Chapter 9: Errands and a Secret Project
The morning light was different. It wasn’t the threatening, empty glare of the previous day, but a gentle, dust-moted gold that painted stripes across the rumpled bed. Travis woke slowly, the deep, chemical sleep of total exhaustion having finally burned off. He felt hollowed out, but in a clean way, like a storm-scrubbed sky. The space under his jaw was empty, just a faint, lingering warmth in the sheets.
He stretched, his muscles protesting with a pleasant ache. The memory of the previous night was a vivid, physical imprint—the brutal release, the tender cleaning, the absolute silence that followed. He padded to the bathroom, the floorboards cool, and stood under a shower hot enough to turn his skin pink. He scrubbed, the water sluicing away the last psychic grime.
Back in the bedroom, pulling on a pair of soft grey sweats and a faded black t-shirt, he noticed Mavis perched on the edge of the tiny balcony, tail swishing idly.
“Hey,” Travis said, his voice still rough with sleep. “You’re up.”
“Someone has to maintain standards around here,” Mavis chirped, but his tone was warm. He leaped, a tiny arc through the air, and landed with practiced ease on Travis’s offered shoulder, his claws pricking gently through the thin cotton. He immediately burrowed into the collar, his cool nose a shock against Travis’s neck.
Travis smiled, the gesture feeling unfamiliar on his face. He moved to the kitchen, Mavis riding along as he made coffee. The machine gurgled and spat, filling the quiet house with its familiar rhythm. He drank the first bitter sip standing by the window, watching a squirrel perform reckless acrobatics on the power line.
The calm was fragile. He could feel the edges of it, thin as glass. The real world—the inbox, the drawer, the phone—waited just beyond this sunlit bubble. He needed to move, to do something normal, to prove he could function in the daylight.
“I’m gonna head out,” Travis said, setting his mug in the sink. “Need groceries. A few things from the hardware store. You wanna come? Ride in the hood?”
He felt Mavis shift on his shoulder. The tiny man crawled up, his silky fur brushing Travis’s ear, and nuzzled into the space behind it. A soft, intimate gesture.
“Not this time,” Mavis murmured, his voice a vibration against bone. “I need to clean the hole properly after last night.” Not a lie. The silicon-walled space of his ‘close’ did need cleaning. Travis’s release had been… copious.
Travis nodded. He understood the unspoken duty, the maintenance of their shared, peculiar sanctuary. He reached up, cupped his hand, and Mavis stepped into his palm without hesitation. Travis brought him to eye level, then leaned in and pressed a soft, firm kiss to the top of Mavis’s head, right between his mouse ears. The fur was impossibly soft. He smelled of warm cotton and, faintly, of Travis himself.
“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” Travis said, setting him gently back on the sun-warmed wood of the balcony. “Don’t miss me too much.”
Mavis flicked his tail. “Impossible task. Now go. Buy fruit. The grapes last week were pathetic.”
With that, Travis grabbed his keys and wallet from the chaotic altar of his entryway table and walked out towards the front door. The click of the lock behind him felt louder than usual.
Silence expanded to fill the space he left behind. It wasn’t an empty silence. It was a productive one.
Mavis watched from the balcony until he heard the truck engine cough to life and fade down the street. Then he turned, his businesslike demeanor settling over him. He slipped through the main hole and into his own space—a cozy, paneled room lined with stolen fabric scraps, postage stamp art on the walls, and a bed made from a heavily modified watch box.
The framed hole, the ‘closet,’ dominated one wall of his chamber. He approached it. In the morning light seeping from Travis’s room, he could see the evidence. The silicone lining was cloudy, streaked. He nodded to himself, a tiny, efficient motion.
He went to his miniature basin—a bottle cap secured to a shelf—and dipped a piece of spongefoam, no bigger than a pinhead, into warm water. He wrung it out with careful claws. Then he set to work.
It was meticulous, almost meditative. He scrubbed every millimeter of the silicone ring, inside and out, removing all trace of salt and spill. He polished the smooth, finished wood of the frame. He ensured the screw-hooks on Travis’s side were free of any dust. This was their altar. It demanded respect. His tail worked as a third hand, holding his cleaning supplies, his movements swift and precise. The work took time. The water in the cap turned cloudy, then clear again as he refreshed it.
