A Little Compromise Chapter 1: Pressure, a stuart little fanfic

Forward:

They called it an American fairytale. The Miracle of Manhattan. One of the Little Wonders that Rob Thomas talked about in that song, the one that was all over the radio a few years back. You know the one.

Heh. Little Wonder. It's not often that a positive story comes out in the newspapers. So when people caught wind of a small orphan who finally found that special home to call their own, the big apple understandably went kinda crazy.

For... fifteen minutes, anyways.

Now, when I say 'New York' and 'Orphan', you might be picturing a story about a curly red haired girl with dimples. That one who was swept up under the fatherly wing of a bald headed millionaire.

This… isn't that story. This is that

other story. Y'know. The one with the mouse.

Once just a kid with a couple plaid uniforms and a beat up suitcase to his name, now the son to a middle class family with a home right across from Central Park. A penniless mouse without a last name was now an award studded high schooler, juggling AP classes and an afterschool job.

Of course, none of this would be possible without the support of two amazing parents, and two just as wonderful siblings. Never short on understanding, or love, even for someone not even their species. They saw something in me that no one else did. A worthiness to stand alongside them in their pictures, and be called family.

It really was a fairytale. And it was all mine.

But unlike actual fairy tales, this was real life, and the story goes on after the book closes. Princesses become queens and have babies. Kings have heart attacks over too long a drag on a cigar. Princes inherit thrones and the kingdom complains that he wasn't as good as his dad. And little boys grow up and become men—sometimes running into a few bad guys along the way.

This is my life. And I might just be the luckiest mouse in the world. Eighteen years old, on the cusp of adulthood. The world is my oyster.

At least, that's what it should feel like. Shouldn't it?

Chapter One: Pressure

He could feel his feet pounding the metal floor. He couldn't remember when he began, but he had runner's momentum, and he wasn't about to stop now.

The air was damp and warm. Sweat collected beneath his fur. Under his arms, between his thighs, and in his hairless palms, balled into fists. His arms pumped back and forth at his side, just like how he'd go around the track in gym class.

His miniature sneakers made tinny, hollow taps on the floor and echoed off the metal walls around him, deafening all else. As his awareness of the situation sharpened, however, he identified a different sort of noise behind him.

And it was getting louder.

The instinct to get away from whatever was making the noise propelled the mouse forward through the tunnels, even as his legs screamed for rest. His clothes hung damp against his body, jeans feeling twice as heavy. His tail dropped low behind him, only lifting every time he slowed to turn a corner. How long had he been going like this? It felt like an eternity.

As he rounded yet another turn, the noises grew louder.

He skidded to a halt beneath one of the small, overhead bulbs evenly spaced between the tunnels. The orange-yellow light set his distinctive head and ears aglow, and rolled over his blue jacketed shoulders. He felt exposed. Standing still, panting, he realized what that noise was. But he couldn't believe it.

The thunder of more footsteps, the scratch of claws against metal. His ears involuntarily lifted to listen.

Squeaking. A ton of it.

He looked behind, but there was great distance between each one of the lights, and he struggled to make out the shape of the entity as it approached.

And then, it drew close enough to the lights. Sure enough, he was right.

Not an entity. But entities. Figures.

Bodies.

Clothed white mice, just like him. Crushed, shoulder to shoulder, running on two legs, directly towards him. In the dim light, he could make out pink blouses and blue jeans and hightop shoes and wire framed glasses and little costume jewelry.

A stampede.

Despite originally being a nocturnal creature, a mouse's night vision wasn't good, and he wasn't sure they could see him, even if he could see them.

Small, and big. Male, and female. Mice of all ages. It was like Broadway avenue, with rodents instead of humans. And they weren't walking, but running. Some had lost their shoes in the panic, and ran across the floor barefoot, explaining the claw sounds.

Stuart was stunned by the sight of so many of his own species together at once. He'd never seen anything like it before.

But this was a mistake.

By the time he realized he needed to move, he didn't have time to get his momentum back up. Even at his peak of fitness, the stampede's collective speed was faster. He ran a pitiful five feet before he felt it.

The crush of bodies. Hot and dense, pushing him forward. Bulldozing him. The sound of their squeals in his ear.

The wall of cloth and fur pushed forward with an incredible strength. Stuart's cry was lost in the sea of voices. His feet moved to stay upright, but he was already so tired. Eventually, he couldn't keep up with the front of the crowd.

His feet slipped, and he hit the metal floor with a bang and a grunt. He felt the crush of feet over his back, bodies storming over him as if he was part of the floor. One mouse smacked him in the back of the head with the sole of their shoe, and he gasped in pain. Another particularly heavy one knocked the air out of his lungs as they passed over him like a carpet.

