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fox a training-ish bonding-ish thread between Bacchuspaw and Windsweptashes (bc even mothers don't get to avoid this woops) with a small trip to and patrol of the nightclan border while discussing motherhood stuff <3
The mother's reputation had certainly preceeded him, and that was enough to make even the Commissioner uneasy.
It was a shameful thing, feeling intimidated by a cat less than half your size, a cat who was younger than you. But Bacchuspaw did, if only because he had gotten such a hushed noteriety around the clan. He was the one who whipped the kittens into shape, he was the one who walked the razor's edge of keeping his position and enjoying all the benefits and ability to get away with things under the radar it allowed him. And it did disquiet him, the fact the mother had already figured out how much power could let him get away with,
If he could, Windsweptashes would have avoided him all together, but at this point he had made a case of seeing almost all of the mothers in the clan. If he missed out on one, how would that look? At best, it would appear as if Bacchuspaw was disliked, as if he was out of favor; which was of course still a bad thing, but it was still not so bad as the worst option, which was to have it appear as if he was scared and couldn't even hold his own authority over an apprentice-aged cat. That would be humiliating, that would be enough to shake confidence in the entire authority of the clan; and Windsweptashes dreaded such a thing, even if it held a fair amount of truth. He wasn't made for power, he wasn't made to hold authority. He was a very good suporter of authority, very good at carrying out any tasks he was handed to the very best of his abilities; but when it came to commanding any sort of presence, he faltered. And he faltered hard.
But it was too late to go back, too late to choose to leave. Or perhaps it wasn't, but his anxiety told him otherwise as he padded down the upstairs hallways, the noise of kittens playing, shrieking, causing all sorts of holy terror within the bounds of the nursery drowning out all other sounds. Hesitantly, the Commissioner poked his head into the Nursery, trying to make sure he looked stalwart and serious, in spite of the slight nervousness that still burned away at him.
"Excuse me? Bacchuspaw, are you in here?" He asked, his voice for once a little less gentle than it normally was, if only because he was trying to come accross as very confident and serious, attempting to raise his voice loud enough to be heard above the sounds of excited kittens.
Bacchuspaw had been out collecting fresh bedding for the kits — because while the blankets were being washed, they needed something for their disgusting little bodies, and so he always went out and found the driest, most prickly moss be could. Like they had to be punished for something. If he could have, he’d have had them sleep on it all the time, would have implemented some nasty rule about only worthy kits getting soft blankets — but while the other Mothers tolerated smacks, that tiptoed a little too close to outright ’torture.’ And so, he restricted it to washing days, and was always uncommonly, eerily excited when they came around. Needless to say, the kits dreaded washing day. They always said ‘no, no, it’s clean enough, I don’t need it changed!’, always tried to take such good care of their blankets that they were never soiled — but schedules couldn’t be changed and Bacchuspaw always tumbled them out of their beds by yanking at the corners anyway.
When he breached the top of the stairs and, lazily raising his head, saw the Commissioner peering into the nursery, he stopped for a moment. A half-hissed curse breathed from around his teeth. He wanted an outing about as much as Windsweptashes, and for a few seconds he debated quietly slipping back down the stairs; but then that would turn into a cat and mouse hunt that would drag out over days, weeks — would turn into the shy, bashful Commissioner taking every opportunity to say ‘excuse me, Bacchuspaw—‘, and then nowhere would be safe because he’d have to look round every corner before he turned it and get up every time he could wind of him growing near. And that would be far more work and disruption than just enduring a few hours of unbearable small-talk, of him having to drag out his begrudging good manners while they padded along in slow, suffocating quiet — because he was a private school boy, and if he knew anything, it was how to speak to incompetent authority figures and make them feel competent, how to guide them along, to float them like a buoy, to edge the conversation, from grunted monosyllables to something entirely fake but slightly more pleasant. He hated shy cats. He hated nervous cats. He didn’t hate Windsweptashes — really he tolerated him, even liked him — but, oh, he wished to holy Selene he’d grow some semblance of backbone.
So, he quietly cleared his throat, not loud enough to be heard by anyone by him, like he were committing to this unpleasant task, and padded slowly, languidly, down the hall until he finally stopped behind the Commissioner. He was silent for a few moments, half waiting to be noticed, half enjoying not being. At last, he spoke up, his voice little more than a low, ominous mutter round the dry moss. “No. But I will be if you move.” There was no ‘sir.’ No respect. Just annoyance as polite as if Bacchuspaw had bowed and scraped — and that grudging lack of outright cruelty, of insolence that was rude but not biting, was a show of acknowledgment, of unenthusiastic deference, in itself.
"Oh!" Windsweptashes let out a slightly startled cry as his ears perked and he immediatly found himself standing straighter, but he managed enough self-dignity and grace to not find himself jolting back like he was at first inclined to do, catching himself and instead, gently stepping aside for the Mother to enter the room; a little more hurried and less graceful than he would have liked to have appeared, but in truth doing so elegently would have been difficult even if he had all the confidence and poise in the world -- he was a large, lumbering cat, one that had still never gotten used to his actual size. But all the same he politely bowed out over to the side to let Bacchuspaw inside, no longer holding a fair share of the doorway, instead now pressed up as close to the wall as possible and flattening his sides into it to take up as little amount of room as he could. And in some ways, the cold, steadfast stability of the wall was a relief, a small reassurance as Windsweptashes regained what little grace that he ever actually had.
