Work Text:
Johnny groans, dragging his palms over his face in a decidedly V-like gesture. “I don’t want to be enlightened anymore.”
Expectantly, V raises his eyebrows.
They’re a few beers and tequilas in tonight, one flimsy spliff made out of the butt of a Vargas and Aldecaldo ditch weed. He was trying his best to have a relatively calm night in after a recent gig gone sour. It was just bad luck; he’d been chasing police bounties down in the Badlands, and ran into highly-kitted Militech unit instead of the ragtag band of Wraiths he’d been promised on the dossier. Caught too many bullets, more than his subdermal armor or the regenerative bionanites in his body could even handle, and he’d lost a lot of blood.
He got home. V lived. But Vik had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take it easy, he was going to kick his ass himself. And as much as V could willingly get on Vik’s nerves, in the end he never really disobeyed direct orders. Something about the way Vik stared at him; his bulky arms crossed over his chest when he was truly, deeply disappointed in V made his soul shrivel, cowering like a dog in front of a rolled newspaper. He makes sure to be a brat about it, but he relented.
That means him and Johnny are stuck inside, stuck together. He’s used to this kind of haranguing from Johnny. Johnny takes to cooping up much less well than V can manage, parking himself in front of the television with some mindless marathon droning on. So V indulges Johnny instead of rolling his eyes and turning up the volume to try and drown out the voice in his head, responding with only a slightly exasperated, “What?”
That’s all Johnny needs to get going: “You heard me, I don’t want to be enlightened anymore. I want to be a fucking animal.” He throws his arms up and over the back of the couch, slouching into the cushions, “The world’s still absolute shit after all this time; in deeper, worse shit, even, and I’m sick of it.”
Johnny lets his head loll back against the sofa frame, face towards the ceiling where smoke hangs in the lights of the BD reel. “Rather be some single-celled organism, not a fuckin’ brain wrinkle in sight.” As V raises his own beer to his lips, a digital one manifests in Johnny’s hand. He tilts it at V in false cheers before he takes a mirrored swig, “You know, kinda like you.”
V frowns. “Fuck you.” A beat, V letting the words sink in, “Especially if that was a nomad dig, cocksucker.”
Johnny sighs. “It wasn’t. Not everything is a nomad dig. You know, I was—”
“I knooow.” V interrupts with a groan, “Santiago. Your eat pray love journey.” V sucks on his tongue. He was always the kind of child who’d poke the rattler. He’ll bite: “Fine. You want to be an animal, or whatever. What do animals do better than us, then?”
Smugly, Johnny holds up three fingers and ticks them right off, parroting a corrupted version of V’s words right back at him: “Eat, shit, fuck.”
V nearly aspirates on his sip of Broseph. “Woah, woah!” V barks out a laugh, thumping against his chest bone with a fist and a wet cough. “That’s so— fuckin’ stupid—“
They used to annoy him at first, the Johnny Silverhand witticisms you could patent with their trademark crassness and nihilism all mixed up into one shit stew. They’re not half bad when Johnny isn’t taking himself too seriously; what the fuck is V supposed to do other than laugh when Johnny says a situation has him “cheeks spread wide”? V cackles, has to wipe at his eyes and catch his breath as Johnny indignantly stares, “Alright, okay. Let’s start from the fuckin’ top, maestro. Eat?”
“Yeah, eat.”
“Really?”
John frowns at V’s unimpressed stare. “You have a rebuttal?”
“Yeah, I got a rebuttal.” V points at Johnny with his beer bottle, “Animals don’t eat better than us. Unless you’re talkin’ about those commercials. Y’know—“
V scrunches his face, drops his voice an octave and goes, “Rooaaar, feed the beast-!” in his best impersonation of the ads. Which isn’t a very good impersonation, but hits the mark just well enough to get the promo stuck back in their collective heads, Johnny’s face twisting in irritation.
