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A couple of seconds elapsed before Taym's sleepy-looking face manifested, and an onlooker, unaware of the unusually weighty nuances of their dynamic where it concerned the matter of facial hair, might have assumed that he was undertaking the same goal of unattractiveness. He still had not shaved, and he was in short sleeves for once, the windows open most of the day and the room, therefore, inundated with an uncomfortable amount of island heat.

He said nothing: only an awkward pause before he took the bag out of her hand (meticulously avoiding even the barest touch of fingers) and turned to let her in. In the little alcove into which the door opened there was, hung with a thumbtack, the sole wall decoration in the entire unrelieved starkness of the dorm: a frowning face patch, bestowing its disapproval to all comers, its edges frayed from being removed from his old coat.

"I thought you were just going to borrow the cats," he said bluntly, depositing the sodas onto the bed before he collapsed gracelessly into the chair at the desk.

He silently gave her a once-over, expressionless, before turning to the laptop to prod it back to life, his free hand indicating the carrier on top of one of the bookshelves (slowly filling, still lamentably bare) lining one wall.

"What the ******** are you wearing," he asked. Or rather said, with a distinct lack of a question mark. He regretted momentarily his need to scrub everything sterile at every opportunity, suddenly aware that the island air through the window and the lingering antiseptic smell of the cleaner were probably combining to eliminate every suggestion of Cee's various mysterious potions and unguents (as he inevitably thought of the s**t women slathered themselves with) from the sheets, as well as undertones of alcohol and pot smoke and the usual trace of cigarettes. And then, just as flatly: "You know that term, putting lipstick on a pig? You have the opposite problem. Uggs on a unicorn, maybe."

"Uggs are an insult, let alone those abominations." The cats submitted to America's affections and commenced noisy purring, leaving Taym to field a sarcastic non-laugh from Fiona at the sudden flare of jealousy this caused.

He glanced her way as he began clearing his desk, neatly stacking whatever it was he'd been distracting himself with to one side.

"I have zero desire to watch Fantasia," he informed her, but it was exhausted and already resigned and leaning towards whine. Clearly he was already anticipating being overridden. "Not sober, anyway."

Tubs and Taym, on the other hand, might: clearly the battle was half-won already, as Taym looked up from sighing irritably over the tin and examining the note and whatever snarky concealment of gratitude had been forming died in his mouth.

With an utter lack of dignity Taym scooted the desk chair over to the bed--how strange it was, to have sufficient space that this was necessary--and cautiously extended his fingers for Tubadiah's assessment, his growly exterior displaced momentarily as he succumbed completely with a soft, horrified, adoring: "Oh noooo."

What little resistance Taym had was destroyed. He scooped the treat into his arms, cradling it against his chest and addressing Quint goddammit America reproachfully: "You monster," he accused him fondly, more or less ignoring America in favor of doling out suddenly copious amounts of shameless affection.

She'd seen him with the cats, of course, and it had been the same thing: the sensation of a dam somewhere breaking, the suggestion that every time he ever denied the friendly touch of a hand or deflected some word of kindness he'd been saving it, storing it up, so that he could outpour it in a single sudden rush somewhere safe. Sometimes the "somewhere safe" was America herself--had been, anyway--and sometimes it was the cats, and now it was the treat.

It was easier in the moments he was with Quint and Jessel or Tubs to conjure up the image of Taym as he must have been before the island in those stories he'd sometimes told that started with "I rescued a dog once--" and "one time I found a kitten--": Crouching with uncharacteristic patience with a hand outstretched, sympathetically waiting until the moment that the need for affection outweighed the need for wariness. America had told him once that it felt nice to feel small and cared-for. It was obvious, as he brought his knees up to his chest in the chair--the better to curl protectively around something that didn't need protecting at all--that Taym found no greater pleasure than in feeling capable, and in caring-for. <******** hell, he's precious," he said, in that half-delighted, half-strained voice of a man driven to the brink of cute tolerance. The pot was forgotten, as was, possibly, the movie. And then, only mostly joking: "Trade with me."

He'd cast a couple of glances their way--they were glances full of resignation for the fact that he would have desperately loved to have been a part of that pile and now never would be--but eventually had uncoiled the tension in his arms, fur and wings still cradled to his chest until, by the time the Nutcracker Suite was in full swing, it was obvious that he had--fallen asleep.

It was only obvious that he'd done so when he woke up abruptly, with a slight jolt that transferred right into the treat which then required drowsy soothing. Maybe only five minutes had elapsed--barely enough to time to get a grip on sleep and then have it yanked back--but for Taym to unwarily drift off at all was unusual. Even post-coital sleep came difficult for him most times, and slowly, and accompanied by necessary ritual, and now he'd gone and nodded off for no reason other than that he was comfortable, huddled in his chair with something helpless and affectionate pressed to his heart. He shot her another glance and then pointed out, embarrassment in the defensive tone because he was sure the sudden start hadn't gone unnoticed, movie or no movie: "You should set an alarm, if you didn't. I always do. You should let me borrow him sometimes," he added.

Oh no. He's gotten attached.

"You are not allowed to dress up the cats," said Taym, and now it was his turn to be scandalized. "The hats were bad enough. Anyway the tail would just give you logistical issues when it came to pants and skirts unless the latter's big enough to go over one of their heads," he pointed out, sounding suspiciously well-informed.

"Later," he said, "we'll have to see if we can get them to actually socialize with him." Later because he wasn't going to relinquish him this time, apparently. "And maybe not be dicks about it, like cats are. It's a ******** shame they can't just run around together all day. Although with those two literally joined at the a** maybe Tubadiah would just feel like a third wheel--"

Mouth thinning into a hard line, he settled into the chair again and the coddling intensified.