Work Text:
Plumkit had a bone to pick with the stars.
She understood StarClan was busy, she really did. But when not even one of her prayers had been answered, not even one of the small ones like for Thriftkit and Flipkit to stop waking up and crying in the middle of the night, she really had to wonder, was any cat listening?
Whipping her fluffy tail around, she gave the stars her best glower. It always made Stemkit or Eaglekit shut up (though it never worked on Flipkit when he was wailing). Shellkit usually didn’t need shutting up. Still, no spirit came down to apologize for keeping her as an apprentice for a truly unfair length of time. Six moons was longer than a lifetime. Longer than her lifetime, anyway.
Plumkit furtively scanned the clearing around the nursery to make sure no cat would hear as she whispered, “Mouse-dung!”
She braced herself for Blossomfall to swoop down and rebuke her for swearing, but the night was quiet and most cats had cleared out of the open air of camp. Boring! she thought. This was the worst time of day; no cat wanted to do anything fun, but Plumkit didn’t want to go to bed just yet. She was hardly tired!
“Plumkit?” The squeak came from the entrance of the nursery.
Plumkit whirled around—Finally! Some cat’s awake!—and then deflated when she saw the skinny gray kit. “Oh. Thrifkit.”
Her denmate didn’t seem to notice her unenthusiastic tone and tottered over quite peaceably. “What are you doing?”
Plumkit huffed. Thriftkit couldn’t possibly understand the intense discourse she was locked in with their ancestors, so instead she said, “Stargazing.”
That sounded like a very grown-up thing to do, and indeed, Thriftkit’s eyes widened, impressed. They had turned yellow a moon ago. Yellow according to Plumkit, anyway. Fernsong insisted on calling them ‘pale amber’ but in Plumkit’s mind, there was room for one kit with amber eyes in the nursery, and it was her.
“Did you see a shooting star?” Thriftkit asked, peering up at the sky. “My mom says shooting stars are evil cats getting thrown out of StarClan.”
Plumkit pffted. “Every cat knows Ivypool makes up scary stories to make you lot behave.” She didn’t need to talk about how she hadn’t left the nursery for days after Ivypool had told them about Maggottail and his soulless eyes. That was certainly not relevant to the conversation at paw, nor were the words Blossomfall had with Ivypool over the whole ordeal.
“She does not! My mom isn’t a liar!” Thriftkit exclaimed. “Besides, we’re the best behaved kits in ThunderClan. Every cat says so.”
Plumkit put on her older kit that knows the ways of the world much better than you do tone. “Well-behaved kits are just kits who aren’t smart enough to act out.”
Thriftkit jumped to her paws, fluffing out her gray fur. She looked like an angry pinecone, Plumkit thought. “We’re smart! Bristlekit knows more fighting moves than Snappaw and Flypaw and Spotpaw, and Flipkit’s memorized, like, ten of the best elder stories!”
“But you never do anything fun,” Plumkit sighed and examined her paw in a display of boredom she had stolen from Flypaw. “I bet you’ve never even snuck out of camp.” Neither had Plumkit, but again; irrelevant.
Thriftkit’s eyes widened. “Have too! We sneak out of camp—we sneak out all the time!”
“Liar.”
“We do!”
“Then let’s do it now,” Plumkit challenged. “You can lead the way, since you know the territory so well.”
Thriftkit gulped, but certainly wasn’t going to back down from a dare. “Fine! Let’s.”
Their first obstacle was Lilyheart, who was sitting on guard just at the entrance of the thorn tunnel. Plumkit gave Thriftkit another expectant look, and the kit shook out her pelt.
“I know what to do,” Thriftkit muttered, eyes roving over the camp as if a secret exit would present itself. “Erm… here, this way.”
They hared across the silent camp, darting around patches of crunchy grass to avoid alerting Lilyheart, and then Thriftkit ducked under the thorns that bordered the dirtplace.
“Ew,” Plumkit grumbled, squeezing after her denmate. “This isn’t the way I usually go.”
Thriftkit didn’t dignify that with an answer and instead gazed around the forest. Night had swept a coat of blue and black over the glimpses of sunny forest Plumkit had seen before. Everything looked unfamiliar and shadowy. Thriftkit padded forward, sticking her tail straight up.
“This way,” the kit announced and set off. Plumkit followed her, sudden uncertainty pricking her paws. What if we get lost? What if a fox gets us?
She sniffed the air like she had seen some warriors do when they returned to camp. That’s Spotpaw’s scent! And Flypaw’s, too! Well, if the apprentices had gone this way before, there were no foxes, right?