But as soon as it had begun, it was over. The wave of white fur swarmed down the tunnel ahead, disappearing into the darkness.

Stuart sat there on the floor, sore, exhausted and confused. He steadied his breath and slowly pushed himself back up to his knees, then his feet. Quickly, he checked to make sure that his tail and ears were unhurt. He then took a deep breath, and swallowed his panic, forcing rational thought to the surface.

Maybe it was naive, but he couldn't help that he worried for the mice who just trampled him. Clearly, they were too panicked to think, whereas for some reason he retained a sense of rationality.

But he didn't know what to do. His memory leading up to this was too fuzzy. He couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't remember anything to indicate what this was all about.

The mice were so far down the tunnels, and who knew what lay ahead?

But the biggest question was, what were they running from?

Abruptly, Stuart's ears perk up again. Another noise.

Far down the tunnel from where they'd come from, he heard it. The rush of liquid.

Water.

A shallow wave rushed around the bend, and gushed down the tunnel where the teenager was standing. By the time the wave reached him, it was merely a puddle that splashed over the tops of his sneakers. But he knew it wouldn't stay shallow for long. His chest tightened, and he turned and set off on a sprint towards the stampede.

With his leg muscles burning, he pushed his feet forward as fast as they would go. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he caught up with the other mice, not that he was sure he could. But he had to try.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. He rounded a corner and found the crowd stuck against a dead end. "Oh no…"

The mice had become a crush against the dead end wall. They had lost almost all of their ability to speak English, or any form of human language, for that matter. The wave of noise that they made was mostly squeaks and chirps. Animal noises. Panic alone had reduced them to a more primal state.

All except Stuart. Adrenaline had his heart pounding, and his ear was ringing from the blow to the back of the head, but he was still thinking. He knew what needed to be done.

With no other choice, he parted the crowds, shoving shoulders aside as gently as he could. In some cases, it required as little as tapping their shoulder. Despite looking just like one of them, the calmness that radiated from Stuart seemed to cause the mice to identify him as an other. As such, they backed away from him in a way that seemed almost fearful.

Stuart ignored how much this unnerved him and before long, his palms came to rest against the dead end wall. There was a light not far away, but the bodies behind him were blocking most of it. So he had to blindly feel around the surface with his hands. It was smooth and featureless, just like the other walls around him. But he knew it couldn't be so. This place, these tunnels, were too artificial.

There was a point to all of this. He could feel it.

At last, his hands came across a slim divot in the metal, just wide enough to slip his fingers through. Just like a locker, he pulled and pulled, beginning to doubt that it was a handle at all. Until at last, he began to feel movement.

Obediently, bodies backed up to make way for the opening door. And the instant that it was wide enough for one of them to slip through, they all went for it. Stuart felt the door being pushed open against him. Against his better judgement, he held it in place, to allow as many to pass as possible. The water had caught up with them, and was up to their ankles now. It splashed through the opening as the bodies forced the door open wider. But not fast enough. It was rising quickly.

More and more mice crushed through until Stuart was pinned behind the door he was holding open.

At last, the crush began to lighten as the crowd thinned out. He pushed the door away from his chest, just as he heard someone stumble and fall. He gazed into the blackness, but he couldn't yet see who it was.

What he momentarily thought was the last mouse—a toddler girl in a yellow dress, stood just a little ways down the tunnel. She was not in panic. In fact, she was almost perfectly still. Like Stuart, she seemed to be trying to process the madness. Or paralyzed by it.

She gazed at her empty hand. Stuart went towards her with the intent of grabbing it. Pulling her forward through the door, towards safety.

When at last, she turned around and faced the blackness. "Grandpa?"

And when she saw the dark figure lying on his stomach behind her, she cried out. "GRANDPA!"

With a grunt, Stuart skidded to a halt in front of her, stunned to hear another mouse speak words. He looked up and at last, he saw him, too.

The senior was on his knees, limbs shaking. He tried to push himself up, but he lacked the strength. Stuart made the queasy realization that the senior had to have been pushed forward by the stampede too, or he'd have never made it this far.

Ashamed of his hesitation, the teeanger ran back down the tunnel and dived down where the old man lay. Muscles on fire, he picked him off of the ground. "Come on!" he hollered, if only to encourage his own legs forward.

The old mouse gratefully embraced his rescuer with a firm hold, and let the teenager carry him to the door as the water continued to rise. His fur wasn't soft and fluffy like the others. It was oily, matted, and gray in some patches. A few thick stands under his chin gave the impression of a beard. Despite wearing a baggy jacket and pants, it was obvious the man was incredibly skinny. If it wasn't for this fact, Stuart might not have been able to carry him, as tired as he was himself.

His feet splashed and he slid and nearly toppled as he tried to pick up speed. And then, he heard it.