“Fuck. No.” Johnny rolls his eyes, “they’re annoying.”
(Johnny finds every commercial annoying, if only to uphold his seething, all-consuming hate for the corps. When Johnny figured out what “Are you a NiCola man?” was short-hand for, he was incensed for days. He couldn’t leave the subject alone. As if it was V’s decision what became Night City nomenclature or not.
“What’s next? What other kind of self-identification can the corps twist and take from us? We’re going to come out of the womb and be slapped with an Arasaka or Militech sticker at birth at this point!” Johnny seethed, pacing back and forth along the City Center platform as they waited for the NCART train to arrive.
Flickering out of existence for a moment, only to pop back up right in front of the offending NiCola poster, Johnny slammed a hand so hard against it his entire arm burst into a shivering spray of pixels. “It’s the commodification of asses, V!” He had roared. Johnny was a solely ass-driven Plato, and V his very unwilling Aristotle.
“So, are you a NiCola man?” V asked, gesturing to the lithe mascot’s bare bottom poised seductively over a monstrous beetle.
“I am not a NiCola man,” Johnny had growled, “I am an ass man.” His chrome finger thunks violently against the screen, punctuating each word, “an ass man.”
“Alright, man,” V blithely agreed, ignoring the strange looks from people as he spoke to an empty poster. “You’re an ass man.”)
V shrugs. As far as advertisements go, the Feed the Beast ones from Slaughterhouse are not the worst of what constantly blares at them from every inch of the city. There have been nigh hypnotic campaigns for even more banal products, heinously catchy jingles that he’d mutter under his breath as he was cracking open skulls to their mnemonic beat. He won’t even mention how often he catches himself singing Pon Pon Shit under his breath now that every Kiroshi ad across the city is accompanied by a looping clip of it.
“They’re real popular.” V mutters, drumming his chrome fingers in a snare drum staccato; belatedly, he realizes it’s another jingle, pulling his arm back the moment just before Johnny swats at it. His hand lands silently against the couch cushion. “I’ve seen Animals with tats of the lion.”
“When I mean ‘Animal’, I definitely don’t mean those meat-headed gonks, either.” Johnny continues, “Or any corpo ad, especially those Slaughterhouse advertisements, fuck that.”
V shrugs, “N54 won’t stop playin’ it.”
“Like that’s some show of quality.” Johnny sneers. “We’re going to be dead by the time they release a new ad campaign.”
V’s only reply is a deadpan, “ Probably.” Doesn’t know why Johnny includes himself in this, like he’ll be going down with V. But he doesn’t want to think about the way the sand’s slipping through the hourglass, and abruptly swerves the conversation back to one of Johnny’s initial points: “So, shit?”
“Yeah,” Johnny confirms, now disgruntled, taking another sip of his beer, “shit.”
V contemplates it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal shitting. How do you know it’s any better?”
Conspiratorially, Johnny cuts his hand through the air. “Exactly. That’s the point. They shit wherever, whenever.”
“That’s the pinnacle of achievement for you?” V fixes him with a look. “Shitting wherever?”
“You should be so fucking lucky as to get to shit anywhere. It costs ten eddies nowadays to take a dump in a port-a-john that hasn’t been cleaned in a month, twenty if it’s anywhere near City Central.”
It’s not that Johnny’s wrong, but he complains as if it’s ever been his eddies spent on it.
“Uh-huh.”
“And animals just get it done.” Johnny takes a pause, busying his mouth with his beer. “Not that forty-five minutes on the fucking toilet bullshit.” He faux-mumbles; he still wants V to hear it, afterall.
And he knows V’s too hot headed to let anything from Johnny slide: “You literally don’t got to watch me shit.”
Johnny has to hide his smug little smirk of victory behind the mouth of his bottle. Asshole. “I don’t. But sometimes I blip out, come back, you’re still fuckin’ there, fuck off again, come back, suddenly the toilet’s fucked—“
V’s hackles rise with the familiarity of this spat. “I did not clog the shitter at the Sunset Motel when we were hidin’ out!”
