Chapter 3: A Technicolor Yawn, and Snowbell's Changing Eyes

Summary: A conflict arises between Stuart's old and new life. Meanwhile, the cat, while finding Stuart sick and weak, is stalled as he sees something similar in the mouse and George.

"Stuart. You have a telephone call."

His new son had been sick as a dog for the better part of the last two days, so it took Frederick by surprise when Stuart bolted upright in bed, wide eyed and lucid. "Really?"

"Some young man who says he's your friend." Dad wagged his hand, clearly confused and unsure if he should even let him answer the mysterious call as the boy launched from under the covers. He'd only just gotten in the door when the phone rang. "Uh, do you think you'd better off just—?"

"The phone downstairs right?" Stuart darted around Fredrick's shoes without waiting for an answer. "Thanks, Dad! I owe ya!"

Fredrick Little was left mouth agape in the doorway. Though he was normally the one to appeal to his wife against overreacting, even he found this development suspicious. "Stuart? Hold on…"

He followed Stuart with a concern he couldn't put into words. Not that that would've stopped him, anyway. Though he hardly looked so at the moment, he still felt awful, and this sprint down the hallway was fueled by pure determination. There was only one guy who could be looking for him, and he wasn't about to miss it.

Even with short legs, a young mouse was hard to keep up with, and Stuart, who's never known another mouse from Adam, did his kind justice in this quality.

The middle aged father was left to stop and watch in amusement as the mouse shimmied up to the top of the banister post, swung his stomach over the railing, then with nothing but his pajama shirt to absorb friction, slid the winding length all the way down the semi spiral, like a gum ball. It was as if nothing was ever wrong with him to begin with.

If he thought he should tell Eleanor about this, it was certainly off the table now.

"Aw, go to hell!"

Alone in the foyer, Stuart smiled at the wall. "You don't believe me."

"I mean, I knew you'd probably still be in the city, but… wait a minute..."

Back at the orphanage, Andrew Fields began muttering under his breath, trying to map out the city in his mind. Trying to recall memories of Manhattan from before he moved into the children's shelter. Nobody was in the Big Office except him, and he made finger calculations that Stuart couldn't see anyway. "You mean that little house right across from the park?"

"Yes, that's the one! Right across the street!" Stuart leaned over the table and peered into the living room from the foyer, squinting his eyes. "The south entrance is right across from the front window. I can sorta see it right now. And heh, believe me. The house isn't that little."

Andrew took a deep breath. Stuart could hear footsteps on the other end as his buddy began to pace the room, carrying the phone away until the cord went as far as it would go. "Maaan, you're lucky."

"Don't I know. Did I tell you they have a backyard, too? And a set of stairs that takes you to the roof? You can see half the city from up there! And I was told it's in the shed now, but my brother's got a trampoline! A real trampoline, Andrew!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that. I think I'd hear you a lot better if you PULLED THAT CHODE OUT YOUR MOUTH!"

The mouse doubled over laughing. The shout into the receiver caught Stuart off guard, but it wasn't undeserved. Stuart got his interest in the idea of trampolines from Andrew himself. Maybe he should've spared him that detail.

The last thing Stuart wanted was to make him envious, but he had to share his joy with someone. He'd been lonely for someone to talk to, and aside from some well-earned ribbing, Andrew had been nothing but gracious to Stuart about the news.

The Nerd Herd were the biggest fans for this epoch in his life. They knew Stuart had been there longer than anyone else, even themselves, and his unlikely adoption gave them a fresh wave of hope.

After all, as far as they were concerned, if the mouse ould get out at his age, that meant anybody could.

But the jovial nature of the call didn't last. Stuart turned from the handset and buried his face in his sleeve as his chuckles dissolved into deep, rattling coughs.

"Jeez, I was only joking. But you sound bad. Heh. You almost sound like Billy Pines when he hit puberty."

"I'm fine." Stuart refused to take sympathy from someone still living in the orphanage. And he wasn't inclined to explain what happened yesterday with the washing machine, either, so he willed his voice to sound normal again. "Johnny had bronchitis when he was adopted out. I probably caught it from him."