Finally, after managing to actually find a place where he wasn't in anyone's way, he found himself getting a chance to look over Bacchuspaw, and it caused him a slight double-take. Not because there was anything necessarily shocking about the tom; Bacchuspaw was, ostensibly, like every other apprentice-aged cat in the clan. But that's what made him pause, hesitate -- he was like every other young cat in the clan, like every other small, fragile soul that had been shuddered by the recent tragedies to the clan. And up close like this, without the baggage of Bacchuspaw's reputation coloring whatever image Windsweptashes had made for the young cat in his head, he was hit by the fact he was no different than the rest of them. It was perspective-shifting in a way, even the slightly rude remark couldn't truly return the previous perception of the tom to what it had been. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he felt the burn of shame that he had been afraid of the Mother before; not from the embaressment of being intimidated like he had been second earlier, but for viewing him like he was some sort of monster, like he was some sort of power-hungry little trouble-child without even speaking a word in edgewise to him, and silently he reprimanded himself; he questioned who he was -- what kind of person he was -- to even be thinking those kind of things of what was a teenager, barely more than a child, likely as broke and hurt as all the rest
Quietly, Windsweptashes waited by the doorway a small while longer, wanting to give Bacchuspaw plenty of time to get in, get whatever he needed taken care of, before he spoke up again. But after it seemed Bacchuspaw had fully gotten past him, had fully time to manuever himself in and hopefully put the moss he had collected down, Windsweptashes spoke up again, his voice gentler this time. "So Bacchuspaw," He started, his words just barely loud enough to be heard above the ruckus of kits and the other mothers trying to manage them. "I was hoping to get a chance to speak with you today, if you're not terribly busy." Unlike most of the time when anyone of authority were to say, "I was hoping to speak with you if you weren't terribly busy.", in which by the tone of voice and the very way they said it the real meaning was, "You ought to put whatever you're doing aside because if you don't talk with me today you'll be in big trouble.", there was a clear softness to the tone, enough to tell that it was actually a polite request, an actual genuine 'out' present in it, if Bacchuspaw was truly busy.
Bacchuspaw let out a derisive little close-mouthed scoff at the Commissioner’s exclamation and the great fuss he made of moving aside — but, apart from eyeing him for a moment longer than he need have, he didn’t comment as he finally walked past him through the door and set about stripping the nests and replacing them with the dry moss. He didn’t feel uncomfortable as Windsweptashes just stared at him from the corner while he worked; he just got on with it, because he never felt uncomfortable, or self-conscious, or uneasy. If the Commissioner wanted to stand there all day and look, he’d just work around him. Maybe he had a thing for watching — who was he to judge.
When finally he spoke up though, the first of his words, including his own name, lost to the clamour of the nursery, Bacchuspaw looked up, stilling his paws and watching him disinterestedly as he talked. For a little while, he was silent, not answering. He looked back down at his work and went on with it, folding and fluffing. When an uncomfortable amount of time had passed — minutes, really, enough to seem like he just wasn’t going to reply, wasn’t going to dignify him with any kind of response — he finally brushed his paws together and padded to the doorway. “Next time you want to interrupt,” he told the Commissioner as he passed, not waiting for him, “come during lesson-time. Laundry day is comparatively bearable.” It was the nicest thing he could have said — basically, you’re an imposition, but I’m not annoyed. Or, as un-annoyed as he could ever be. Really, he was in a remarkably good mood.
He headed down the hall, not waiting for the Commissioner to catch up — if he was going to talk to him, he’d do it on Bacchuspaw’s terms and fit into his schedule. Like an interviewer following someone about while they went about their daily chores, just for the chance at that scoop. “Wherever you want us to go, we’ll have to stop and pick some lavender. Or thyme, I don’t care. Something with a strong smell. One of the fledglings just found out they have an allergy and now everywhere there’s vomit, vomit, vomit. All hours of the night — vomit. I wake up — vomit. I hate them, I hate my job, I hate everyone who’s ever contributed to walking, talking, stinking kittens.” As he said all of this, he trotted quickly down the staircase, still not waiting for Windsweptashes, and strode grouchily out into the courtyard. It didn’t matter he was saying this to the Commissioner — he lived in a constant, monotonous state of disgust, and it never stopped. It was relentless. He woke up and every day was the same. That also meant that Bacchuspaw was just ranting for the sake of ranting, but it didn’t make the emotions behind it any less real — it was easy to laugh, because he was so drawling, so insulting, so melodramatic that brushing it all off as a droll joke, going oh, that’s just Bacchuspaw, was the simplest thing in the world, but the bubbling, crushing spite was the truth: he was so close to a breakdown that even he didn’t realise it. So close that even he had just gotten used to feeling like this. He wouldn’t be okay in an hour or two, because every hour was the same. And he’d have to go to sleep and do it all again tomorrow.