When he was satisfied, the hole gleaming darkly like a wet pupil, he sat back on his haunches. The clean, neutral scent of the silicone filled his small space. Good.
But his mind wasn’t still. It was on Travis. On the hollowed-out look in his human’s eyes the night before, just before sleep took him. On the way he’d kissed his head—a gesture so unguarded it made Mavis’s chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with his size.
He scurried down his main passageway, a familiar route through the innards of the house, to a smaller chamber he used as a workshop. Light streamed in through a crack near the floorboard, illuminating a spool of thread, tiny beads in a mint tin, and scraps of metal foil. In the center of the space sat a small box woven from dried grass.
He opened it. Inside, coiled like a sleeping snake, was a necklace. He’d been working on it for weeks, weaving strands of impossibly soft cotton he’d painstakingly pulled from the hem of an old, beloved t-shirt Travis had thrown away. The braid was strong, yet supple. It was long enough to slip easily over Travis’s head, but would sit snugly on his collarbone.
But it was incomplete. It needed a pendant. A centerpiece. Something worthy.
He’d considered a shaped bead, a shard of polished glass from a broken bottle. Nothing felt right. Travis gave him everything—safety, food, warmth, an anchor in the vast human world. He gave Travis release, grounding, a fierce and focused affection. This token needed to speak to that exchange. It needed to be as unique as their arrangement, and as solid as the trust between them.
Mavis ran a careful paw over the smooth braid. What do you give the man who has let you into his walls? Who screams your name in the dark and then kisses you good morning?
He didn’t have the answer. Not yet. He closed the box, the question humming in the quiet workshop.
The grocery store was a temple of overwhelming normalcy. Fluorescent lights, the clatter of carts, the soulless piped music. Travis moved through it on autopilot, dropping coffee, bread, eggs, and a clamshell of perfect green grapes into his basket. The absence of Mavis on his shoulder was a palpable weight. He kept glancing to his left, expecting a sarcastic comment about the nutritional content of sugar cereal.
He felt oddly visible. Unanchored.
After checking out, the mundane task completed, he didn’t head straight home. A restless energy propelled him down the street to a dusty, narrow shop called ‘The Stone Crow.’ A bell tinkled overhead. The air inside smelled of incense and polishing dust. Crystals and geodes glittered on shelves, and bins of rough rocks sat on the floor.
Travis didn’t believe in magic rocks. But he believed in metaphor. In solid, tangible things.
He browsed, his fingers trailing over cool, rough surfaces—jagged amethyst, striped agate, smooth obsidian. None of them fit. Then, in a small basket labeled ‘Tumbled Miscellany,’ he saw it. A single, teardrop-shaped stone, about the size of his thumbnail. It was a deep, slate grey, but when he picked it up and held it to the light from the window, it revealed subtle, swirling layers of charcoal and iron-red. It was unassuming but complex. Polished smooth by some ancient river, solid, its weight in his palm was reassuring.
It looked like something that had been through pressure and time and come out smoothed, not shattered.
“That’s Picture Jasper,” the shop owner, an elderly woman with rainbow glasses, said from behind the counter. “Good for grounding. For connection to the earth.”
Travis almost put it back. That was too much. But he didn’t. He closed his fist around it. It wasn’t about magic. It was about the feel of it. It was about giving Mavis something that wasn’t a scrap, or a leftover, but was chosen.
“Just this, please,” he said, placing it on the counter.
Back in his car, he didn’t start the engine immediately. He held the stone up again, watching the light play in its layers. A hopeful, fragile idea was forming. He wasn’t sure of the mechanics. Mavis was clever with his hands. Maybe he could drill it? Or wrap it? It didn’t matter. The gesture was the point. He tucked the smooth, cool weight into the small pocket of his sweats, right over his thigh.
He started the car. The hollow feeling from the morning was gone, replaced by a low, eager thrum. He was bringing something back. Not just groceries. A possibility.
