slice into her mouth. “So when’s the next date? Or have you not planned that far?”
“Oh, no, we didn’t…” Ellen looked down at her plate. “I, um… I don’t think I’m going to see him again, to be honest.”
Millie blinked and her brow furrowed. “Why not? It sounds like you two had a swell time last night.”
“I mean, it wasn’t bad,” Ellen admitted, “but…there just wasn’t a spark, you know? He’s a nice guy, but I just don’t really feel anything for him.” She shook her head a little pensively and started in on her omelette. “I don’t know. To tell the truth, I’m thinking of taking a break from dating for a while.”
Millie gave her a look, then dropped her gaze back to her own plate. “Might not be a bad idea,” she conceded with a shrug, “considering the string of duds you’ve had lately. And pickings are pretty slim, what with the draft still on.” She sighed dolefully and poured some syrup on her pancakes. “I’m getting so desperate, I’m thinking of giving Eugene Pierce another try.”
Ellen almost choked as she took a drink of coffee. “The ventriloquist?” she demanded.
“So his place is full of puppets! He was a sweet guy, otherwise. And knew how to use his hands, I’ll have you know,” Millie added surreptitiously.
Ellen laughed and turned back to her meal. A few seconds passed in easy silence.
“Mm, on a somewhat related note,” Millie said, after a long pull of orange juice, “when we’re done here, I’m heading over to Marshall Field’s. I want to see if I can get a new lipstick before I’m due at rehearsal. Care to tag along?”
“I would, but I have to do a bit of shopping, myself. I’m fresh out of bread, and could do with a few other things as well. And then I want to look into getting some sand delivered.”
“Sand?”
“Yeah,” Ellen said, drawing the word out contemplatively. “You know that cat that’s been hanging around my building, the one I’ve been feeding? I’m thinking of officially adopting him.”
One of Millie’s dark eyebrows dipped dubiously at this statement. “You mean the same cat who constantly hisses at you and wouldn’t let you within six feet of him for a whole month?”
“He doesn’t hiss at me anymore,” Ellen dryly corrected, “but yes, that’s the one. He must have gotten into a fight the other day, because he had this scratch right above his eye.” She gestured to the spot on her own forehead. “And…well…the weather’s only going to get colder, you know. I just don’t like the idea of him being stuck outside all winter.”
Millie gave the facial equivalent of a shrug and seemed to take the reasoning in stride. “You’re already buying him food, so if you’ve got a place for a sandbox, I guess it makes sense. Does this mean you’re going to actually give him a name?”
Ellen nodded as she swallowed a bite of mushroom. “I’ve been thinking about ‘Raven.’”
“Raven?” Millie asked. “You’re gonna name a cat after a bird?”
Ellen blushed. Oh, if only it was so simple and silly. For not the first time, she wished Millie knew the details of everything she’d been through, but how to even begin, let alone accurately explain? How to put into words the weird connection she’d developed with a hired killer (after he’d saved her life, sure, but only in between attempting to murder her and taking her hostage) without coming off as completely insane? After all, sometimes it sounded crazy even to her. Like she was one of those pathetic, lonely women who fell in love with criminals bound for the electric chair.
“Well…” she started, a little embarrassed, “I mean…they’re both black and sleek, right?” And predatory, and cunning, and tragic enough to have been dreamed up by Poe.
Quoth the gunman, ‘nevermore’? her mind automatically quipped, and Ellen didn’t know if it was funny or not.
Millie shrugged again, bringing her back to reality. “Better than ‘Pigeon’ or ‘Sparrow,’ I suppose.” She checked her watch, then downed the rest of her orange juice. “Ooh, we’d better get the bill. Joseph hates it when I show up late.”
---
Well. It had taken some strategizing, but Ellen was fairly satisfied with the way her bathroom was now laid out. Placed in the corner, where her toilet paper cabinet had previously been, was now a brand new pan from the pet store, filled the recommended inch or two with fresh sand. She doubted she’d be able to break the cat of his outdoor habits immediately, but she at least hoped she could get him to warm up to her apartment by the time the first snow fell. And anyway, it never hurt to be prepared—better that she have a box of sand sitting around for a while, untouched, than an unpleasant surprise suddenly present itself on her carpet.
It was stupid, but she could swear she was getting nervous, waiting for him to paw at her window that night. What if she couldn’t get him inside? She’d never tried to welcome him in before, so who was to say how he’d react? What if she’d misinterpreted the relationship they had? What if he wanted her solely for her food, and to hell with everything else she could offer?
God, she almost couldn’t believe herself—getting this worked up over a single stray cat. She turned to the cupboard she kept her liquor in, and poured herself a tiny glass of Cointreau.