"Dang. Didn't even know you could catch colds like that. I mean, y'know. Human colds."

"Why not?" While it didn't sound likely, the lack of evidence against it worked in Stuart's favor.

It was only his third day home, and his enrollment with George's school had been postponed until next week. This meant another few days bumming around the house with nothing to do but stew in his thoughts in between naps. As he was becoming insatiably curious about what his friends at the orphanage were up to, Mr. Little had knocked on the door.

Even if Dad knew Stuart was taking a call, he was mindful of the loudness of his coughing. Mom had already made a thing about him staying in bed, at least for another day.

It was hard to argue with her. On one hand, he was sick. And on top of the usual cold symptoms, his coughs came with the haunting, vile taste of detergent. But he'd been through worse, and it was only a matter of time until the Littles understood that. Even the bruising on the back of his hands from beating on the washer door wasn't as painful as some of his other injuries.

Stuart stood on the foyer table, the telephone propped up carefully against the wall, so that he could speak into it hands free. Ten minutes out of bed wouldn't be the thing that killed him.

"You are one ballin' mouse, Stu. I can't wait to tell the guys."

"Oh. I was sort of hoping to hear from Flynn and Derry, too." Try as he might, Stuart couldn't hide the sudden disappointment in his voice.

"Can't. They got detention, both of 'em. Somebody started a food fight a few days ago and they got taken in for joining. But I'd start flinging bananas too if someone hit my friend with their applesauce. It was self defense."

"Aw… well, where were you?"

"Where do you think? I was watching Thorne—DUDE!" Andrew shouted so loud,

Stuart jumped back from the phone. "What? What?"

"About Thorne! This is what I was gonna tell you! Something weird's going on with him. Ever since you left, he's not the same. They say he doesn't do nothin' in class, hasn't said a word to anybody, not even the girls. All he does is walk around and talk to himself. It's like he's cracked."

"So, you mean he's not messing with the little kids anymore?"

"Doesn't seem like it. The teachers have noticed too. I think they worried about him." He covered his mouth with his hand and spoke the next part very quietly. "Forget juvy. Word in school is, the teachers have finally woken up to how crazy he is. One wrong move and the dude'll just might be committed."

"Gosh..." Stuart wouldn't wish that on anybody, not even the very guy who'd tormented him for the better half of three years. But it made him nervous for his friends that they were at the mercy of someone even the teachers—who were usually conveniently oblivious to bullies—were wary of. "Just… just stay out of his way. Won't you?"

"Not if I'm gonna make sure he doesn't go locking anybody else in the freezer, dude." At the sound of a pair of passing voices, Andrew went quiet. Stuart waited patiently for the voices to go away before his friend continued. "... I don't make it too obvious I've got tabs on him. Just make sure I know what he's doing when he's not in class and not in the crowd, if you get what I'm sayin.' But I just gotta know, Stu: what'd you do to him?"

"'What did I—?' What do you mean?"

"I mean, this whole thing started when you left. And he mutters your name sometimes."

"Oh… uh huh?" Stuart's heart began to pick up speed.

"You must've said or did something to piss him off good."

"But I haven't—I haven't done anything!" He paced the telephone table. "The last time I ever interacted with him was when he found me in Mrs. Keeper's office, sticking his arm inside the air vent to drag me away to do who knows what! I don't know why he hates me so much. I just…" Stuart sighed. "I just… I got away."

The realization came to him in pictures. The unfinished adoption paperwork on the desk in Mrs. Keeper's office. The crazed look on Thorne's face when he looked at Stuart through the air vent. He couldn't stand that the mouse-the last kid anybody would suspect to get chosen-had gotten adopted. And that he was still stuck there.

"Stuart? You there?"

"Sorry. Uh, has… Thorne said… h-has he been saying anything else?"

"Nothing that makes any sense. Not even sure if it's complete sentences—can't get that close. I don't want to get smacked around. Even if it could be considered a hate crime—not that that would stop him." He paused. "I'm pretty sure he said 'Thompson' a few times."