“Who then? Who clogged the shitter, V?”
“The room was like that when we got there!”
“Uh-huh—“
V finishes the rest of his beer in one swig, abruptly standing; the motion makes him flinch, his fresh stitches twinging with a jolt in his gut, “This is high fuckin’ talk coming from the likes of you.” V snaps defensively.
He steps out of the conversation pit to make his way to the miniature fridge in the corner under his desk; it usually takes him twice as long to get a new beer because, without fail, he automatically grabs Johnny his own second bottle, as if the engram could actually drink. This time he’s at least annoyed enough to not even practice the courtesy, flopping moodily back down on the couch next to Johnny and slamming off the bottle cap against the edge of his slowly chipping away particle board coffee table. The cushions bounce from his weight, but Johnny’s body stays perfectly still perched on top.
“You know,” Johnny leans in, digs a knuckle into V’s shoulder, “we’ve been together for so long, that compulsive lying of yours is almost cute.”
V tries to slap the hand away as he’s pushed back by the jab, but it goes right through his incorporeal form. The physical inequality on their parts eats away at V often. “Eat shit. That’s another thing animals do, right?” With childlike pettiness, he slaps his hand through Johnny’s form again, just to see it waver as his hand continuously passes through. “Go eat shit Johnny.”
“Fuck you.” Johnny says, “I’m right.”
“You have not been right for any of these.“
“What about fuckin’?”
“What about fuckin’?”
“C’mon,” Johnny says, “this one’s easy. I’ll give you three guesses.”
V pauses. He really thinks about it; takes him time sipping from his beer, swishing the light lager around obnoxiously in his mouth as if tasting a fine wine, and swallows with a kind of loud exaggeration he knows plucks at Johnny’s nerves.
Finally, he says, “Can’t think of nothin’.”
Throwing up his hands, Johnny groans, “Oh, come on .”
V sighs. Because Johnny does have a point— and the way he’s peering at him from over his aviators, he knows V knows it too. He heaves out another, long-suffering sigh, and then he very reluctantly acquiesces with two simple words: “Doggy style.”
Johnny agrees with a silent, not-so-quite connecting clink of their beer bottles as V cheers him with grim resignation. With much more reverence than the words need, Johnny repeats, “Doggy style.”
—
“Yeah, and you say animals eat better than us.”
“What?” Johnny asks.
V knows his thoughts bounce around too much. And to his credit, he was like that before the bullet in his brain, before his relic-assisted resurrection, though maybe his absent mindedness has gotten worse as of late. It’s not like it was a bad thing; he had his fingers in a little bit of everything at all times, he was adaptable. Okay, so the conversation had been three nights ago, and V’s since healed and sobered up considerably since that night, and right now they were trying to coerce a bald little gremlin cat from his Megabuilding’s hallway ducts with a tin of reheated cat food mushed up with NiCola, but it’s not his fault Johnny can’t see the connection—
“The other night, you were sayin’— “ But Johnny’s looking at him like he’s crazy, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips, so all he does is mutter a, “whatever,” under his breath and shake the tin with a little more vigor. The sphinx's eyes peer between the slats of the vent, big and shiny.
“No, I remember, I remember.” Johnny says suddenly, glitching away to reappear standing next to V. He looks up at the cat. “Cat still got someone to make his favorite meal, even if we think it’s disgusting. We’re still the shmucks in this.”
“Think?” V’s nose scrunches, “know.”
And he’s not overacting. The putrid mix of microwaved synthtuna and NiCola wafting from the tin is even testing his steel stomach. V can eat right after a gig, stinking of blood and shit and fear— but this is horrible. This is the fucking worst.
“It’s not that bad.” Johnny says, grimacing.
“It smells so bad.” V mutters under his breath, in that strange tone of voice that harbored the promise of vomit.
