Father Gascoigne rarely looked peaceful, but there he was, stretched out on a ripped, torn couch, his chest rising and falling as a scrawny cat—one of the alley creatures that had taken a liking to him—was curled up on his chest, purring loudly as its paws kneaded his worn shirt. It was a strange sight, seeing the hunter with his bloodstained coat tossed haphazardly over a chair, the axe that usually never left his side resting against the wall.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. The man who could cleave through beasts without flinching was now a makeshift bed for a cat.

Gascoigne stirred, brow furrowing before his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, disoriented, until it landed on you standing there, clearly entertained.

“What?” he grunted, voice rough with sleep, one hand lifting to rub at his face, displacing the cat, which let out an annoyed meow before hopping down.