Thompson? Heather Thompson? "Huh."

"Wouldn't know what that means either."

Stuart would be left to wonder a number of things, including what Heather had done to take up as much headspace in Thorne's mind as himself. Also, did threatening to break his own ribs in his hand count as animal abuse?

Suddenly the muddled thoughts were too much for his feverish head to handle. "Uh… Andrew, could you do me a favor?"

What on earth he could do for someone who didn't even live there anymore, Andrew wondered in earnest. "Like what?"

"While you're in the office, there's a black marker on the desk. I remember seeing it the last time I was there. The staff never look at our files once they're closed out. But since you found Little's address and phone number in there… could you maybe…?"

"Ah. I think I know where this is going. Don't worry. I got you covered."

"Thanks. Tell the guys I'll miss—"

"Andrew Fields!" In the background, a heavy door, likely the office door, had swung open. "WHAT do you think you're doing?! Who are you speaking to?"

"Just a telemarketer." Andrew's voice had gone shy and distant.

"Ugh." The all too familiar sound of heels clacked their way towards the phone. Stuart heard the handset being yanked from Andrew and shuffled up to someone else's lips. "Shame on you, people. If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. Take this number off your list! Now, goodbye!"

The phone call ended with a loud 'click.' Stuart stood there in hurt silence as the dial tone droned out from the earpiece. When he came to, he heaved the phone back up and tossed it back onto the hook. "Goodbye to you too, Mrs. Keeper."

"Stuart, what are you doing out of bed?"

Stuart whipped around as Mom crossed over from the kitchen, Dad at her side. The phone was still in his hands. "Just uh… uh, learning how to handle telemarketers for ya!"

"Funny. I don't remember hearing the phone go off."

But Dad, rounding down the staircase, now in his house clothes, rushed to give the kid a thumb's up. "Atta boy, Stuart! Give 'em the old one-two, kiss my shoe'!"

"Dear, don't encourage boys with that kind of behavior." Mrs. Little shook her head. She crossed her arms over her chest, flipping a damp dish towel along with it. "Alright, mister. Back to bed."

"Okay." Stuart nodded, and stretched his stiff limbs. The venture down the winding staircase had taken more out of him than he thought. Going down hadn't been so bad, but going back up? The mouse gazed at his path back to the bedroom nervously.

Mom could have acted like she didn't notice. Just this once, she told herself. "Want a lift?"

"Yes, please." Shoulders slumped in defeat, he climbed into Mrs. Little's outstretched hand and sat down.

With her other hand, she stopped Dad in his attempt to pass her right side, her weapon a small dish towel. "After we work with George on his history paper, we're going to talk about dealing with the poor people who make their living on the phone in a civilized way."

"Whatever you say, dear." Dad said smiling. He gracefully took the dish towel from his wife and flung it over his shoulder before heading back to the kitchen. Just before he slipped from sight, he winked at Stuart.

The man had only known Stuart for days, and yet it felt like there was a trust between them that could only come from years of closeness. It was a good feeling.

However, Stuart had taken the offer for the lift from Mom at face value, never considering that she might be onto him. "Is there something going on?"

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"There was no telemarketer on the phone. Who were you really talking to?"

"N-Nobody…!" It wasn't like he was doing something wrong—Andrew had been the one to call him, after all—so why did it feel like he was?

It wasn't like adoption had given him amnesia. The Littles couldn't honestly expect Stuart to just forget the past nine years that made him who he was, and he didn't expect that they would. It wasn't like closing a book and never looking back. The real world wasn't like that.

But for all the good they've done for him even so far, there was something keeping him tethered to his old life, and the last person he wanted to find out about this was Mom. Maybe he was afraid she'd read into it too much, with her guilt about the washing machine incident still so fresh.

On top of his curiosity about Thorne, he was sad to sever ties with his friends. He wished he'd been able to stay on the phone a little longer, and gotten more information out of Andrew on that call about the state of things at the orphanage. Stuart wasn't sure if he'd ever get a chance to talk to him again, or anybody back at the asylum, for that matter.

