A dedication to UntoldStories113, who beta-read previous drafts months and months ago.

Whispers Past Curfew

Smelling of fresh nightly laundry, Sheri Squibbles hummed a jaunty tune as she emerged from the basement, when she fancied that she heard the soft pitter-patter of feet.

She deduced it came from the kitchen. Lil' Mikey must be sneaking a piece of her Bluescary pie again. She inched toward the kitchen door, laid her hand on the knob, ready to surprise the fella with a playful fright...

The ceiling hollered.

Her attention jerked to the ceiling.

Another holler. Great humans! Upstairs!

She diverted from the kitchen door and climbed the stairs.

Sulley's shouts were followed by another RAGH. That ragh. Mikey. She knew that ragh anywhere.

She stopped in her tracks, right at the edge of the staircase.

Indeed, Mikey was up and about but not the culprit in her kitchen.

There was a reason why she established a curfew. If Scott or the boys asked nicely, she could lift the curfew for special occasions. She was lucky to have tenants that didn't really protest, though the Sulley fellow did had the most trouble adjusting to it, always thrashing about and punching the ceiling in restless fits.

"RAAAAAGH!" went the walls again.

Those walls weren't exactly soundproof, an attribute that inspired a fair, inexpensive pricing for those rooms.

Impolite as it was to eavesdrop, she couldn't resist. Every conversation and argument piqued her interest. Just as long they didn't know she was listening, they wouldn't be bothered.

The back-and-forth shouting and roaring continued. Funny, wasn't it James who usually did the roaring and Mikey who did the coaching?

To hear Mikey and Sulley cooperating was just as amusing as hearing them bicker. Kinda with like the twins. Not that she wanted them to fight, but they were grown-up and healthy enough to resolve their quarrels. Sure, she could playfully interrupt their board games or try to join in their conversations. But whenever they were whispering something or speaking in low-voices, she knew it was far out of her business. She left the boys to those devices, knowing that they had to sort their own issues. She would respect their secrecy by keeping her knowledge of their secrecy a secret.

And speaking of the twins, in the intervals between the roars, she could've sworn she could hear their whispery banter.

Then James shouted, something that vaguely sounded like "DIIIG DEEEEEP!" in an adamant, yet distressed, voice and Mikey belted out his loudest scraggly roar that sounded more like an unrefined grieving howl, under-rehearsed compared to James's, yet powerful enough to echo throughout the hallway, forcing Ms. Squibbles to remember her landlady duties.

"Booooys! Itsa school night!" She called out, putting a stop to James's and Mikey's practice session.

Smiling, she shook her head. She understood that they were under the pressure of tomorrow Games, but as landlady, she had to maintain the peace of the household for the sake of Scott and her tenants. It was out of consideration for their need of a goodnight sleep.

Tenants. She often forgot the Oozmas were her tenants. Her maternal instincts were reaching out to them all.

The residents proved more rewarding then the income. She reminded herself of that when she heard their ruckus in the night. The twins were jovial, always flattering her dance moves. The furry fellow was a riot even if, or perhaps because, she didn't always comprehend him. Scott was at his happiest when he was around them.

Perhaps because they made Scott so happy, it was why he needed her less.

Oh, no, no, no, it's for the better, she scolded herself. He would never stop loving you but he will have to stop depending on you someday. She still did his laundry, made his bed, fried his favorite bluescary pancakes, but he no longer really talked to her. Ever since the Oozma began occupying her home, whenever she had been in too close proximity to them or interrupted their antics, Scott would holler "mom!" in typical sitcom-kid inflection (cue laugh track). He used to hold her hand in his freshman year on the way to the University. Now, whenever she reached for his hand in public in a burst of maternal inspiration, he would draw it away, swing his arms in an improvised causal exercise, and whistle to himself. As if he was unaware that she was reaching out to him.

All those deeper talks about the stress of exams and homework and those tough professors they shared together? Now Scott was reserving his talk for his friends. If she was lucky, she could catch a part of his conversation if the doors of his room was cracked open. Or she would stand by the kitchen door, eavesdropping on the Oozma's socializing, resisting the temptation to cry out, "that's my boy!" whenever he chatted about the good grades. Whenever she failed and cried out this innocuous praise, the Oozmas would smile at her (sometimes there was the bonus of Don winking at her), but Scott would flush, as if she had intruded on something important, and yank his cap down over his eyes. She still teased Scott about his clean-up responsibilities, but she could not go too far with the rules and offend his maturity.

At least, for a time being, there was Don to talk to.

She thought so little of him at first, just another sales monsters at the door trying to push Exam books for purchase before he became another potential tenant that Scott dragged into the house. He was the one who founded the fraternity, proposed to use her housing, pitched about a slew of tenants, and therefore brought her a slew of income.

She would slap Art and Terri some fives. Ask Terry to recommend good novels. Tease Mike and Sulley when they chowed down on her cooking. But with Don, there was small-talk.

Naturally, as fraternity President, Don always made sure to ask for her clearance before house antics or events (like mattress fortess building) so that the boys weren't displeasing their hostess. Those "check-ups," as Don coined the process, weren't quite mandatory, for she mostly tolerated the boy's racket and they were courteous enough to clean up after. But Don seemed to do it out of utmost politeness and along with those check-ups, there was talk, always starting out with the dandy "so now, how ya feeling lately, Missus?" and she was so attuned to it that she swore he rehearsed this. He used to inquire, "How's Scott?" until she playfully reminded him that was a silly question to ask because now Scott spent more time with the Oozmas than her. Soon, she became the one who habitually asked, "How's my Scott?" He would typically report that Scott was content, and even when he mentioned the times Scott was feeling low, he would call Scott a trooper who was strong enough to let his feelings be known to his friends and accept their comfort and always consoled his friends whenever they needed him.

When they weren't sitting down, they would walk around the neighborhood and have small-talk.

But now all those talks and meetings had mostly ceased due to his commitment to the Games. He was always out with Mike now, doing push-ups in the yard, sneaking around with the others during Hide-Sneak drills, muttering vocabulary to himself over breakfast. He was back to calling her "Ms. Squibbles" as if they had nary a glance at each other. The last time they did have a substantial talk was weeks ago and it was regarding the matter of that rival fraternity.

She had rarely spoken to him since O.K. entered the Games, not wanting to bother him. But it would be nice to have those walks and small-talks back. About the typical going-ons. About Don's full-employment days before Oozmanian Industry downsized. Small-talks may be small, but big things can be said. About her M.U. days before her pregnancy, of things she didn't yet have the courage to tell Scott... stuff too grown-up for Scott and the rest of the younger Oozmas to take interest in or really comprehend.

And speaking of Scott.

She spied a crack of light beneath her son's bedroom door. With a shake of her head, she tsked affectionately.

A/N

After just about two years of preparation and development hell, this fanfiction is finally out. Constructive criticism (preferably longer than three sentences and specific about the story aspects) always appreciated. While this is a stand-alone fanfic, I do consider this as a follow-up to "More Than OK" and it's somewhat alluded to in the history of Oozma Kappa's founding.

The next chapter teaser: "Art, you can't just tell me not to think of anything when we got everyone to think of tomorrow," Scott pleaded.