“The training hollow,” Thriftkit said proudly. They had reached a mossy clearing and as Plumkit bent to examine the ground, she found scuff marks that looked like the ground when Eaglekit and Stemkit wrestled.
She darted a look at the other kit. Has she actually been here before? Still, this was new, this was exciting, and there was no cat telling her to go to bed! She padded into the clearing, staring up at the trees that lurched over it, their roots a tangle of moss and leaf-litter. The moon peeked out from behind their criss-crossing branches, silver and bright against the dark sky.
“Let’s spar!” Thriftkit exclaimed, bouncing over to the opposite side of the clearing and waggling her haunches like she was ready to pounce on Plumkit.
Plumkit rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Fine.”
Undaunted, Thriftkit dashed at her and clumsily knocked her to the ground. Perhaps Bristlekit was some sort of fighting prodigy, but Thriftkit wasn’t. Plumkit pushed her off with her broader shoulders and then sent the gray kit tumbling across the clearing. Her fur fluffed up with excitement—this was the closest to real training she’d get for moons!—and she chased after Thriftkit, pouncing on her the way Spotpaw had shown her.
“Ow!” Thriftkit yelped as she rolled. “My paw! It’s broken!”
Plumkit’s heart leapt into her throat. “No, it isn’t! Don’t be such a squeaky-mouse. Let me see.”
She bent over Thriftkit, who was lying prone with her ‘broken’ paw flung far out. The paw seemed straight enough to Plumkit.
“It doesn’t look broken,” Plumkit pronounced, prodding it. Thriftkit looked over and when she saw Plumkit touching it, let out a yowl of pain. “Shush!” Plumkit hissed. “The foxes will hear you. I’ll get something for it.”
She left Thriftkit lying there, still groaning, and nosed around in the bushes for a moment. There was cobweb gathered at the hollow of one of the trees, and underneath it little sprigs of some kind of plant were growing. Well, if it’s growing near the cobwebs, it’s medicine, right? Plumkit reasoned. StarClan put it there so Jayfeather would have an easier time.
With careful nips, Plumkit harvested her little stock of medicine, and then returned to Thriftkit. “I’ve got some herbs,” she announced.
Thriftkit groaned, then peeked an eye open to see what Plumkit had brought. “Do you have any idea what that is?”
“Of course,” Plumkit blustered. She and Stemkit had hung around Jayfeather’s den plenty. Mostly because Aunt Briarlight gave them honey and little treats sometimes, but Thriftkit didn’t need to know any of that. “These are cobwebs and this is…” She placed the green sprigs on the ground gently and examined them. Small, fuzzy green leaves. “Mint weed.” That sounded right.
Thriftkit gave the arrangement a suspicious look, then dropped her head back onto the mossy ground. “Do what you must.”
Plumkit, feeling very grown-up and knowledgeable in that moment, chewed up the stinky herbs without complaining once, smeared it on Thriftkit’s black pads, and secured it all in a shaky cobweb-wrap. Jayfeather would be very proud, she thought.
“Wow!” Thriftkit jumped to her paws and tested out her weight on the newly-healed foot. “That’s amazing! Are you going to be a medicine cat?”
Plumkit snorted and tried not to visibly glow with the praise. “Of course not, don’t be a mouse-brain. Medicine cats aren’t allowed to do, like, anything. And I’m not blind, so Jayfeather would probably say no. Who would even want to have to be peaceful all the time and not have a family, though?”
“Jayfeather has a family!” Thriftkit scoffed. “He has Lionblaze and Squirrelflight and Bramblestar, mouse-brain yourself.”
Plumkit scowled, then dug her little claws into the moss underfoot. “Well, that’s different. I mean like the family you choose for yourself.”
“Like a mate!” Thriftkit exclaimed, then collapsed into giggles. Plumkit gave her another of her fiercest glowers. “Plumkit’s on the moon patrol! Plumkit’s on the moon patrol! Who is it?”
“No one,” Plumkit snapped. “You’re so nosy! Eventually, I’ll have a mate.” She fluffed out her fur haughtily. “Most cats do. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Toms are gross, that’s what!” Thriftkit started giggling again. “Bristlekit’s always padding after Stemkit. It’s embarrassing! I saw him eat a slug, once! I bet if they have kits, it’ll just be a litter of slugs!”
“Gross!” Plumkit exclaimed. “I’m not going to be mates with someone who eats slugs.”
Thriftkit flicked her tail. “Who, then?”
Plumkit straightened. “If you must know, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“I’ll have to wrestle it out of you!” Thriftkit announced, and started waggling her haunches again. The broken foot forgotten, they began to tussle again.