Stuart's brain was still on overdrive as they reached the top of the stairs. The Little house was far across the city from the orphanage, and only wards sixteen year olds were permitted to leave the building, so that they might work an after-school job and save up for the day they moved out. Not only would someone have to be old enough to leave the school, but they'd have to have snuck into Mrs. Keeper's office, the same way Andrew had, opened up the files, and found Little's address before Andrew got to it with the White-Out.

None of this, Stuart realized, was beyond Thorne's capability. Maybe he was only fourteen now, but in two years…

What if the Littles had an unexpected visitor on their doorstep one day? What if Dad opened the door to the silhouette of a tall, blond haired boy who looked strikingly like George.

Nice looking family you've got, Mr. Little. Behind his back, the silhouette checked the lighter in his hand behind his back, flicking open the lid and setting the flame before closing it again. Just… perfect…

In that split second instant, just the thought of anything, anything happening to these people made him nauseous.

Actually, literally nauseous. As he tasted bile, his hands flew to his mouth. "M-Mom!"

"Bathroom?"

How she knew, he didn't know. He was just glad she did.

He only dared to cry out one more word between his fingers. "Hurry!"

"Believe me, I've seen a lot worse than this," Mrs. Little assured him. "I've nursed George through the stomach flu, not to mention the night after your father thought The Who had broken up. Though I suppose it hardly makes up for being the one who got me through three months of morning sickness."

"Dad did that?" Stuart managed to say, saliva dripping from his lip and all. "I thought he was kinda squeamish."

"Oh he is. But when it comes to the bat, man would do just about anything for the good of his family, but he has the weakest stomach. For the most part—you know—he'll wear a brave face, and gag later. A few times, he's gotten out of diapers when George was still a baby, or toilet cleaning by offering to do dishes or that and some other chore, on top of it. He thought I didn't know what he was doing." She smirked and winked. "Considering what I owe him anyway, I intend to keep it that way."

Stuart rested his eyes as his stomach took a reprieve. When it had been apparent they'd be in there for a while, Mrs. Little had laid a clean washcloth down on the seat of the toilet as a sanitary barrier for him to rest on. Over the next thirty minutes, he emptied the remainder of his stomach into the bowl: A quarter cup of soapy chicken broth, extra bubbles.

So much for being the 'easy' kid. If it weren't for the fact that he now felt so ill that he wasn't sure he'd live to see tomorrow, Stuart was too embarrassed to believe he'd ever live this down anyway.

But instead of leaving him to see this hour of hell in private, Mom didn't show herself out, and Stuart didn't have the heart to tell her to leave.

As well as providing this verbal comfort, she knelt down and stroked a finger between his aching shoulder blades—a trick he realized she likely learned from Dad. The last shred of his pride kept him from admitting just how soothing it was. "You don't have to do this. I mean, I'll be fine."

"I know you will." She took her hand back and rested it on her lap. "I guess the truth is… I'm just… worried you've already lost faith in me, as a mother."

Stuart pulled his head up over the seat to look at her, eyes wide with alarm. "What?"

"I mean, if I were in your shoes, I'd question—"

"I haven't—" Stuart cleared his throat. "lost my faith in you." He was trying his hardest to control his illness-made voice cracks. "Accidents happen. I mean, parents are just big kids, and kids learn from mistakes all the time. I dunno…" He leaned down and dry heaved again.

"Hm." Mrs. Little nodded tiredly. "I never thought of it that way."

"But since we're apologizing," he added, sheepishly, "sorry for throwing up all over your hand."

Mrs. Little waved the thought off with her now clean arm, wristwatch and all. "I'll forget if you forget?"

"Sounds good." He didn't know what else to say. Having a family was more involved than he ever thought. It was standing by that family in an hour of need, even in the grossest moments. There was something so affirming how she'd reacted so nonchalantly to his vomit, as if he'd always been her son. As if they hadn't just met three days ago.