Johnny scowls, sighs. “Damnit, V, stop thinking about it.” Rubbing at his mouth, he grumbles, “now you’re making me feel sick—‘
A mewl echoes above them from the vents. Johnny falls silent, and both of their gazes shoot upward. The sphinx carefully slips her way through the spaces between the vent; it seems like too small of a space to fit, but somehow the cat slithers through. She drops gracefully down onto the trash piled up from the dumpster below, bounds down the makeshift steps created by pizza boxes and suspiciously rolled carpets, and lands in front of Johnny and V with another loud meow, as if announcing her arrival.
“Fuck,” V says with a kind of breathless wonder, adding before he can even realize, “kitty.”
Johnny side eyes him, but he stays thankfully, blissfully quiet about that gaffe.
Gently, V sets the tin down. He takes a step back like he’s trying to diffuse a cyberpsycho, crouching slowly down into a squat to make himself smaller, in hopes he doesn’t read as aggressive. The places V had roamed didn’t have much in terms of wildlife that didn’t actively avoid humans, let alone tame animals; and Night City, even less, unless the cockroaches and rats he occasionally saw dart by counted. The cat approaches carefully. She takes a sniff, glances up at V, and then back down at the food.
“Y’think she’s gonna eat it?” Johnny murmurs, and V glares and presses a finger to his lips, as if the cat can even hear him.
Apparently the noxious slop is to her liking, because after one last wary glance towards him, the cat doesn’t hesitate to start chowing down. V’s shoulders slump with a weird sort of relief.
He can feel Johnny’s eyes on him again, though, so V scoffs in the back of his throat, hoping it hides the way he can’t stop staring at the cat, big ears and big eyes and— really fucking cute.
“Gross.”
“Yeah,” Johnny says, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “gross.”
The cat is wearing a collar. The note, as near illiterate as it was— and not that V could judge, with his own piss-poor comprehension and dismal reading— did speak of some sort of owner, or at least a collective effort to keep the cat alive.
V hesitates. Which is a joke in itself; as if V had ever really cared much about ownership of things, especially if it was something he wanted. And he wants the cat. He wants to pick her up; press his face against her, snuggle the little bastard, risk of claws be damned, he was going to do it— except he suddenly feels embarrassed, suddenly all-too aware of Johnny’s boots in his peripheral, and instead straightens and steps away.
“Alright. Well…” ye gestures lamely, then rubs the back of his neck, “s’fuckin’ cat, you were right.”
Johnny shimmers into being where V had just left, crouching down. Instantaneously, the cat’s marble eyes fixate on him, as if aware of the engram; it immediately reminds V of the cat that hung around Vik’s, the one Misty calls Mr. Brightman. V always felt like the stupid thing could see right through him. It never surprised him to find the cat most often lounging on the counter of the Esoterica. He always felt like Misty could see right through to his guts, too.
“Hey, V. Look.”
It’s Johnny voice that snaps him out of his thoughts. The first surprise is the grin on his face: without smug malice, he’s practically beaming. The second is the cat. The sphinx has already scarfed down all of her food, and she’s practically vibrating as she purrs, butting up against Johnny’s knee.
Johnny’s not solid; he doesn’t exist beyond the confines of V’s mind. And so many things remind V of that, when he accidentally speaks aloud and gets strange looks, when he tries to jostle Johnny’s arm and goes right through him, the way Johnny seems to make sitting in stupid places a game.
But the cat— the cat, trying her best as she buts up against nothing— sees him, too.
V scoops her up. The tag on her collar says ‘NIBBLES’; no address, no holo number. She’s downright docile in his arms when he hides her underneath his buttoned work shirt and smuggles her into his apartment, away from the prying eyes of cameras and a potential fine from the city’s ludicrous pet tax.
Nibbles is sweet, and doesn’t mind when V presses his face to the wrinkles of her neck where she still kind of smells like a kitten. When he stops petting her, she idly swats at his arm, claws retracted, and he instantly goes back to stroking her head, rubbing a thumb against a prominent forehead wrinkle.
