I'm sitting at my computer with my knees up, picking my fingernails against the dry skin of my lips. The sun is passing behind clouds, and through my window it paints the room in blue light. I think to myself again that I should turn the light on, eyes straining, but I stay motionless and still- staring.

What I've on is Best of Seinfeld. The boring side of Youtube. The laugh track plays and I barely register, eyes through my monitor and into the wall behind it. My breathing makes noise as it passes over my tongue.

There's shoes in the stairwell and I prick my ears, refocussing the lenses of my eyes. They stop outside my door and stand there for a moment. Pause my video just before a stiff rapping, slowly cracking my hip as I shuffle out of my room, carrying a plate to the sink.

I open the front door and he's standing there, grey suit. Too well dressed for my stairwell, the single bare bulb above his head and the naked baseboard under his shiny dressshoes. Ironed grey pants. He shows me his badge (Detective James Wilson, FBI) and asks if he can come in. I close the front door.

He knocks again and I stare forward. I can hear him shifting his weight before I open the door again. "I just want to ask you some questions". He steps into my living room and around the strewn cat toys, a feeding bowl and a cardboard box from Amazon. The jagged corners of his shoulder pads look softer painted in blue light from the window, the glint of his teeth as he betrays a short sneer at my couch and its layer of cat hair. He invites himself to take a chair from my kitchen as I sit down and fold my leg. I unfold my leg and fold the other, adjusting my weight. The first way was more comfortable, refolding as I look out of the window. Outside the wind scrapes through bare branches, a stray cat walks along the fence and stops to inspect a plastic bag before walking away again. He coughs.

I look back at him and he coughs again. "We've recieved various reports about this residence, are you twitter user @ChlatFest?" I nod. "It isn't subtle," he says, shaking his head. He takes out his notes and looks them over, furrowed brow. I get up to go to the bathroom and he tells me to sit back down.

I bounce my leg, jeans full of thigh. I bend my back, bringing my chin parallel with my shoulder. There isn't. He asks "Pardon?" and I say "nothing". He sighs and says I haven't broken any laws, that I'm not really in trouble and I try to look relieved. "But I need to talk to you about your behaviour. We've recieved a lot of calls about your account and frankly we're tired of having our time wasted".

I look at him and his short brown hair, his tight pink lips. There's stubble. His lips look wet or moisturized, the almost invisible sound of them parting when he talks. He goes on, looking over his notes to psyche himself to recite: "While it was customary for an apprentice to bump their nose respectfully with their mentor during their naming ceremony, Yellowfang decided to surprise Thunderclan by taking advantage of Cinderpaw's movement and fill her mouth with her tongue". He looks up at me from his paper. "Did you tweet this?"

My tired eyes finally registered emotion as I flashed the tiniest mote of defiance, sitting up and adjusting the fold of my leg. "Yes, I tweeted that." He asks me to explain myself. I don't need to justify my ships. I explain that Cinderpaw and Yellowfang have a lot of chemistry despite their age gap, they're both so sassy to eachother. It's hard not to imagine Cinderpaw's tiny kitten whimpers as Yellowfang pins her down and tastes into her throat, putting the bratty apprentice in her place. He's running an open palm back over his hair, letting it linger over his neck. "You can't fucking say that shit."

"It's basically canon" He looks aggrieved, looking down at his paper and shaking his head before moving on: "Necrophile Greystripe is the most emotionally invested I can get in a Het pairing I am literally crying right now."

I clarify that I wasn't actually crying at the time and he frowns. "You can't promote necrophilia on a public platform like this" a stern note in his voice, paternalistic. I say "It's perfectly valid to ship Greystripe and Silverstream, it's a canon pairing" and he retorts "yes -before- she dies!" and pushes his upward facing palm towards me. I'm taken slightly aback, curling my toes in my socks. "Do you read Warriors?" He doesn't answer. "Are you... motivated by a personal investment in the series right now?" He looks at me wordlessly.

"Anyway if you at all read Forest of Secrets you would know that Greystripe still loves Silverstream very much after her passing, and he spends quite a bit of time alone at her grave. It's romantic, love transcends the boundaries of life and death, it lasts forever until after" I trail off wistfully. He's scrutinizing the paper, lips just gently tighter. "You replied to that tweet with another, saying 'You are an idiot if you don't think Greystripe is mounting every corpse he sees'" and I look away, coughing. I flippantly remark that when Greystripe slinked into the Yellowfang's den to ask if she was done with Brokentail's corpse he was just seeking to recapture the feeling of her warmth under him, closing his eyes as he pushes the still-warm haunch up into his lap, taking the unmoving flesh of his scruff into his maw. If he strains his ears enough, opens his heart to Starclan, he can still hear her yowls, as if carried to him from across a meadow on a warm summer breeze. "It's coping". He slaps his notebook down onto his thigh, inspiring me to cut my bullshit.

He sets his forehead on his fingertips, sighing as he leans in his chair. "I just, I need you to cool it. Do you know how many reports we have for your twitter?" I'm looking out the window again, long breathing out. I pull out my phone to tweet "Riverclan traded their claim to Sunningrocks for one on Greystripes nipples" before looking him in the eye. His Blackberry buzzes, lifting it up to read the notification before putting it quickly down on his lap and asking "why". Pleading and exasperated. I look down at my light blue socks.

I'm quiet for a moment before I say: "You know, when the Warriors movie comes out in theaterd you know people are going to have like, no idea at all what's going on with medicine cats". He's quiet, looking at my foot before nodding slightly, a little smile in the corner of his mouth. Slowly he sighs, rubbing his palms down his thighs before standing. "Just cool it, okay? Slow down just a little, that's all I'm asking." I say "yes sir" and he puts out his hand for me to shake. His grip is firm and he tries to look friendly. "Thank you for cooperating Ma'am, I'm sure it can't be fun having everyone hate you like that online."

He turns to leave and all his back is coated in cat hair. I listen to him walking down the stairs, the sound of the lobby door, watch him walk out into the parking lot. The stray cat from earlier is walking back along the fence. He hunkers down and puts out his hand, rubbing his forefinger with his thumb and calling it over. It doesn't regard him and he stands up, looking up to see me holding the curtain in my window. Raising an open hand to me before getting in his car and slowly driving away.

When he's no longer in view I pull out my phone and tweet: "Yellowfang is an unapologetic lolicon and I'm allowed to say that because I'm kin". I am not kin, I am not allowed. I look up again out the window, chewing on my lip, and looking out over my neighbour's rooftops.