And as he closed his eyes from the sudsy horrors in the water down below, he experienced the most beautiful moment of serenity. Far from losing his faith in Dad or Mom, he'd already come to love them. He didn't think it would be so easy. To learn to love a pair of strangers so quickly, but they made everything so easy. They matched his efforts beat for beat, and he adored them for it.

Stuart took a measured breath in and out before pushing himself up from the washcloth. "Okay... I think I'm done."

"Alright, but don't rush it," Mrs. Little said quietly. "Frankly, if it needs to come out, better it's out than in."

"Don't worry, I won't give you a reason to clean the stairs again," he told her, as she lifted him to the side of the sink. "Even if it is mostly soap."

Mrs. Little shook her head with a smirk and peeled the washcloth from the toilet seat, tossing it down the laundry chute. Stuart sat on the edge of the porcelain sink and ran his fingers over his face. The fur around his mouth was wet in parts, and crusty in others. There had been enough suds in his mouth to blow a bubble into the air with his lips, if he wanted to. In a better mood, he might've even tried it.

Nah. A perfect son wouldn't do that.

He wiped his lips on the arm of his pajama sleeve. "I didn't know that this was part of it."

"Hm?"

"I mean—" He shook his head. At the risk of sounding like an idiot, he explained himself. "Having a mom, I mean. Or maybe it isn't. I really don't know. But I think you're a great mom, Mom."

Mrs. Little used a Lysol wipe to sanitize the seat with one hand, and flushed the toilet with the other. "Well, thank you for that. Not everyone gives me such compliments. Your grandmother—"

Eleanor snapped her mouth shut, just in time. Right there in the bathroom, kneeling over the toilet, with her hands soaked in disinfectant, it came. A repressed memory had dislodged itself from the back of her mind. Details coming in cold, smacking waves.

"Mom… mom!?"

And then the details retreated. Back into their hiding place in the recesses of her mind. And Eleanor was an adult once more. She was in the bathroom, and her new son was there, still sticky and sweaty little and pajamas. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Of course." She felt her grip on the toilet rim ease up. She hadn't even realized she'd been squeezing it until her hands let up. How long had this one lasted? "You know what? Forget I said anything. Just… focus on getting better, okay? It would be a shame if you aren't well enough to attend your own party."

The mouse nodded diligently. This party was important for her. Failure was not an option. He had three days to get better and make a good impression on the extended family. He wasn't sure they'd like him the way Mom and Dad did, but if They were family, they had to be good people, right?

Stuart was handed a different washcloth, this one an eighth of the size of all their usual ones, and damp to the touch. "Will all the Littles really be there?"

"If everyone shows up."

Great. Stuart squeezed the washcloth in his fists. More family to meet. More family to impress. "Your mom, too?"

She paused before answering. "No. Not this time."

"But I thought everyone you invited—?"

"They are. But it's mostly your Dad's family that comes to these parties. Well, my sisters—Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Tina, they'll be there. But your grandma, well. She and my Dad travel a lot. You'll meet them someday. I'm just not sure when."

Stuart thought this over quietly as he cleaned his face. He was still too full of uncertainties, but his worry was shifting primarily for Mom. While he wouldn't weigh the Littles down with the knowledge, Stuart had had traumatic moments in his past, as orphans tended to. And he was certain that he recognized trauma in someone else when he saw it.

What in the world could've just taken possession of her like that? And what did it have to do with mentioning grandma? If this were a kid, or a friend, Stuart would pry if it meant there was a chance to help them. But it was harder with a grownup. It seemed clear Mom was not exactly 'okay'. Not in those grimly silent moments after her sentence had trailed off, with her eyes cast far into the distance. anyway.

Stuart decided to spare her the trouble of having to make up a child-friendly lie. For now, he would ask no more questions about Mom's mom.

Someday he'd have to tell the Littles about Thorne. Maybe it was irrational to imagine a bully would hold a grudge strong enough to cross the city about. But Stuart would, one day, like to be transparent about something that terrified him this much.