When he glances away, there’s Johnny; he’s just watching them, grinning.
“Don’t say shit.” V bites defensively.
Johnny at least has the decency to mellow out into a smirk. Stretched out long and lean across the couch, he looks like something of a satisfied cat himself. “Not sayin’ anything.”
V glowers.
A snicker escapes Johnny. “C’mon, champ. Lighten up. Pet a fuckin’ cat. Smell some synth-roses.”
“You’re one to talk,” he mutters, carefully smoothing his chrome hand over Nibble’s head, flattening her big ears and letting them bounce back up again. It makes something pang in his heart. “We can’t keep her, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause, well…” V sputters, “I dunno. She’s not my cat.” His hands, Militech’s most cutting-edge line of wonton destruction, flail helpless and clumsy, “I don’t— I don’t know shit about cats, I don’t have any supplies.”
“We can get some. Come on, what are you worried about? It’s a cat. And we can leave the window open, let her come and go as she pleases.” Johnny jerks a thumb over towards where the shutters are open. “You don’t have birds here anymore, don’t have to worry about pigeons coming in.”
V hesitates. They are pretty high up, but he also doesn’t know enough about cats to really understand if it’s too high or not for Nibbles. What if he ends up bleeding out in some alleyway? He’s one relic malfunction during a firefight away from making his apartment the cat’s tomb.
He pets her head once, twice. Nibbles purrs, headbuts his hand once more before she rolls onto her back sprawling across the couch cushions. Automatically, V reaches for her exposed stomach.
Claws extended, Nibbles swats at his wrist. Fast enough that V could swear she has a Sandevistan of her own, fast enough she strikes. She touches just past the point of his chrome, raking claws down across organic skin until they hit the plastic cut-off of his hands with a clink.
It doesn’t really hurt, not really; what are a seven pound cat’s claws compared to a bullet, a mantis blade? But V inhales sharp all the same from the surprise of it, pulling his hand back; the razor blade knuckles of his chrome fists reflexively flick out. It’s only three thin lines bead with blood.
Johnny barks out a rough laugh. “Gonk.”
If Nibbles notices V’s reaction, she doesn’t seem to care; she stands and bounds away without a second thought. Just as fast, V can feel his biomonitor kicking in, sees the skin scab over before his own eyes as the nanites sweep in to repair.
“Y’cant just pet a cat like that.” Johnny watches with distant fascination. He’s used to the technology breakthroughs that have come in the fifty years he’s been gone by now, but they’re still a faint marvel. He adds, almost nonchalant, “surprised you’re not angry at her.”
V follows his pointed gaze to Nibbles; she’s curled in a ball in his laundry basket now where the sun’s perfectly hitting through the window.
“S’not her fault.” He mutters. “She wasn’t taught any better.”
It takes a few rolls of his fingers before he can get the blades of his knuckles to retract back. He gives his hand a sore little wave, as if there was any pain left, or even a mark. “Most animals don’t.”
“Yeah, guess so,” Johnny’s face is unreadable, voice flat. Whatever Johnny’s thinking he’s closely guarding; and to be fair, V isn’t really trying to pry. Any hesitation is gone by the time V looks back up at him. “Let’s go get some beer and cat food, alright?”
V nods, standing from the couch to go put on his boots. He hesitates in the doorway suddenly. “… and a little mouse toy, maybe. Not like.” He starts to backpedal as Johnny’s mouth splits into a shit-eating grin, “ Not like I’m trying to reward her for bad behavior, or nothin’, but…”
Johnny barks out a laugh. “Oh, my God. Lighten the fuck up, samurai.” Before V can get defensive, he’s reaching over to clap V’s arm with just enough physicality that he can nearly feel it against his bicep, “Let’s get the cat a fuckin’ mouse toy.”