A giant wave, crashing into the tunnel behind them.

The little mouse girl rushed on ahead through the darkness beyond the door. Stuart only let go of the old man when he crossed the door's threshold. And only for a split second did he turn to see it. No doubt about it. That amount of water was filling the tunnel to the top. It didn't matter if all these mice knew how to swim. With no space for air, that wave would drown them.

With a mighty shove, he threw his back against the door and heard it slam shut, just as the deadly wave crashed against it. Water hissed into the room under the narrow crack.

Without the dim glow from the tunnel, the mice were surrounded by blackness.

And then, all at once, there was light.

Momentarily blinded, Stuart shielded his eyes. But realizing being without his vision made him vulnerable, he gritted his teeth and faced the light. He blinked away tears as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change.

Whereas the tunnels had been lit like a city sewer, this room was now lit like a football field, with a great size difference to boot. Above him was a black starless sky, broken only by a massive, bright LED stadium light. It shined down on this inexplicably roofless room, it's buzzing cutting through the tense silence.

Even bipedal mice had a knack for climbing. Their escape was standing right above them.

But the walls around the room were at least five feet tall, and made of the same smooth steel as in the tunnels. A few of the youngest desperately scratched and scraped at the surface, trying to get a grip, to no avail. The crowd scattered and beat against the walls, looking for another way out.

It dawned on Stuart then that there was no one to help him figure out the escape.

Then his eyes became fixed on an odd feature. In the middle of the room was a round, raised, six inch metal disk, supported by iron struts. Without even considering its purpose, Stuart identified it as the tallest climbable surface in the room, and went for it, diving through the gaps in the crowd as fast as he could. He refused to shove them like they had shoved him.

Stuart climbed onto the platform, his wet soles slipping on the smooth surface. Relieved to be away from the crush, he reached behind his back, retrieving the bow and arrow from the backpack.

As the voices continued to cry out for help around him, he loaded the bow, trying to picture what he was up against.

For being a common house mouse, he had taken on more than his fair share of predatory enemies. And against all odds, he'd won every time.

At nine, he sent a mobster alley cat with a weakness for water for a cold, late night swim.

At twelve, he crashed his plane into a falcon that conned his way to get better food than table scraps and drove him where he belonged—into a trash can.

At fifteen, he sent a cougar who had kidnapped Snowbell back to where she came from.

Every three years, it was a new threat. But unlike the previous times, he didn't have Snowbell, Margalo or Reeko to help him. He was on his own.

What would he be up against now?

He spun around in a circle with his bow loaded. He knew, like a sixth sense, that someone—or something—was watching them.

And then, a roaring noise, and a gust of steam. Stuart turned away from the shut door when they'd come from. On the opposite wall, before him and the panicking mice below, an opening had appeared. It led out into the black of night above.

The mice wasted no time. They barreled for the exit, nearly breaking each other's ribs as they swarmed out of the new door.

As he watched them with fascination, Stuart couldn't help but realize they weren't that different from humans, after all. In a tightly packed crowd, they fled in one direction almost mindlessly. Humans would have, and have reacted the same way in life or death emergencies.

Even if it means trampling others to preserve their own safety.

Last to leave was the little girl and her grandfather, who was using the child as balance as they hobbled into the black unknown beyond the walls. So harmless, but so vulnerable, they seemed. Stuart wished them well.

At once, the hairs on his arms and legs bristled as a realization dawned on him. What if that was the point of all this?

Somehow, he knew. Whoever was behind this, whoever was running this sick little game, was his stalker. The same one who made his fur on the back of his neck stand on end where he found himself all alone. The same one who made him glance out his bedroom window at odd times of the night. The same one who'd made him feel a great deal of ill-ease, even after his happy ever after.

Now it was just them, and him.

"Whoever you are, I know it's you who's been following me!" He shouted. "Whatever you want, leave the others alone! I know it's me you want! Now show yourself!"

At once, he heard it. Laughter. No. Cackling. And it was all around him.

So distant. But so, so familiar.

And then, he spun around, bow still ready to fire. A monitor, six inches tall that hadn't been there before appeared.

His heart leaped to his throat as a black silhouette stood in front of it, the whites of their eyes piercing.

The female spoke to him in a static-garbled voice. "You've made it far, Stuart. You're stronger than you look."

That voice. That face that appeared in his mind. "No… it can't be…"

And then, there was a roaring. Stuart staggered backwards as the platform abruptly began to rise. His heels narrowly avoided the edge before he regained his balance, swinging his body weight forward in a hunched position. He swung around in a crouch, scanning for threats.

At last, with a bang, the platform stopped. Stuart teetered on his feet, but he remained crouched. And when he finally stood, and looked over the edge, he saw that the connecting roof over all the tunnels, with those sparing placed lights, had vanished.

