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It’s close to one o’clock in the morning. Miss Piggy, having finished her novel and all the good bits of Vogue, is simply sitting up in bed, watching Kermit pace, sit at her dressing table, and pace again in a steady pattern. He’s been doing so for the past fifteen minutes at least. He’s wearing that agitated look he always has when something particularly troubling has happened, like the Mayhem smoking too much wacky baccy before a show, or Gonzo sneaking one more scantily clad chicken into his act than is decent. Something, evidently, is troubling him.
“Oh, Kermit, would you just get into bed? You’re wearing out my carpet. And it’s imported.”
“It’s almost one o’clock.”
Kermit huffs, apparently completely uncaring about the beautiful Parisian shag he’s ruining. Miss Piggy rolls her eyes. Oh, so it’s about that.
“They’re big, grown-up men, Kermie—or, grown-up men. What’re you gonna do, ground them?”
“I would like to know they’re home safely, and not dead in a ditch somewhere—“
“Kermit.”
Kermit, at last, stops pacing, folding his arms like a petulant child.
“Rizzo stays out all the time,” Piggy continues, adjusting her rollers. “That never bothers you. God only knows what Janice gets up to. You don’t even wait up for moi.”
“That’s because you drag me everywhere with you.”
Given that he’s currently throwing a hissy fit in their shared bedroom, Miss Piggy chooses not to entertain that remark. She pats the empty spot in bed beside her in one last attempt to get Kermit to abandon his vigil.
“I’ve warmed it up just for you, ma petite grenouille—“
Just then, there’s the audible scratch of the front door lock, quickly followed by muffled chatter and footsteps. After a few moments, they ascend the stairs. Their conversation is only just audible, clearly whispers, but Kermit can probably hear it all with the way he’s pressed right up against the door. It at least saves Miss Piggy getting out of bed.
Well, if it’s going to keep her from her beauty sleep, she can at least get some gossip out of it.
Finally, the voices reach the landing, and become decipherable as good-nights. There’s an interlude for what Miss Piggy can only assume is a chaste kiss on the cheek, and then the sound of two separate doors closing. At last, Kermit climbs into bed, wearing a scowl that’s only slightly less troubled than it has been for the past hour and a half.
“Satisfied? All perfectly above board.”
“Ten minutes to one…” Kermit grumbles. “What is there to do past eleven?”
Because she is the most mature woman alive, Miss Piggy manages to keep her mouth shut.
“How old is Scooter?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And what about—Who is it? The little cookie?”
“Thirty, I think.”
Realising the futility of even attempting to talk some sense into Kermit, Miss Piggy finally switches her bedside lamp out and settles down into bed. They lie in darkness for a moment.
“Kermie,” Piggy begins, purposefully keeping the teasing edge out of her voice. “I don’t believe Sam the Eagle has been home all evening. Perhaps you should wait up on him?”
“Well, he’s a grown man, Piggy. I don’t see how it’s any of my business.”
Kermit says, so entirely, utterly serious that Miss Piggy snorts a laugh. She rolls over to squish him as one would a beloved teddy bear, and falls asleep more amused by his hypocrisy than she’d ever like to be.
Oh, well. At least he cares.