Maybe he wouldn’t even come around tonight. Maybe she should stop dilly-dallying and just get into the shower already. Ellen sighed.
A minute later, the telltale susurration came from her fire escape, and she squared her shoulders; the moment of truth had arrived.
The drapes were already turned back, and when she opened the window, sure enough, there he was below, expectant as ever. It was cold that night—the coldest it had probably been so far—and she shivered at the chill, daring to think the weather might work in her favor. “Okay,” Ellen said, with a bracing rub of her arms, “let’s try this.”
She went to her kitchen and opened a can, depositing a bit of it on a plate like always. But upon her return to the window, instead of setting it down outside, she held it on the sill and patted the space next to it.
“Come on,” she lightly urged, and added a couple coaxing clicks of her tongue for good measure. “We’re doing something different tonight.” The cat initially appeared confused, but then he leaned back on his haunches, wiggled his rear end, and leapt gracefully up onto her sill. From there, she moved the food to the floor, praying he would follow it. He did, and as he munched away, Ellen quietly closed the window behind him. He gave a glance up at the noise of the latch, but turned back to his meal without any visible anxiety.
So, the first step had been a success—now it was a matter of seeing about the rest. She waited for him to finish, and when the plate had been licked clean, she just stood there, curious as to what his next move would be.
He lifted his head carefully, looking around her living room with wide, alert eyes. And then, ever so slowly, he started to explore, walking noiselessly along the wall and sniffing literally everything he encountered. His tail was lowered cautiously, but his fur was still lying flat, so Ellen remained in place and let him take his time. Upon reaching a stuffed chair that sat in the corner, he slinked under it and out of sight, and when she bent down to peer at him, he merely blinked back.
Ellen straightened, slightly nonplussed. Well, at least he hadn’t thrown himself at the window, frantically clawing at the pane to be let out again. Small mercies, she supposed. With a breath, she finally picked up the plate and carried it to her kitchen. She really did need to shower that night, so with one more look at him hunkered under her chair, she withdrew to the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack just in case he wanted to wander in. Twenty minutes later she emerged pleasantly refreshed, and wrapped her robe around her before she peeled off her shower cap and brushed out her hair.
It was getting late, and she was due at the club early tomorrow, so despite how she wished she could keep her visitor company, common sense told her she should turn in. She ventured out into her living room for one last check and to turn off the light, but was stopped in her tracks by the image that met her eyes: The cat had since moved from under the stuffed chair, and was now curled up on the floor in front of her radiator, fast asleep.
Ellen smiled, feeling more complete than she had in a long while, and softly whispered, “Welcome home, Raven.”
-----
A/N: GIRLFRIEND’S JUST TRYING TO WORK THROUGH SOME SHIT. *sobs because of my love for these characters and their weird, complicated relationship*
P.S. In case you didn’t pick up on it, this fic takes place in 1944.
All other fics can be found here.
Fandom: This Gun For Hire (1942)
Genre: AU, drama, friendship, gen?
Characters/pairings: Ellen Graham, OFC (implied Philip Raven/Ellen Graham)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,202
Summary: In which the only male Ellen can commit to is a cat. (That she names him “Raven” doesn’t mean anything, honest.)
Notes: Follows the same continuity as my other TGFH fics, which is to say: Raven somehow escaped at the end of the film.
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
- Till You’re Walking Beside Me -
Ellen sighed as she stepped into her apartment and flicked on the light. It was a few minutes after one o’clock, and she wasn’t tired so much as…restless? Disappointed? She wasn’t sure what the word was, but what she was feeling certainly wasn’t the giddy elation one should have felt upon returning from a date.
His name was Victor Baranski, and it was her second time seeing him. He was a handsome guy—medium height, with light brown hair and deep-set hazel eyes—who had a good sense of humor and a great fondness for Ella Fitzgerald. He’d been drafted into the Army Air Forces in ’42, but only served four months before being honorably discharged due to ongoing stomach issues. (“I’ve always had a fussy gut,” he’d laughed, a little sheepishly. “My mother even tried to warn them.”) Currently he worked as a barber, and hoped to open his own shop some day.
All in all, there was nothing objectionable about him and everything likeable. She’d even let him kiss her that night, and there was nothing objectionable about that, either—for a moment, she’d actually been caught up in the heady sensation of it all—but then she’d opened her eyes and…
It wasn’t that she was waiting to fall head over heels at first sight or anything. She was too smart to be excessively romantic like that. But she was waiting for…something. Something she couldn’t articulate. Something that Victor Baranski—as charming and attractive as he was—just didn’t seem to possess.