It was just a projection on a screen.

From this vantage point, Stuart could see what the other mice had not.

Those tunnels, those narrow walls, those bends. It had all been part of a one huge, elaborate, steel walled maze. A reverse one, actually. The test subjects running away from the center, driven a threat, instead of towards a prize.

Stuart's platform stood in the middle of the exit room, touching the edge of one of the four outer walls of the structure.

He looked up, squinting again as he faced the stadium lights.

Just in time to see a massive wave of clear, liquid death barrel down on his head.

The force brushed him off the platform like a feather from a shoulder. Silence surrounded him as water filled his ears. The stadium lights looked down on him from the waves, getting fuzzier and fuzzier as he sank. His limbs were useless. He couldn't swim. The tide was too great.

Soon the light above was gone. His vision shifted from shades of blue, growing darker and darker, until at last, there was just blackness.

And his eyes closed.

Stuart shot up in bed, panting. He was sweating from head to toe, just like in his dream.

His fingers wrapped around the blanket, claws digging into the fabric. He tossed it onto the floor by his bed, and swung his legs over the side. Resting his head in his hands, he tried to quiet his breaths before they woke his brother, sleeping on the full sized bunk just beneath him.

It was just a dream. Every time. It was just. A. Dream.

But it felt so real.

And the paranoia of being watched wasn't just in his dreamworld.

Maybe it was a result of being preyed upon as food by his foes, but in recent years, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder from time to time. No one was aware he had this problem because he hid it well enough. He had a calm personality, and a reputation for it.

Not wanting to go back to sleep, and risk re-entering the nightmare, the mouse pushed himself to his feet and staggered to the edge of the bed.

The last remnants of sleep fell away as he headed to the bathroom and closed the door, the details of the nightmare slowly coming back to him. He knew that voice was familiar, but within the dream, he couldn't put a face to it.

And then at once, frozen on the bathroom tile, with his hands clasped on his waistband, he knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

But why her?

You're stronger than you look, Stuart, echoed the familiar, false saccharine voice of the orphanage head, Mrs. Keeper.

"Safety call!"

The sound of his mother's voice in the hallway had broken Stuart's reverie. His eyes fluttered open, and he lifted his elbows from his thighs. "Kitchen counter!" he called back, cupping his hands around his mouth. Even for his size, his voice had an impressive range.

He did his best not to sound annoyed as he answered. Safety calls weren't a bad idea, what with his size and the uncertainty of where he was in the house. It prevented him from being flattened by someone's rear end on the couch, or kicked in the back—which, unfortunately, was how the system was set up.

After George had come flying out of their room three years ago and punted his brother across the hall, Mrs. Little anxiety over Stuart's safety only worsened. Thus she invented the addendum to the old Little family greeting—although she was the only family member who used it.

Late in the afternoon, Eleanor Little had come home to find her oldest son sitting on the kitchen counter, with his legs folded beneath him. "Little high, little low!" she greeted at last.

"Little hey, little ho…"

Finding a little rodent sitting on a surface from which she served food to her family might have caused any other housewife to skid and shriek. But it was the half hearted reply that made Mrs. Little's steps falter. "Everything alright?"

Her eyes turned from her adoptive son, to the six papers that were neatly laid out in front of him. She removed her purse from her shoulder and squeezed the handle in her leather gloves—driving gloves, despite the Littles having no choice but to take taxis everywhere. Leaning over his shoulder, she realized this wasn't homework he was looking at. "More acceptance letters?"

"Dad had them laid out for me before I got home," Stuart told her. He returned resting his head to his palm, propped up in his arm, elbow to his knee. His brown eyes surfed the letters, text as big as his palm. Their meaning as monumental as the empire state building, glimmering like an icicle in the snow-crusted window in front of the sink.

Mrs. Little leaned over the countertop and her son's shoulder, gazing at the names of all the universities that wanted her son to attend. "Kansas City… Memphis… Chicago… oh Stuart."

"A lot of these schools are pushing scholarships, too. If I'm lucky, write a short essay here and there, I won't have to pay a dime out of my savings for it."

Mrs. Little was speechless. She pressed her fingers to her lips, afraid that she'd begin to cry. She'd cried enough as it was these past few weeks.

Less than a year from now, it would be time for her oldest child to leave the nest. Pack up, and leave the Little home. The first real place in the world he felt like he belonged.

The problem that loomed in front of him was simple: Where to go from here?

"There's just… so many of them," Stuart said. "I thought I'd be lucky to get one acceptance letter. They're all so prestigious. Historical. How am I supposed to pick?"

Eleanor set her purse down on the stool by the counter and began removing her scarf and hat. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping you'd choose something that was more local."

"Aw, mom. Again with this?"

