Chapter Text
Damp grass soaks Littlewood's belly as he squeezes under a gap in the twoleg fence. The wire presses into his back and pulls at his fur, and when he makes it to the other side, tufts of his cream fur are caught in it.
There's a tail-length of grass from the fence to where the hard, scratchy ground that only exists in twolegplace begins. Littlewood's pawpads always start to ache after walking around here for a while, and Carrionpetal has to put a poultice on his scratched-up pads.
He enjoys his trips to twolegplace, though. Sometimes kittypets will get all hissy with him about being on their "territory" (a silly thing, what they deem their territory), and he'll just flash his claws and they'll go running back into their nest.
Or, some kittypets like to hear his stories about living in the wild, and fawn over how strong and brave he is. Who can turn down admiration from any-cat, even if it's a kittypet?
Plus— and he knows it's probably against the warrior code to eat twoleg food, but— they leave scraps of perfectly good prey in boxes outside their nests! He'd once thought it was a twoleg fresh-kill pile, but he asked a kittypet and he told them it was food they didn't want anymore!
Why would Littlewood, as a warrior who looks out for himself, not take free food? Because the code says not to? Silly.
He leaps up on to a wall, that surrounds a small area of grass. It's weedy, and dead in places, but the bin (a cat had called them that before) propped up against the back of the nest looks full.
Littlewood trots along the wall until he can drop down on to the lid of the bin. It makes a loud clang! as he lands, but he pays it little mind. Getting the lid off is never easy, especially these shiny ones, but he's a warrior. He can do anything.
He loops a paw into the ring on top, and flings his weight back. He goes toppling to the ground alongside the lid, but it gets the job done, doesn't it?
He climbs back up, and slices the black bag inside open with his claws. He's worked out the bag makes the scraps turn to crow-food slower, so he's more likely to get good prey out of this.
There's some thin pieces of meat—something salty, he's never tasted anything like it in the forest— and some kind of bird-meat that takes his fancy, and so he takes it in his gob.
“Oi! What do you think you're doing?”
Littlewood jolts, pouncing up on to the wall with his instinct to flee. He's still chewing, for StarClan's sake!
The source of the voice is a black-and-white cat standing at the entrance to the twoleg nest, tail held high above them. They stare at him with yellow eyes, like they actually think they'll be able to fight him off. Hilarious.
“I said, what do you think you're doing? This is my garden.” The cat repeats. Littlewood wants to laugh at the pathetic attempt to intimidate him.
“I was eating,” Littlewood states, because that much is obvious. “Doesn't look like your garden, anyways, your name isn't on it.” It isn't, to be fair. Kittypets never tend to actually mark their territory, or even use the grass near their nests as a dirtplace (he's starting to think they make dirt inside. Gross).
The cat makes a frustrated noise. “It doesn't need my name on it, I'm telling you it's mine! Get out of here, now, before I— I kill you!”
Don't laugh, Littlewood, it's improper. “Kill me?” It's hard not to let the amusement show in his voice. This cat looks like they could barely swat at a fly.
“Don't think I won't!”
“No, no, I don't doubt it,” Littlewood drops off the wall and on to the grass, pads over to the cat. They are taller than him, but their fur is short and he can see that there's barely a muscle on their body. “I'm shaking in fear.”
The cat goes to retort, but when they open their mouth they must catch his scent for the first time (kittypets don't have great noses). “You don't smell like a stray.” They comment, wisely.
A stray is what kittypets call cats without twolegs that still live in twolegplace. They call cats from the forest, like him, feral. “No.” Littlewood affirms, but doesn't elaborate any further.
The cat suddenly looks quite a bit more nervous, they've probably realized he's an actual threat (well, not really, Littlewood isn't one to throw his strength around and beat up poor kittypets for fun, but still).
“Well— I don't care if you're a feral cat, you're still in my garden!” They hiss. Littlewood is... actually impressed by the guts this cat has.
“You're brave.” Littlewood compliments, before flicking his tail and returning to the bin. Well, he tries, but the kittypet drags him back by the tail. They're testing it now.
“Who do you think you are?” The kittypet accuses once Littlewood's fluffy tail is out of their mouth.
“Littlewood,” he chirps. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, and you are?”
“Why would I tell you that?”
“So that after you beat me up, I can tell every cat in the forest who not to mess with.” Littlewood purrs. The kittypet looks like they're thinking of plucking his whiskers out.
“...Mumbo.”
“Powerful name, Mumble,” he says it wrong on purpose. “Er, sorry if it's rude to ask but, are you a tom?” A lot of kittypets get their reproductive organs removed (cruel if you ask Littlewood, he can't imagine a life without his!), so it's hard to tell by scent what their sex is. This cat's voice sounds like a tom, but, well, that isn't always a great way to know. Trans cats exist.
“Uh, yes?” Mumbo looks confused. “Is it... not obvious?”
“Well, I didn't want to assume anything.”
“...Right,” Mumbo seems to relax a little, though he doesn't ease his stance. Littlewood does, he sits down and curls his tail around his paws, because he's pretty confident Mumbo isn't gonna try anything. “Why are you here? Forest cats never come here.”
Littlewood gestures to the bin with his tail. “Food, plus some cats are really into the whole rugged wild-cat thing. You wouldn't believe all the she-cats I get rolling at my paws. And toms.” He winks. What does he even intend with that? He doesn't know, but Mumbo's fur puffs out and he looks at his paws, which is a good enough reaction for Littlewood.
“I heard forest cats hated town cats?” Mumbo questions, trying to steer away from Littlewood half-attempt at flirting.
“Eh. Frown upon, maybe. Something about pride, and that being a kittypet is way too easy, so we should reject it, but I don't care about that stuff. If there's free food and adoring fans here, I'm not gonna deny myself it.”
“Adoring fans,” Mumbo echoes in whisper, barely audible. “Why don't you just... become a housecat, then? It'd stop you rifling through my bin.”
Littlewood scoffs. “I didn't say I had no pride. I'm deputy of my Clan, you seriously think I'd give up becoming leader one day just for a warm nest and that gross mush kittypets eat?”
“You're the deputy?” Mumbo questions in disbelief. “You don't seem the type.”
There's a lot Mumbo could be implying. Sure, Littlewood's a bit overweight from all his twolegplace trips, but that doesn't make him unfit to lead. It's more likely he means his lax-attitude towards the warrior code, which is fair.
“Yeah? Try saying that when I bring back a whole patrol of warriors to stand in your garden. I'm petty enough to do it.”
“Don't do that, if they're all as annoying as you are my fur will start falling out.”
“That'd be an improvement.”
“Oi!” Mumbo bristles.
“I'm joking,” Littlewood sighs. “You're plenty handsome.” He's mostly teasing, but he also isn't lying. Littlewood isn't usually that into toms, but, well, this one is tall, his markings are pretty, and his eyes are a nice shade of yellow. His flirting is as much real and it is just to wind Mumbo up.
Mumbo laughs, but it's dry. “Wish I could say the same.”
“Hey!” Littlewood scolds, but there's no anger at all. He knows he's pretty, he doesn't need this cat to tell him it! “You wish you were half the cat I am, mate. Have you seen my whiskers?”
“I've been doing my best not to look at you.” Mumbo retorts, and Littlewood laughs deeply.
“I like that. You're funny. Tell you what, I had a great dinner, why don't we have our second date at my place?” Littlewood taps his tail against Mumbo's shoulder, before leaping up on to the wall and plonking down on the other side. “Ta-ra!”
As he skulks back to the wire fence, he can hear a flustered “What?!” shouted from the other side of the wall.