She shucked her shoes and slid her feet into her house slippers before dropping her purse and taking off her jacket. Maybe if she was lucky, he was actually a playboy about town, who had a dozen other girls at his fingertips, and so would soon forget her. More likely, though, he’d give her a call in a couple days, and she’d have to make up some excuse, or else go through the trouble of letting him down as easily as she could.
Well, either way, she’d survive it. And he’d get over it. After all, one hardly fell in love after a mere two dates, and who was to say a steady relationship between them would have lasted anyway? Indeed, better to call it off now than risk prolonging the inevitable.
A noise from outside interrupted her train of thought, and Ellen pushed back the drapes in her living room just in time to catch a smudge of black against her fire escape. She unhooked the latch and opened the window, letting the cool air of late September blow in. Out of the darkness, a pair of amber eyes blinked up at her.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me,” she chided the cat. “I can’t be at your beck and call every night, you know. And I’m sure you do your fair share of tomcatting around, so you should be more understanding when a girl has a date.” In response, the animal simply let out a raspy meow and began pacing under the window expectantly.
“Oh, all right, all right,” Ellen relented. “Give me a minute, and I’ll bring you your supper.” And with that, she pulled her head back in and padded to her kitchen.
The cat had initially shown up in the summer, looking half-starved and ready to attack at a moment’s notice, and she couldn’t say why exactly, but she’d felt sorry for the poor thing and so had taken to feeding him. First with bits of meat from her own meals, and then she’d progressed to periodically picking up a few cans of food specifically for him. She had, it seemed, created something of a monster in the process, because now he came by almost like clockwork.
She returned to the window with a small plate of sardines—now free of their tin—and bent over the sill to deposit it on the fire escape. The cat immediately started to dig in, and she took the opportunity to give him a couple quick pets. He hadn’t exactly turned into a sweetheart, but at least he no longer ran away when she came near. It was something, Ellen argued, and maybe one of these days she’d manage to get him on her lap.
With a deep breath of the crisp air, she leaned on the sill and watched him as he ate, waiting for the moment when she could pick the plate back up and put it in her sink. As his head moved, she frowned, and took a closer look at him in the low light that filtered out from her apartment. Sure enough, in the midst of his short black fur, she could just make out a dark red streak above his right eye.
“What in the world happened to you? Did you get into a fight? You should know better than that,” she gently admonished, though she obviously knew it wasn’t so simple. Life on the streets was hard, after all, no matter what species you were.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t do something about it. Mind made up, Ellen straightened and went to her bathroom, rushing to collect everything before he ran off. She pulled an old wash cloth from a cupboard then turned on the tub tap, counting the seconds until the water heated up. When it was good and hot, she doused the fabric, wrung the excess out, then went back to the window and carefully hauled herself over. It wasn’t the first time she’d joined him outside, so thankfully the action didn’t entirely spook him. The plate of sardines was now almost empty, and she sat down on the stairs that led to the next story, waiting for him to finish. When he finally had, she gingerly leaned forward and dabbed the warm, damp cloth across his forehead. The cat merely turned his head away the first couple times, but then she must have hit the scratch nice and solidly, because he suddenly gave a sharp yowl and leapt away, retreating to the opposite edge of the fire escape. He growled at her in warning, and then, with what Ellen imagined to be extreme offense, started licking his paw and cleaning the scratch himself.
She sat back down on the stairs, propped her chin on her palm, and smirked at him a little ruefully. “You know,” she drawled, the realization dawning on her with a measure of amusement, “you kind of remind me of a guy I once knew. He similarly made a big stink when I tried to play nurse.” Thoughtfully, she tilted her head at the creature. “Maybe that’s what I should call you. You come around here often enough—it’s probably about time I give you a proper name. So what do you say? How do you like the sound of ‘Raven’?”
It was strange, speaking the name after so long, and predictably, the cat neither responded to nor even appeared to hear the question, still focused wholly on his cleaning. Ellen briskly folded the now-stained cloth in her hands and regarded him. “Well. I think it suits you. And not just because you’re difficult and aloof. Raven,” she said again, trying out the sound of it once more, and all of a sudden she was put in mind of the ludicrous divination games played by young girls. If she said the name into a mirror three times, she mused, would the man spontaneously materialize behind her?
Ellen sighed and wrapped her arms around herself as she looked out into the night. She hadn’t thought about Philip Raven in months—maybe more. He’d haunted her dreams in the weeks immediately following their interactions, but that had eventually tapered off, and as far as her conscious mind went, well, she’d done her best to simply forget about her time in California. It had proved surprisingly easy with her move to Chicago—which had been her plan all along when she’d gotten back in touch with Millie, a little over two years ago now. A new city, with new faces, that weren’t constant reminders of a love she’d lost and a bizarre, frightening adventure she’d endured.