"Stuart, I'm serious. There are plenty of wonderful schools, right here in New York!" She gestured outwardly before removing her brown gloves. "Just think about it: You can commute with the bus, or even your car! Go to school right from here! No… hassling with the move, no ... dorm fees," she struggled to think as she folded her scarf into a neat square in her hands. "... no cheap ramen dinners, no fighting your roommate over space, no—"

"No parties. No drinking. No mom calling to verify where I am every two seconds," he said, grinning up at her.

"It's not funny," she said, giving him a disapproving look. "Living with roommates can be miserable." She put a hand on her hip. "Just wait."

"Well, I already have a roommate. He plays Halo at full volume when I'm trying to study, and he throws his socks around the floor for me to trip over when I go to the bathroom at night. And believe a mouse when he says they stink."

"Stuart's got a point, you know."

Both mouse and mom turned as Mr. Little entered the room, wearing a dress shirt, green apron, and a cheery smile. "Little high, Little low." He smiled at his wife. "Meeting go well?"

Eleanor said nothing and folded her arms across her chest.

"What?"

"You forgot to safety check."

"Really?" He pointed behind himself. "I could hear you talking to him from the hallway."

"Doesn't mean he's not on the floor!"

Mr. Little rolled his eyes. "Oh, Lord..."

"Work with me, Frederick."

"Alright, alright! I'll remember next time," the man sighed. He looked at Stuart. "Sorry for eavesdropping, but I roomed with my brother for seventeen years, and sharing a room at college really wasn't all that different." He paused and rubbed his chin. "Except when I came back to find a sock on the knob, and had to turn around."

Stuart pushed a hand to his mouth to restrain a giggle.

"That's different," Mrs. Little said. "Living with family and strangers is a whole other situation!"

"How so?" asked Frederick. But he could already see the answer written across her face. And so could their son.

Strangers won't necessarily be careful around Stuart.

And while both man and mouse thought otherwise, they couldn't reassure Mom that he would be fine. College was a big unknown.

Stuart looked at his father with a frown. And his father remained quiet.

Frederick cleared his throat. "Uh, anyway, I'm glad you're home. I wanted your opinion." And he showed his wife his handiwork—a tiny, simple plaid print dress, meant for a baby girl. "I even tucked the seams inward at the bottom. Think they'll accept this?"

Eleanor took one look at the outfit, and spoke gently. "You forgot the hole for the head."

Frederick wrinkled his nose and inspected the dress with tired eyes, only to find that she was right. "Oh... right. Welp, back to the drawing board." He slapped the dress against his thigh.

While she'd never been the breadwinner of the household, Mrs. Little was involved with a dozen charities, from school bake sales to fundraisers, to hurricane relief overseas. Around the holidays, she donated homemade clothing and ornaments to be sold at the Christmas Bazaar, hosted at the local church. After Stuart came into their lives, she'd gotten into making outfits and homegoods, like tiny blankets and pillow cases. While it hadn't been easy to learn, she had been determined to see to it that not all of the mouse's wardrobe would be Ben doll clothes.

However, other charities had stacked up this year, involving one that required her to be out until the kids came back from school. To help out, Mr. Little had taken the initiative of helping her tackle their contribution to the merchandise for the Bazaar when he got home from work. Cooking and baking? No problem. Crafting, however, as he was beginning to learn, was easier said than done.

"I knew I should've let you work the sewing machine," he said, passing the dress to his wife.

Eleanor put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Don't be discouraged. A few snips here or there, and it'll be perfect. I would've bought it for Martha myself from a window on Fifth Avenue."

Frederick couldn't contain his grin. "It should be illegal to lie with a smile like that." He then turned to his son. "So," he stuck his hands in his pockets, "Are we coming closer to a decision?"

"Not even close," Stuart sighed. "Almost wish I didn't have so many choices."

His father stepped closer to the counter, looking over the papers. "It can be overwhelming. Makes me kind of glad I only ever got one."

"Really?" Eleanor slapped his shoulder with the flimsy, unfinished doll dress. She turned to Stuart once more. "Oh, Stuart! No matter what, you should be proud. No Little has ever gotten so many acceptance letters before."

"That's right," her husband nodded. "And no matter what you choose, this is an accomplishment that you can carry with you your whole life." He picked up one of the pieces of paper and held it up. "Even make these into a scrapbook, or something."

Eleanor raised a brow. "You're thinking of scrapbooking now?"

"Oh, no, no!" Frederick laid the paper back down on the countertop and patted it. "You've already got me roped in dressmaking. I think that's enough crafting for as long as I live."

His wife grinned knowingly before looking back down at the little dress. "Let me grab us a couple of coffees and we'll see what we can do with this."

