[Cat hops back, holding his weight on one foot to make it easier to pivot, and follows through the motion with a twirl of his spear to get his next swing more momentum, already grinning before Inigo asks his second question.
Once he does, though, Cat has to laugh, thinking of a puppet handing him a golden coin without a hint of an expression on his face even as Cat chattered away about how, given time, they could become actual friends. Of saying, "I'll let you go," and meaning it, even though it went against the job he was given, and even though he had to beg without a hint of over-the-top coyness he usually got to cushion his feelings in. He'd known long before the words came out what would happen if his plea -- and bid for friendship -- wasn't enough.
He thinks of a wolf crunching down on a lighter spear, shaft made of wood but tip a sharp, deadly metal, as easily as one might a pretzel, and how it could have been his arm. His rib aches -- just barely, now -- where the paw pad hadn't done anything to soften the hard kick against him that caused all this extra trouble, and where cautious hands had later examined him to confirm what they already knew about how much he'd been broken, and by what. Cat knows he'd barely gotten away from the first one here he'd named a friend and meant it.
Unfortunately, he doesn't get a chance to answer outside of that laugh, because it's just enough to push him the rest of the way into a coughing fit that has him doubling over. His spear is planted clumsily into the ground so he can both support himself and hide behind the shaft as his guard if Inigo isn't able to pull out of a swing, or if he's like Cat, and would absolutely do that to a friend, whether he wanted to or not.
Damn it. He was enjoying this, the not having to.]
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Once he does, though, Cat has to laugh, thinking of a puppet handing him a golden coin without a hint of an expression on his face even as Cat chattered away about how, given time, they could become actual friends. Of saying, "I'll let you go," and meaning it, even though it went against the job he was given, and even though he had to beg without a hint of over-the-top coyness he usually got to cushion his feelings in. He'd known long before the words came out what would happen if his plea -- and bid for friendship -- wasn't enough.
He thinks of a wolf crunching down on a lighter spear, shaft made of wood but tip a sharp, deadly metal, as easily as one might a pretzel, and how it could have been his arm. His rib aches -- just barely, now -- where the paw pad hadn't done anything to soften the hard kick against him that caused all this extra trouble, and where cautious hands had later examined him to confirm what they already knew about how much he'd been broken, and by what. Cat knows he'd barely gotten away from the first one here he'd named a friend and meant it.
Unfortunately, he doesn't get a chance to answer outside of that laugh, because it's just enough to push him the rest of the way into a coughing fit that has him doubling over. His spear is planted clumsily into the ground so he can both support himself and hide behind the shaft as his guard if Inigo isn't able to pull out of a swing, or if he's like Cat, and would absolutely do that to a friend, whether he wanted to or not.
Damn it. He was enjoying this, the not having to.]