Where was he now, Ellen idly wondered. Still alive, she hoped. And hopefully doing something different to earn his living, though she honestly couldn’t imagine what that something different might be. All the same, the memory of that signed confession burned, so she wanted to believe her words had somehow made an impact. Wanted to believe her worry for him wasn’t, in fact, wasted effort.
In the early autumn air, she shivered. The cat had wandered back to within arm’s reach, and Ellen smiled at him, shaking off her reverie. It must have been coming up on two o’clock, because she was finally getting tired—tired enough to take off her make-up and brassiere, at least, if not actually crawl into bed. With that, she chanced one last stroke of his fur, careful to avoid his injury, then lifted herself up and climbed back through her window. From what she could tell, the cat was content to stay there on the fire escape for the time being, so she picked up the empty plate as an idea took root in the back of her head.
“Goodnight, Raven,” she said to the newly-named feline. And goodnight to you, too, she silently added into the sky. Wherever it is that you’ve gone off to these days.
“So,” Millie said the next morning, as they got a late breakfast at one of their favorite diners, “how was your evening with Mr. Baranski?”
“Oh, it was all right,” Ellen replied. Her omelette had arrived, filled with mushrooms and cheese, and she sprinkled a bit of pepper onto it. “We saw Arsenic and Old Lace, then went out to dinner, then we ended up at this little cocktail bar his uncle owns. I now know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ in Polish,” she finished matter-of-factly.
Millie grinned, then popped a canned peach slice into her mouth. “So when’s the next date? Or have you not planned that far?”
“Oh, no, we didn’t…” Ellen looked down at her plate. “I, um… I don’t think I’m going to see him again, to be honest.”
Millie blinked and her brow furrowed. “Why not? It sounds like you two had a swell time last night.”
“I mean, it wasn’t bad,” Ellen admitted, “but…there just wasn’t a spark, you know? He’s a nice guy, but I just don’t really feel anything for him.” She shook her head a little pensively and started in on her omelette. “I don’t know. To tell the truth, I’m thinking of taking a break from dating for a while.”
Millie gave her a look, then dropped her gaze back to her own plate. “Might not be a bad idea,” she conceded with a shrug, “considering the string of duds you’ve had lately. And pickings are pretty slim, what with the draft still on.” She sighed dolefully and poured some syrup on her pancakes. “I’m getting so desperate, I’m thinking of giving Eugene Pierce another try.”
Ellen almost choked as she took a drink of coffee. “The ventriloquist?” she demanded.
“So his place is full of puppets! He was a sweet guy, otherwise. And knew how to use his hands, I’ll have you know,” Millie added surreptitiously.
Ellen laughed and turned back to her meal. A few seconds passed in easy silence.
“Mm, on a somewhat related note,” Millie said, after a long pull of orange juice, “when we’re done here, I’m heading over to Marshall Field’s. I want to see if I can get a new lipstick before I’m due at rehearsal. Care to tag along?”
“I would, but I have to do a bit of shopping, myself. I’m fresh out of bread, and could do with a few other things as well. And then I want to look into getting some sand delivered.”
“Sand?”
“Yeah,” Ellen said, drawing the word out contemplatively. “You know that cat that’s been hanging around my building, the one I’ve been feeding? I’m thinking of officially adopting him.”
One of Millie’s dark eyebrows dipped dubiously at this statement. “You mean the same cat who constantly hisses at you and wouldn’t let you within six feet of him for a whole month?”
“He doesn’t hiss at me anymore,” Ellen dryly corrected, “but yes, that’s the one. He must have gotten into a fight the other day, because he had this scratch right above his eye.” She gestured to the spot on her own forehead. “And…well…the weather’s only going to get colder, you know. I just don’t like the idea of him being stuck outside all winter.”
Millie gave the facial equivalent of a shrug and seemed to take the reasoning in stride. “You’re already buying him food, so if you’ve got a place for a sandbox, I guess it makes sense. Does this mean you’re going to actually give him a name?”
Ellen nodded as she swallowed a bite of mushroom. “I’ve been thinking about ‘Raven.’”
“Raven?” Millie asked. “You’re gonna name a cat after a bird?”
Ellen blushed. Oh, if only it was so simple and silly. For not the first time, she wished Millie knew the details of everything she’d been through, but how to even begin, let alone accurately explain? How to put into words the weird connection she’d developed with a hired killer (after he’d saved her life, sure, but only in between attempting to murder her and taking her hostage) without coming off as completely insane? After all, sometimes it sounded crazy even to her. Like she was one of those pathetic, lonely women who fell in love with criminals bound for the electric chair.