She kissed her husband on the cheek and watched him head back to their bedroom—AKA the dressmaking room, when a worktable was added.

Stuart smiled contentedly at them. But as soon as his father was out of the room, and his mother had her back turned, the strange tension he felt before she arrived took over again. His eyes became fixed on the papers again. He could hear a dozen voices in his ears—the representatives of all these schools, formally inviting him to attend. Big men, with big city accents, northern, and southern.

We want you, Stuart Little, for our school.

We want you.

And he could only choose one.

The void that was his future opened up in front of him, like an expanse of sea that he could in that moment, his own name became so foreign to him. When his eyes became lost in the sea of papers again, he barely heard the voice until it began calling his name.

"Stuart… Stuart… Stu-art?"

"Huh?" Stuart blinked and rubbed his eyes. His ear twitched in the direction of the coffee maker, where his mother was standing.

"I just asked if you're alright," she told him, her red lips turned down with concern. "You look exhausted."

"Aw, I'm fine. Just been a long week." He spread out his legs on the countertop, leaned back on his palms, and wiggled the tops of his custom made converses. "Hard to choose a college with everything else on my mind."

"How about some coffee, then? Maybe a little fuel to get you through homework?"

The offer alone made Stuart perk up. "Sounds nice," he said after a beat.

"Coming right up."

"Ah, don't worry about it mom," he said, getting ready to stand. "I'll..."

But once he saw that this was going to lead to another argument, he sat back down on the countertop. "I'll… take some sugar too, if you don't mind."

Mrs. Little smiled, and went to the cabinet to fetch the smaller china. She went on to fill her husband's mug, as well as her own, with fresh, piping hot coffee, before bringing Stuart a tea platter, topped with a doll sized, silver kettle, a lidded jar of sugar, and a ceramic miniature mug, just small enough that it fit comfortably in both Stuart's hands.

"Thanks, mom," he said, as the platter was set next to him, his nose wiggling at the pleasant smell filled his nostrils. When his mom was home, he didn't mind being waited on—she basically gave him no other choice. But he had grown accustomed to serving himself more and more as he grew older, even from the coffee maker. Though it was much harder to maneuver when the carafe was piping hot. He usually waited until the coffee had cooled down. And though he hated how it tasted when it was cold, it was a small annoyance in the grand scheme of things.

Mrs. Little left the kitchen, her heels clomping rhythmically as she left. Even her gait had something of a compulsive precision to it. Most people wouldn't notice it, but Stuart had been a part of the family long enough to pick up on the Little's habits—like how George pushed up his glasses higher onto his nose when he was concentrating. Or how Dad often stuck his hands in his pockets when they were empty. (Sometimes even carrying a mini rubix cube in his pocket to give his fingers something to do. Often he'd play with his house keys when discussing something that made him uncomfortable). And Mom's compulsive nature in particular, while admirable, was exhausting just to notice.

Alone with his thoughts again, he fixed himself a mugful with extra sugar and began sipping it with his legs crossed under him again. It was dark and sweet, and filling in his empty stomach. The warm sensation flooded through him was welcome in the chilly kitchen, and he closed his eyes as a moment of calmness finally occurred. But now matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine the papers away. Each was taller than his own body, and it felt like they were somehow coming closer to him…

And somewhere out there, a little bird was flying further and further away.

He had just lowered the mug to his stomach when something huge, white, and fluffy barreled onto the countertop. "WHOA!"

"What the—!" Stuart scrambled back, coffee spilling all over the table his patterned winter sweater. Thankfully it was such a small amount, it had cooled quickly. The mouse leaned to his left and looked over the countertop.

The papers that had been haunting him were now bent and scattered around the kitchen floor.

All except for one, from which the border, reading Illinois State University, was crushed and bent under the cat's paw.

"Whoops," said Snowbell, lifting his paw from the paper. He backed away a step as if he felt bad, but his amused tone suggested that he really didn't. "Did I do that?"

"Nice one," said Stuart. He pulled the fabric of his warm, damp sweater away from his torso, the shirt and fur beneath soaked as well. He set down his mug on the platter, which thankfully hadn't toppled over in the flurry of fur, or there would be a bigger mess to clean up.

"Hey, don't give me that tone, buddy. This is my house too," Snowbell told him, narrowing his eyes. "A cat can jump and leap where he pleases, and I don't need to adhere to Mother Little's 'safety checks'."

Stuart ignored the insult and carefully leaped down from the counter and began collecting the papers into a nice little stack. As he worked, Snowbell watched him from the countertop above with a quizzical expression, tail flipping back and forth curiously. "Are all those admission letters?"

"You mean acceptance letters," Stuart corrected him. "And yes, they are."

"Yeesh, Stuart. Overdoing it a little, don't you think? I mean, they did tell you you're a mouse, right?"