But all became suddenly unimportant as he was dropped back off into bed, crawled between the sea of warm, sweet smelling sheets, and fell into a deep sleep. So deep that this time, he never heard the bedroom door open again. Bradley Thorne was far from the only one who had an ax to grind with the mouse. Though he was a significantly lower threat on Stuart's radar, Snowbell was not only there in the house, but standing in the doorway, the light of the hallway lamp casting his white fur in an ominous blue glow. "Look at 'em. Can't spell brat without 'rat'."

For the last few days, Snowbell had been staying as far away from Stuart as he could. If he couldn't take the trash to the curb, best to be away from its stench entirely.

But when he heard Mrs. Little and Stuart in the bathroom, curiosity led him up to the door crack. And the way his anger ignited at what he saw…

She waits on him hand and foot, carries him to bed… what's next? Spoon feeding? Wiping his bottom? Where's that kind of love when I cough up a hairball? Why do I get chastised, while he gets the backrub? This isn't FAIR!

He remembered feeling something similar when George was born. A pink skinned baby, good for nothing more than a lot of noise, and a lot of stink. His disruption of the stillness and calm of what had previously been a childless home was enough to make Snowbell despise his existence. But the Littles owners were over the moon with George. Wrapped up in their new little mini human, just as any mother cat would her kittens. It's just that Mrs. Little was unlikely to find herself in a position where she needed to carry George across a busy, 4-Lane highway with her teeth.

Eventually, Snowbell got used to George. And while his inability to speak to humans gave him an excuse not to say it out loud, the cat had become fairly close with the boy. Sitting at his feet while he worked on his times tables, and opting to sleep at the end of George's bed when he was allowed to.

But this… thing? This rat child? He was nothing like George. Looks aside, George was quiet. George was reserved. Harmless. And when he did speak, George was brutally honest. Though it got him in trouble, Snowbell was fond of this quality.

Stuart was none of these things. He was nosy, presumptuous, and chattered too much. As if to justify his point, Stuart murmured in his sleep. "No…" His nose twitched, and in the light of the hallway, his whiskers twinkled with a tantalizing platinum sheen. "Stop…"

Snowbell leaped onto the bed, excited to see him in this state of unease. Especially as it seemed to be about him. "Yes. be afraid, mousey boy," he growled, just over a whisper. Snowbell crawled right over to him, standing just over his sleeping form.
"l—"

"Uh…" Stuart's eyes opened just a crack.

"Hello." Snowbell's teeth gleamed.

But when the mouse registered the cat, he looked dumbfounded for the briefest of moments before giving a weak, little smile. "Hi, Snow."

Hi, Snow.

HI, SNOW?

THAT'S IT?

Two infuriating syllables were never uttered.

At least not for the next few seconds, until groggy and feverish Stuart reached up over the comforter and patted the top of Snowbell's paw. "Good kitty." And with that simple note of appreciation for his company, turned on his side and away from the cat.

Snowbell was breaking.

Good. Kitty.

GOOD. KITTY?

HOW

DARE

Screw it.

Screw everything. No rat is going to talk to me like his pet. Not anymore. He's history!

Snowbell was going to kill him. He'd figure out how to save himself from the consequences later, but this was it. Stuart Little was no more.

Only, now that he had Stuart in the most vulnerable state he was gonna find him had it occurred to Snowbell that he'd… never actually killed a mouse before. Actually, he'd never killed anything before, if chasing a spider down the shower drain didn't count. Sure, he's torn stuffed mice to shreds as a kitten, and imagined them begging for mercy as their stuffing fell out. It made him feel good to be useful in some way. To know that he was ready to earn his keep as soon as opportunity presented itself.

But the Littles had a mouse problem, and Snowbell was never obligated to take care of one. He was an indoor cat who was fed from a bowl, and his only exposure to rodents was what he'd heard about them from the alley cats. He'd got the gist of them Monty the Mouth, and even then, Snowbell always got the suspicion that Monty was too soft to outright kill one. He thought for sure that when the time came, that he'd be different.

He was different, wasn't he?

Every hair on his body felt like it was standing on end. Every cell was poised for the attack. He was ready.

Do it. Do it now.

Steps from down the hallway packed on the pressure. The Littles were near. He had to act now.