Mavis heard the car door slam, the key in the lock. He was back in the main bedroom, perched on the headboard. He watched Travis come in, bags in hand, his lanky frame moving with a lightness that hadn’t been there when he left.
“The grapes?” Mavis called out.
Travis grinned, holding up the clamshell. “To royalty’s exacting standards, I hope.”
He put the groceries away, the simple domesticity of it a soothing rhythm. Mavis shadowed him from the countertop to the fridge, commenting on brand choices. The normalcy was a blanket, comforting and warm.
Later, as dusk began to bleed into the room, Travis changed into soft sleep pants. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his tousled hair. Mavis immediately climbed up his leg and settled in the dip of his clothed lap.
Mavis kneaded the soft fabric of Travis’s pants with his claws, a contented purr rumbling in his tiny chest. The evening light was fading, casting long shadows across the floor.
“You’re thinking loud again,” Mavis said, tilting his head up. “I can feel it in your legs. What’s in your pocket? You’ve checked it three times since you sat down.”
Travis’s hand drifted to the small bulge in his sweatpants. He hesitated, his fingers brushing over the smooth stone through the cloth. “Just a thing. Found it today.”
“A thing.” Mavis’s tail twitched with curiosity. “Vague. Intriguing. Is it edible?”
“No, you gremlin.” Travis laughed, a real, unguarded sound. He pulled the stone out, holding it in his palm so Mavis could see. The deep grey caught the last of the light, the red layers glowing like embers. “Thought you might like it. For your… collections.”
Mavis went very still. He leaned forward, his whiskers trembling as he inspected the teardrop shape. He reached out, his paw barely the size of the stone’s tip, and traced its polished curve. The cool, solid weight of it, the obvious care in its selection—it wasn’t a scrap. It was a gift.
“It’s heavy,” Mavis whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Substantial.” He looked up, his dark eyes meeting Travis’s. “Thank you.”
Travis felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “Figured it could be something. Maybe you can… I don’t know, drill it or something. If you want.”
A mischievous glint returned to Mavis’s eyes. “Or something.” He patted the stone. “I’ll think on it. Now, stop being sentimental. My grapes await.”
They spent the evening in quiet companionship, Travis sketching idly on his tablet, Mavis nibbling on a grape half as big as his head. The stone sat between them on the bedside table, a silent, new presence. When Travis finally slept, Mavis curled against his throat, one paw resting on the pulse point there, as if measuring the calm he’d helped restore.
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The next day, Travis was back in his office, with headphones on, working on a branding package for the local used bookstore. The client wanted “whimsical but literate,” and Travis was lost in a forest of font pairings, the rhythmic click of his mouse a steady metronome. Sunshine poured through the window, highlighting the chaotic stacks of reference books and empty coffee cups. He was deep in the zone, the anxious buzz of previous days replaced by a focused hum.
Meanwhile, Mavis was searching for the perfect charm for the necklace he’s weaving for Travis. He sifted through a collection of found objects in his workshop: a bent paperclip, a lost button, a shard of blue glass. None felt right. The paperclip was too sterile, the button too mundane, the glass too sharp. They lacked meaning. They weren’t worthy of the soft, dark braid made from Travis’s own discarded shirt.
Then, his tail brushed against a small, smooth pebble he’d found in the garden last spring. He’d kept it for no reason he could articulate, tucked away in a corner. He picked it up, turning it in the slender beam of light from the crack in the wall. It was a warm, deep grey, flecked with subtle browns. It was the colour of Travis’s eyes in the morning, when sleep still softened his gaze. It would go perfectly with the dark woven necklace.
He smiles, a soft, private thing, and begins to drill a tiny hole through it with a discarded screw. He used his entire body to brace the pebble, applying careful, persistent pressure. The high-pitched whine of metal on stone was barely audible, a secret sound in the walls. He would need to find two of those rings that humans used for keychains or jewelry, small ones. He knew Travis had a junk drawer in the kitchen full of such odds and ends. That would be his next mission.
The high whine of the drill ceased. Mavis blew away the fine grit from the pebble, inspecting the clean, minute hole he’d made. Perfect. He set the tiny screw-drill aside and carefully placed the stone and his weaving box back on their shelf. The workshop was orderly once more, his mission for the pendant now clearly possible. He just needed those rings.