"Mom and dad are happy with me," Stuart replied. "That's all that matters."

"Oh, I'm sure, I'm sure," he said, rolling his eyes. The long haired cat gazed curiously at his littlest master for the longest time before biting the bullet. "So, why aren't you?"

Stuart dropped the last paper in the pile and looked up at Snowbell. "What?"

"I mean, I don't know much about this college stuff. But isn't this birdcage liner supposed to be a thing that's supposed to make you go bouncing off the walls with excitement, or somethin'?"

"Maybe when I pick a school, I'll do a lil' dance for ya." And he made a show of turning the kitchen floor into an impromptu dance floor, putting one hand behind his head, swinging his hips and snapping his fingers to the rhythm of a song in his head.

"Easy there, Patrick Swayze," he said dramatically. "Save those moves for your girlfriend. Speaking of bird cages, how's Margalo feeling about all this? Doesn't college kinda complicate things between you kids?"

At once, Stuart felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. "How would it complicate anything?" he asked, his tone icy. "Everything is going to be exactly as it was before. I'll just be living somewhere else."

"Alright! Sheesh, do you get testy whenever her name is dropped."

Stuart studied the cat suspiciously. "Why do you care all of the sudden, anyway? What's with all the questions?"

"Oh dear. Did I make it out as though it seems like I care? My bad." He unceremoniously leaped down from the counter past Stuart, and showed the mouse his backend as he made his way to the door. "Well, I'm late to prowl," he yawned. "Later, college boy."

Shaking his head, Stuart folded the pile of paper as best as he could, and carried them back onto the table, using one arm to climb.

Years of living together had not done much to bring cat and mouse closer together, though. Of course, it was hard to be anything but distant with someone who tried to eat you on your first day, and then later arranged for your kidnapping—even if the cat did later help save him. But their hostility towards each other was still largely on Snowbell's end.

Though he had every right to show Snowbell a cold shoulder, Stuart refused to do so. He mustered up every good fiber in him to be a rather kindly master to his reluctant pet cat. He even fed Snowbell himself more than a handful of times when Mom was busy, even though the act was grueling, and tended to leave Stuart covered in disgusting fishy gravy. Though Snowbell was too proud to admit it, Stuart was as good an owner to him as the humans were.

So it didn't surprise Stuart that Snowbell would be so callous upon sensing his problem. But then why ask about it? Unless he was prying for information he might be able to use to make fun of the mouse later.

And if so, Snowbell could mind his own business.

"I don't know where my head is."

Mrs. Little came back into the kitchen, quickly checking to make sure Stuart was still on the table, and then grabbed her still warm mug from the counter. "Went all the way upstairs with Dad's coffee and forgot mine."

She shook her head tiredly before taking a sip. Stuart studied her, a little worried. "Funny you say I look tired. Are you alright?"

She lowered her mug and blinked a few times, staring into space before her. "Oh, well. Christmas is always this way. So many fundraisers, and then—" she gasped, stopping so fast that her heel dramatically 'clack'ed on the tile. "Shoot. There's the party on the 24th." She let out an exasperated sigh. "I haven't even started shopping for it."

"Calm down, Mom. We'll get it all settled," Stuart told her. "Even if I have to do some of the work myself."

"Oh, honey, you have enough on your plate as it is."

"It won't be a problem, " he said as he wandered over to the edge of the counter. "Look, I'll fetch one or two things from the store every day on my way home from school until the party, and load them in the back of my truck with the cables. I'll even help hang the decorations."

Realizing what a load that would be on someone like Stuart, Mrs. Little, even skeptical, beamed with pride at her oldest child. "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer after all. Thank you, sweetie."

Before she left the kitchen again, she stopped and turned towards him, palm on the doorway. "Oh! Don't forget, we've got our appointment with Dr. Phelps after school tomorrow. We'll worry about shopping the day after."

"Oh, yeah." Stuart resisted a groan. Therapy. Just what I need right now.

Between mom's parental hovering and Snowbell's heart-attack inducing visits, he felt a frustration bubbling inside. One that could only be quelled by going outside in the freezing cold, and just running like a madmouse until he collapsed into the ice and snow.

Hey. Hi.

It's another fanfic. Kartoon's gatecrashing another fandom.

At least I hope this series has a fandom. ;.;

This entire fanfic idea started as a thought I had when I was groggily waking up back before the end of Christmas 2020 before going to work, about how Start and Margalo from Stuart Little 2 would actually have any sort of relationship when they grow up—with Stuart being a college bound man, and Margalo seemingly having her destiny tied to nature.

The scene that came to me was Stuart waiting in his car in the early hours on Christmas morning for Margalo and finally reuniting with her after months without seeing her. Afterwards he calls George to confess his plan of running away to start a new life with her.

