A/N: for Vallie. Again. Because apparently live tweeting Kill Shot and Knockdown is not a thing she enjoys. Am I forgiven yet?
Disclaimer: season 5 has killed me already and it hasn't even started filming yet.
The big one is funny. He pulls faces at her and makes strange noises. Feeds her whipped cream off his finger. Drops food from his plate on purpose. Let's her sleep on the bed.
The thin one pretends to be annoyed at her. Sighs and rolls her eyes when the big one feeds her from the table, or gives her too many treats. But she does let her sit next to her on the sofa when she reads and scratches behind her ears.
The smaller one, when she's home, play's catch with her. Laughs as she slides around on the wooden floor and then chases after her.
And life, for the time being, is good. And quiet. She likes quiet.
Then there's commotion. Then there's lots of shrieking and yelling and crying and shouting, or it feels like that judging by the amount of noise that's going on, and the thin one is suddenly not so thin anymore.
The new arrival has stubby legs and hair that won't stay flat, and once they're on their feet they're running after her with fingers that are perpetually sticky until they're lifted out of the way by one of the bigger ones, laughing and calling out for her.
The other one, the one that's even smaller still, sits and watches her. This one is quiet. She likes that. Doesn't feel the need to run away from fingers that tug on her tail and pull on her ears and make her fur go the wrong way. She could happily sit with this one all day. Has done, on occasion, when everyone seems to be too busy to take much notice of her. Curled up next to the small small one and let the world just pass her by.
She likes being protective. Like's offering a support when a small one stumbles on their feet. Like's being there when they just need someone small and fluffy to cuddle. The thin one likes cuddles the most. They lie on the sofa, wrapped up in a nest of blankets and cushions and corny movies and the occasional lick of ice cream off a finger.
Sometimes there's more than one. Sometimes they all crowd onto the sofa and she pads her way across laps, finding drops of ice cream that have been spilt, settling down into any spare spaces she can find.
Later, she'll follow the thin one and the big one to bed. Sometimes she'll be nudged away with a foot. Sometimes not. She'll find her way in eventually. Whether it's by crawling in through the open bookshelves and knocking books over left right and centre, or someone has opened the door to get a glass of water.
And then she'll curl up in the crook of a knee, the bend of an armpit, listening to soft snores as she falls asleep.