He stretched, his tail flexing, and slipped out into the main passageway. The house was quiet, save for the low, intermittent clicking from down the hall. Travis’s office. The sound was familiar, a rhythm that meant his human was absorbed, the world outside the screen dissolved into irrelevance.
Mavis crept to the threshold of the office, peering around the doorframe. Travis was hunched forward, headphones sealing him in, his eyes fixed on the glowing monitor. Lines of color and type shifted under his quick, decisive cursor. His brow was furrowed not in anxiety, but in deep concentration. He was gone, submerged in the work.
A softness, warm and private, bloomed in Mavis’s chest. This was the Travis he fought for—the capable one, lost in a flow state, not the one haunted by silent phones. He watched for a long moment, the rhythmic tap of keys a lulling beat. Travis didn’t twitch, didn’t sense the observation. He was a statue of focus.
Mavis moved. He darted across the floorboards, a blur of brown fur, and reached the base of the large, wheeled office chair. He climbed, using the fabric seams and crossbars as a ladder, his claws finding silent purchase. He crested the seat, landing on the warm, worn leather.
Travis’s legs were parted slightly, the soft grey cotton of his sweatpants hanging loose. The space between them was a canyon of shadow and warmth. Without a sound, Mavis slipped into that space. He didn’t tease. He didn’t nip or tickle. He simply curled his body into a tight, compact circle, tucking his nose under his tail, right beneath the soft, heavy bulge of Travis’s relaxed cock and balls.
It was dark there. Warm. The scent of clean cotton, laundry soap, and the unique, musky essence of Travis’s skin was thick and comforting. He could feel the faint, solid weight above him, the heat radiating through the fabric. He could hear the distant, double-time thud of Travis’s heart, feel the minute shifts of his thighs as he adjusted his posture in the chair.
It was the opposite of the wall. Not a space of performance or desperate release, but one of unspoken presence. A grounding of a different kind. Mavis closed his eyes, his own breathing slowing to match the rise and fall of the body that sheltered him. He was a hidden keystone, holding nothing together and everything at once.
Travis, oblivious, scrolled through a font menu. He clicked. He adjusted a kerning value by a single percentage point. The world outside this chair, this desk, this warm, dark hollow where his little friend slept, did not exist. For now, it was enough.
For now, it was enough. The focus was a perfect, shimmering bubble around him. He adjusted a vector curve, the satisfying snap of alignment echoing in his headphones. The world was just this screen, this chair, the warm sunlight on his neck.
Then, a subtle pressure shifted beneath him. A faint, living warmth against his perineum, through the thin cotton. Travis shifted back in his seat a bit, sitting up straighter, when he felt Mavis under him. He froze, his hands hovering over the keyboard. He waited to feel if there was distressed squirming: there wasn’t. There was only the slow, deep rise and fall of a tiny ribcage, the utterly relaxed weight of a creature in secure, deep sleep.
He relaxed, a slow exhalation leaving his lungs. He became profoundly conscious of his body as he shifted again, leaning against the back of his chair and just feeling his tiny friend’s sleeping shifts. The faint scratch of fur through fabric. The minute adjustment of a limb. It was an incredible intimacy, one that demanded absolute stillness. The work on the screen blurred, losing all importance.
He carefully peeled his headphones off, letting them rest around his neck. The silence in the room was profound, layered with the whisper of his own breath and Mavis’s. He didn’t dare move his legs. He simply sat, anchored by that hidden, living warmth. His mind, so fiercely focused on fonts and logos moments before, went soft and quiet. This was a different kind of grounding. No leather restraints, no silicone embrace. Just the voluntary, vulnerable weight of trust sleeping beneath him.
He lost track of time. The sunbeam crawling across his desk marked its passage, but he didn’t see it. He was mapping, through sensation alone, the exact shape of Mavis curled in the dark. The curve of his spine. The puff of his breath.
A soft, muffled snuffle came from below. A tiny leg jerked, a dream-run. Then, stillness again.