I rolled out of bed thinking "mm, that'd make a trashy fanfic." But as I was waking up and making my coffee, suddenly these ideas started hitting me like rapidfire, and goddammit, now I'm sucked in. The second of this chapter was banged out in a day off, with the dream sequence pecked out in between customers at my job. Bam—new hyperfixation. I've always had a soft spot for this character and series in my head's nostalgia room, but I haven't thought much about it since I was a kid until now.

This fanfic's already turned out far more complicated than I ever intended it to be, but here we are.

For the purpose of the fic, I had to retcon a number of small things, just for consistency. The major change being Stuart and George not being in the same grade (something we see in the animated series and that's sort of implied in the 2nd movie). Obviously since they're using cartoon logic, Stuart seemingly never ages, and the writers probably threw away that line of thought because mice don't age the same as people, anyway.

I gave them about a 4 year age gap. Since Stuart's age was never announced at any point in the series, it didn't seem like that much of a stretch. Especially since in the 1st movie, Stuart definitely seems older than George. In fact, nine is about the youngest I can buy him being in the 1st movie, while I'd say George (the character in the franchise, not just the actor Lipnicki himself) is about six. This retcons Stuart's line about being the "middle child" from the 2nd movie—sorry, I just don't buy it. And if you could believe Stuart is older than George, this presents an interesting dynamic for the boys. While they probably don't often acknowledge their age difference, eventually the family WILL have to acknowledge it. If only when it's time for Stuart to leave for college. And being as selfless as he is, Stuart probably wouldn't like rubbing it in George's face. However, I can easily see him lose his patience with George refusing to acknowledge Stuart as his OLDER brother.

For as much as I feel people who have personally retconned Stuart Little 3, both for the animation and the general decline in quality and meaning that made this series so inviting in the first place, I felt like at least the IDEA of Stuart having time in the wild and having a third foe was important to the continuing story. Stuart does eventually leave home when he runs into Margalo, and an ending to the franchise that would at least nod to that idea from the book would require Stuart to do so as well—just in this case, he's all grown up. Though in this fic's canon, Stuart will have been 15 when 3 took place (to keep with the idea that every movie/major adventure of his takes place in three year intervals since he was adopted, the 1st being when he was 9, the 2nd 12, and the last 15.) This taste of the wild also gives the potential for Stuart to have an internal conflict—where does he belong? With people or animals? And where did these hybrid animals come from?

Not to mention it's super appealing to think of Stuart having this teenage restlessness. We already get a taste of this in the 2nd movie when he starts really noticing his mom's overbearingness. Technically speaking, while Mrs. Little watched Stuart defeat the falcon, she never promised to stop helicoptering him. And if her paranoia about his safety carries on as Stuart gets older, this will no doubt lead to an argument. It's just a matter of when Stuart finally loses his patience enough to confront her about this—every character has a snapping point, even him.

With that out of the way, the general explanation for this fic's existence is to explore a potential future for Stuart and Margalo, and the hurdles they have to climb in order to get there, based on their current trajectory from movie 2. As much as it's a possibility that they're just childhood (I say adolescent) sweethearts, and they may find other love in the future with their own species, it's way more fun to explore the what if. What if they really are each other's true love? What if reaching adulthood makes them have to face the difficulties of them being together?

I also wanted to explore the Littles, since they're more than just characters for Stuart to bounce off of. Especially given the cut scenes from the first movie, we get the sense that Eleanor and Frederick have gravity to their relationship that's greater than a Disney couple. And given that their lifestyle, at least in the first movie where it's very 1950s inspired, has a traditionalist bend to it, and we tend to associate traditionalism with regressive ideas and bigotry, they're a perfect opportunity to explore a white, middle class family that's more than what it seems. In other words, the perfect opportunity to slowly pull apart why the Littles, a presumably perfect family, might not actually be perfect at all. And as Stuart comes of age, he'll have to learn that the family that at last took him in as one of their own wouldn't be compelled to do so if not for their roots.

While the franchise emphasizes the traditions of the Little men, I'm tempted to trace the family's way of doing things back to Eleanor herself.

One last note but before writing this, it is worth noting that I did more or less picture this as a comic book and not even a fanfic. If comics didn't take longer to make than something written, and if I had any legit faith in my skills at drawing, maybe this would be coming out as a comic attempt instead. But potential comic adaptation in the future? And that's only if this ever actually gets done.

With that said, time to let it drop! Don't know how often the Stuart Little section on fanfic is checked for new material, and I don't honestly know how often I'll be posting these chapters, but there's a bunch of scenes for future chapters already underway and a general plan for this story, so here we go!

Edit: A few inconsistencies will be sorted out as I go along, but feel free to point out anything!