“Well…” she started, a little embarrassed, “I mean…they’re both black and sleek, right?” And predatory, and cunning, and tragic enough to have been dreamed up by Poe.
Quoth the gunman, ‘nevermore’? her mind automatically quipped, and Ellen didn’t know if it was funny or not.
Millie shrugged again, bringing her back to reality. “Better than ‘Pigeon’ or ‘Sparrow,’ I suppose.” She checked her watch, then downed the rest of her orange juice. “Ooh, we’d better get the bill. Joseph hates it when I show up late.”
Well. It had taken some strategizing, but Ellen was fairly satisfied with the way her bathroom was now laid out. Placed in the corner, where her toilet paper cabinet had previously been, was now a brand new pan from the pet store, filled the recommended inch or two with fresh sand. She doubted she’d be able to break the cat of his outdoor habits immediately, but she at least hoped she could get him to warm up to her apartment by the time the first snow fell. And anyway, it never hurt to be prepared—better that she have a box of sand sitting around for a while, untouched, than an unpleasant surprise suddenly present itself on her carpet.
It was stupid, but she could swear she was getting nervous, waiting for him to paw at her window that night. What if she couldn’t get him inside? She’d never tried to welcome him in before, so who was to say how he’d react? What if she’d misinterpreted the relationship they had? What if he wanted her solely for her food, and to hell with everything else she could offer?
God, she almost couldn’t believe herself—getting this worked up over a single stray cat. She turned to the cupboard she kept her liquor in, and poured herself a tiny glass of Cointreau.
Maybe he wouldn’t even come around tonight. Maybe she should stop dilly-dallying and just get into the shower already. Ellen sighed.
A minute later, the telltale susurration came from her fire escape, and she squared her shoulders; the moment of truth had arrived.
The drapes were already turned back, and when she opened the window, sure enough, there he was below, expectant as ever. It was cold that night—the coldest it had probably been so far—and she shivered at the chill, daring to think the weather might work in her favor. “Okay,” Ellen said, with a bracing rub of her arms, “let’s try this.”
She went to her kitchen and opened a can, depositing a bit of it on a plate like always. But upon her return to the window, instead of setting it down outside, she held it on the sill and patted the space next to it.
“Come on,” she lightly urged, and added a couple coaxing clicks of her tongue for good measure. “We’re doing something different tonight.” The cat initially appeared confused, but then he leaned back on his haunches, wiggled his rear end, and leapt gracefully up onto her sill. From there, she moved the food to the floor, praying he would follow it. He did, and as he munched away, Ellen quietly closed the window behind him. He gave a glance up at the noise of the latch, but turned back to his meal without any visible anxiety.
So, the first step had been a success—now it was a matter of seeing about the rest. She waited for him to finish, and when the plate had been licked clean, she just stood there, curious as to what his next move would be.
He lifted his head carefully, looking around her living room with wide, alert eyes. And then, ever so slowly, he started to explore, walking noiselessly along the wall and sniffing literally everything he encountered. His tail was lowered cautiously, but his fur was still lying flat, so Ellen remained in place and let him take his time. Upon reaching a stuffed chair that sat in the corner, he slinked under it and out of sight, and when she bent down to peer at him, he merely blinked back.
Ellen straightened, slightly nonplussed. Well, at least he hadn’t thrown himself at the window, frantically clawing at the pane to be let out again. Small mercies, she supposed. With a breath, she finally picked up the plate and carried it to her kitchen. She really did need to shower that night, so with one more look at him hunkered under her chair, she withdrew to the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack just in case he wanted to wander in. Twenty minutes later she emerged pleasantly refreshed, and wrapped her robe around her before she peeled off her shower cap and brushed out her hair.
It was getting late, and she was due at the club early tomorrow, so despite how she wished she could keep her visitor company, common sense told her she should turn in. She ventured out into her living room for one last check and to turn off the light, but was stopped in her tracks by the image that met her eyes: The cat had since moved from under the stuffed chair, and was now curled up on the floor in front of her radiator, fast asleep.
Ellen smiled, feeling more complete than she had in a long while, and softly whispered, “Welcome home, Raven.”
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A/N: GIRLFRIEND’S JUST TRYING TO WORK THROUGH SOME SHIT. *sobs because of my love for these characters and their weird, complicated relationship*
P.S. In case you didn’t pick up on it, this fic takes place in 1944.
All other fics can be found here.