Travis smiled. He couldn’t help it. The smile felt unfamiliar on his face, a gentle stretching of muscles too often tense. He slowly, so slowly, lowered his right hand from the desk. He let it hang beside the chair, then delicately brought his fingers to rest on his own thigh, an inch from where Mavis lay. An offering. A proximity.
He felt the moment Mavis awoke. It wasn’t a startle. It was a gradual gathering of presence. The breathing changed. A deep, sighing inhale. Then a luxurious, full-body stretch that Travis felt in a series of minute pushes and elongations against his most sensitive skin. A low, contented hum vibrated through the fabric.
“Comfy?” Travis whispered, his voice raspy from disuse.
The stretch ceased. A small head nudged against him. “Extremely.” Mavis’s voice was sleep-roughened and warm. “You’re an excellent blanket. A little bony, but excellent.”
“I’ll work on that.” Travis kept his hand perfectly still. “Have a good nap?”
“Sublime. Dreamt I was stealing a zeppelin.” Mavis wriggled, then began to climb, his movements a deliberate, tickling progression up the inside of Travis’s thigh. He emerged from the leg of the sweatpants and hopped onto Travis’s waiting palm, sitting down and rubbing his eyes with tiny fists. His fur was adorably mussed.
Travis brought him up to eye level. “A zeppelin, huh? What does a five-inch-tall man need with a zeppelin?”
“Atmosphere,” Mavis said simply, tail flicking. “And strategic advantage. I could drop grapes on my enemies.” He peered at Travis, his nose twitching. “You’ve been still for a long time. Your work is done?”
Travis glanced at the monitor, at the half-finished book logo. “Not even close.” He looked back at Mavis. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”
Mavis held his gaze for a long moment. The playful glint softened into something else, something quieter and more real. He stood up in Travis’s palm, walked to the tip of his index finger, and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the bridge of Travis’s nose. It was a brief, firm pressure. A silent communication that bypassed words entirely.
When he pulled back, the mischief was back. “Sentimentality is a slippery slope. Leads to poor life choices, like neglecting client work.” He jabbed a tiny claw toward the screen. “That kerning is atrocious, by the way. The ‘W’ is practically dating the ‘h’. Fix it.”
Travis laughed, a surprised, joyful sound. He set Mavis gently on his shoulder, where the tiny man immediately began to groom his ruffled fur back into place. Travis turned back to the screen, his focus returning, but it was a different quality now—lighter, infused with a calm energy. He clicked on the offending letters. “You’re a brutal taskmaster.”
“I have standards,” Mavis quipped from his perch. His tiny hands braided a lock of Travis’s black hair as he worked. “Also, I’ve been thinking about your rock.”
“My rock?” Travis adjusted the tracking, his eyes on the vectors.
“The substantial, non-edible gift. The grey teardrop.” Mavis’s voice took on a plotting tone. “I require hardware. Two jump rings. Small ones. You have a drawer full of metallic odds and ends in the kitchen. The one next to the fridge. I’ve conducted reconnaissance.”
Travis finished the kerning, saved the file. “You want to go on a salvage mission? Now?”
“Better now than when you’re trying to cook and will step on me. My schedule is clear.” He patted Travis’s neck. “Chop chop.”
The drawer in question was a chaotic graveyard of single batteries, dead pens, spare keys for unknown locks, and a tangled nest of old charger cables. Travis opened it, and Mavis leaped from his shoulder to the counter, then clambered up the drawer front, peering inside with professional intensity.
“There,” Mavis pointed. “By that expired coupon. The little silver loops.”
Travis fished them out. They were small enough to fit on the end of a pencil, perfect for his needs. He placed them on the counter beside Mavis, who picked one up, hefting it like a hula hoop.
“Perfect,” Mavis declared. “These will do. The pendant project is now operational.” He looked up, his expression turning sly. “Your offering has been accepted, human. It will be put to good use.”
“I have no doubt,” Travis said, leaning against the counter. The domesticity of it—the grocery store stone, the junk drawer rings, this tiny creature planning a secret project—wrapped around him like a shield. The phone in his office drawer felt less like a bomb and more like a forgotten paperweight.