He pictured Stuart crying out for help. Pictured the mouse in his teeth, at his mercy. To disrupt him from this blissful sleep. This infuriating, miserable, rotten kid. This-

This… what did I just call him?

"George asleep already?"

"I hope so."

The Littles were nearing. He had seconds to do it. He had all the time in the world, and it was almost out. He spent more time fantasizing about the kid than-

Stop calling him a kid. HE'S NOT A KID. HE'S A RAT. A FILTHY, DISGUSTING… helpless… harmless …

Snowbell shook his head. WHAT is wrong with me?

Too late. The door to the room next door opened, casting his backside in harsh, yellow light. Snowbell jumped off the bed and ran beneath the bed, turning to face the door crack. Only his eyes would give him away. They gleamed a monster green in shadow under the box spring.

"He's been so stressed out about these pop quizzes lately…" Mrs. Little's voice was considerably soft. "By the time he falls asleep it's after midnight, and I have to fight to get him up in the morning."

"There's no reason a nine year olds should lose sleep over schoolwork. Lord knows I didn't. You don't think we're putting too much pressure on him?"

"I can't remember the last time we've even brought his grades up to him. Do you think it's about something else?"

"But what could be keeping him up at night? Hm. Maybe it's time to step in for some tutoring. How's Stuart doing?"

"I think the worst of it's over now. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I'm still wondering if we should bring him to the hospital."

"Dr. Beechwood said he'll be okay. But if he's still not well tomorrow, we'll take him down tomorrow, together. Even if I have to call in for it. Now come on, let's not wake them up…"

That conversation haunted Snowbell, even as the couple left the hallway, their steps quieting and eventually disappearing somewhere down the stairs.

In most situations, there was an obvious right, and there was an obvious wrong. There was the new and risky, and the tried and true. There was fact, and there was fiction.

There was a family, and there were invaders.

Stuart was a stranger. An intruder. And his presence was like a constant, incessant itch that could not be scratched. Snowbell hated everything about Stuart, and that he could not get rid of him.

The only thing he possibly hated more was the very notion, the split second consideration that there could be anything holding him back from killing Stuart than the consequences he himself would have to face.

The tiny lump under the covers above him, still breathing, despite everything working against him, was a mouse. A bonafide, long tailed, big eared, fur covered, pink palmed mouse. Snowbell wanted Stuart to fit the image he'd come to understand about these home invading, disease spreading pests of his kind. Only good for trouble. Thoroughly unwanted.

But Stuart just didn't quite fit the way Snowbell wanted him to.

Thinking about him in his little plaid pajamas, he bore a slight resemblance to George, back when he was just four years old, sick at home with the flu. After years of resenting his existence, Snowbell sat on the boy's bed for hours, attempting to comfort George with his purrs and general nudges. It was that day that Snowbell had sort of unofficially accepted George Little as his new, little master.

What had made Stuart believe Snowbell had come to do the same for him? Had he not done enough to make it clear he was no pet to Stuart? Was the kid just stupid? Would he not understand how this worked? Was it because they treated him like he was human or something? Or was he…

"... just a kid…" whispered the cat to the silence under the bed. As the yellow hallway light shut off, his harsh green eyes turned a softer shade of meadow green.

Our first necessary appearance of Snowbell. Yayyy. Don't get me wrong, I love Snowbell, but this is the first chapter where I can find a relevant place to talk about his character. And I may be softening him up to Stuart pretty early, but I think it's important that he starts seeing similarities in him and George that quickly make his reasoning for not killing Stuart more complicated than getting himself thrown out of the house. I really think Snowbell doesn't want to kill Stuart early on. He just wants him out of the house, gone, somewhere else, so that he doesn't have to live with this massive dent in his pride anymore. Thus better explain why the Stouts MUST come into play the way they do, rather than, say, stage a scene where Smoky kills Stuart on the street in front of everyone.

Maybe I've been thinking too hard about it. Either way, grump characters like Snowbell are just more interesting when they care more than they want to admit. Gotta got to work, double checking for typos later.