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"...white paws?"

Guilt is a tricky sort of emotion. It doesn't live in microexpressions so much as in a general air around a person. Maybe also tension in the shoulders. Certainly the resignation in an attempt at a smile.

"Four of them. And whiskers. He must have snuck out when I was trying to remember how to use the coat tree." It's been a long couple of days on call. Last he heard Hogmanay was supposed to be for just a couple of days around the new year, but this year it seems like Edinburgh's making it go year round.

"You've seen him, then?" There's a little quirk to his lips. "He's been bilking you out of canned fish?"

Of course there's got to be a briefly appraising glance over his face. Most people of a certain age and sober mind, after all, had no real trouble negotiating themselves out of coats.

But the lines are fairly familiar. Exhaustion is usually even more clear than mild guilt. Her door is opened just a hair more as she glances back into her own flat. "He made some convincing arguments. Give me a second."

"He's good at that. It's why the vet keeps telling me to put him on a diet." Nothing ever works, though. Or at least, it works for a couple of days, and then DM starts waking up to a cat looming over him with a patient but insistent expression on his face.

"DM Stills, by the by," he says, and points upstairs. "David. Joe and I live upstairs. Well, mostly Joe, since I'm at the hospital."

It seemed to come with the feline territory. And was, likely, why Cecilia herself didn't have a cat. It was absolutely no fun being constantly reminded of one's own weakness--particularly against one of God's tinier (but oddly intimidating) creatures.

The cat--Joe, apparently--is no longer perched where she had left him on the counter with a now-emptied tin. Another trick of the feline persuasion: vanishing when something against their will was about to be wrought. It's probably rude to walk away without inviting the owner--David, apparently--in, but her hesitation is painfully obvious.

"I'm sure he's welcome to stay here if the hours get long-- Dr Stills?" The question is faint, largely from the arch of her brow before she forces herself to open the door fully. "Assuming we find where he's squirrled." Another tin of tuna might need to be sacrificed.

"If you don't mind - that would be smashing." He grins a bit, and shrugs. "I worry about him being alone so much, you know, even though he's a cat and he likes his solitude about more than anyone."

He tips his head to look in the apartment. "He squeezes behind the couch and under the bed at my place. But he'll be right out again if he hears the can opener. Think he's got radar, you know?"

At least there wasn't a world of other furniture to hide under. Lots of books and papers strewn about, yes--but those seemed more likely to be targets to destroy than anything to hide under.

Then again, cats.

A two-fingered salute is tapped against her forehead as she slides back to the counter. The empty can is nudged first into rubbish before another is pulled down from the cupboard. He's on the lookout while she wields the can opener, right?

You never knew what was going through their mind. DM had given up on that some time ago.

"Roger," he says, tipping his newsboy at her as he takes his spot in the doorway and keeps an eye out for a flash of gray. It doesn't take long.

"You know, I was going to make salmon cakes tonight," he tells Joe conversationally. "But no, you had to go look for greener pastures, didn't you?"

And there. Cat resurfaced.

Tin of tuna also opened. Hm. The moment of standing still in mild confusion draws out for a moment. Is this the sort of thing that can just be... sent home with... cat-friends?

"Spoiled now." And it occurs, suddenly, that she was probably supposed to introduce herself as well. She'll do it by holding out the can of tuna questioningly. As people do. "Borden."

Joe would certainly say yes, that this was exactly the sort of thing that could be sent home with cat-friends. Preferably by the case. DM was a little less sure about that one, but he smiled and nodded. "Ms. Borden," he says. "A pleasure to meet you. This is Joe."

If she hadn't guessed as much.

"We live the next floor up," he adds. "Joe likes to wander, though."

"As I said, then. If you give a head's up, he's welcome to wander here." It made the apartment a little... smaller, having another living creature in it.

Not quite enough to motivate her to get her own cat, but. An occasional visitor, maybe.

"Seems safer."

"I'd appreciate it. Thanks, Ms. Borden." He looks a little rueful as he scratches Joe behind the ears. Pretty soon he'll be squirming to escape again, so DM keeps a firm grip on him. "The hours can get long. They never tell you that when you start having dreams of a career in medicine."

Of course, the hours would have been shorter if he'd been reasonable and taken on a dermatology specialty or some such.

"You going to make dinner with that tuna, or you want Joe to help you out with it? I can take it upstairs. It'll keep him distracted while I finish making my soup."

...right. Standing holding a tin of fish isn't what people generally do.

"He'll enjoy it more." Decision made, she turns briefly. The lid is pressed back down carefully; foil is dug out of a drawer to wrap over the top. "It seems fair."

She had temporarily half-stolen his cat, after all.

To be fair, he's stood holding a tin of fish on more than one occasion in his life. It's the consequence of having Joe in his life.

"He'll send his profuse thanks." And then DM tilts his head to one side, watching Ms. Borden. He is not, admittedly, the most observant when it comes to the non-medical. He tends to dream his way into science, getting distracted by remembered patients. But he's not entirely unobservant, either. "Or you can join us, if you like. I've got my mum's lamb and peanut stew on."

Of course there's got to be another moment of standing still with the tuna, not quite handing it back. There's always got to be that careful sort of calculus when people are either performing the rituals of being basic decent human beings or actually making genuine gestures.

The tin is, after the thoughtful pause, simply handed over with the slightest shake of her head. "Next time."

DM nods. He gets it; he doesn't dislike people, but he needs that time alone, recharging his dad always called it - in this way, father and son are exactly alike.

"Next time," he echoes with another one of those slight smiles. "Thanks for keeping an eye on Joe. And for the tuna, too."