Dare You
Plumpaw was the most annoying furball in the Clan, Thriftpaw had decided.
“You’re not even a little bit nervous?” Thriftpaw demanded.
Plumpaw paused grooming with a little huff as if Thriftpaw were a gnat buzzing in front of her nose. Then she turned her orange gaze on her soon-to-be-ex-denmate and said, “Of course not. I would only be nervous if I thought I’d done badly, and I did the best out of my whole litter.”
Thriftpaw snorted at her arrogance.
Stempaw gave a yelp of protest from the clump of apprentices next to them. “I caught that massive wood pigeon, don’t you remember? Rosepetal said she’d never seen one so big in new-leaf!”
“I think it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen,” Bristlepaw offered shyly, darting a glance at Stempaw, who shot her a gratified look. Bristlepaw glowed. “Besides, you shouldn’t boast, Plumpaw.”
Plumpaw scoffed. “So we’re not even going to mention my five mice?!”
“You’ve mentioned them a lot,” Shellpaw murmured, earning a clout over the ear from his sister.
Thriftpaw opened her jaws to tell Plumpaw five mice wasn’t much at all when they were as puny as the ones she’d found, when over came Snaptooth, Flywhisker, and Spotfur.
“How’d the assessments go?” Spotfur asked, blue eyes gleaming at the prospect of a ceremony.
"Good! I mean, pretty good. I mean, I did pretty good,” Stempaw stammered, further tripping over his tongue as the pretty warrior turned her gaze to him. “Um. How about you?”
She purred like it was a joke and then looked at Plumpaw. “And you? I heard about the mice.”
Plumpaw fluffed her fur out, looking immensely pleased with herself. Thriftpaw scowled, something inside her bristling at the way Plumpaw was preening for Spotfur. She’s such a show-off!
“I’m going to eat them all by myself after the ceremony,” Plumpaw declared, swiping her tongue over her jaws. Thriftpaw shoved her with one bony shoulder.
“You’ll be as fat as Graystripe by the time you’re old enough for an apprentice!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t you talk about my grandfather that way!” Plumpaw exclaimed, eyes sparking. She tackled Thriftpaw, who jumped forward in time to crash into Plumpaw and knock her to the ground first. They started scuffling in a cloud of dust and sheathed paws.
Shellpaw gave a world-weary sigh and Eaglepaw delicately stepped out of their path as they rolled.
“Kits! You’re going to get dirty!” Blossomfall’s cry from the other side of the clearing broke up their fight. Thriftpaw jumped to her feet like it had been no exertion at all, and shook the dust out of her gray pelt. “I just heard the news from Squirrelflight and Mousewhisker! The ceremonies will be at dusk. You need to start grooming!”
Plumpaw huffed, darting out of the way as her mother hurried over to try in vain to smooth down the bristly patch of fur that Thriftpaw had disturbed in their tussle. “I’m fine, Mom! It’s Thriftpaw’s fault anyway.”
“Is not!” Thriftpaw snapped, then grinned. “Here, I’ll help.” She leapt on Plumpaw again, licking her paw and then scrubbing at a bit of imaginary dirt on Plumpaw’s ear. Plumpaw let out a yowl of protest, but it was too late. Blossomfall had descended as well.
When dusk finally came, Plumpaw was so thoroughly smoothed that she looked like a rather shiny rock. Thriftpaw couldn’t help scowling. I accidentally made her prettier for her ceremony. Well, that’s not fair. Still, she supposed she could enjoy the view while Plumpaw went through the motions. Bramblestar called them up one by one.
Mousewhisker, Bumblestripe, Rosepetal, and Ambermoon were all sitting beneath the Highledge, proud as mother hens.
“Maybe she’ll get named Plummouse for that amazing hunting trip,” Flippaw muttered to her and Thriftpaw giggled.
Squirrelflight shot her a quelling look from under the Highledge and Thriftpaw’s fur heated. Plumpaw also looked down at her with a frown, and Thriftpaw wasn’t sure why, but she found herself mouthing, “Good luck!”
Plumpaw seemed almost startled, then shook out her fur, gave Thriftpaw a brusque nod, and turned back to Bramblestar and Mousewhisker.
She wasn’t named Plummouse. Thriftpaw was even more indignant; Plumstone was an unfairly lovely name for someone as prickly as a pinecone. Plumstone hopped off the Highledge, greeted her parents, then bee-lined for Thriftpaw.
“Well?”
“Well?” Thriftpaw echoed, trying not to put on too insulting of a tone to mimic her. “Congratulations, I guess.”
“You guess?” Just based on the way Plumstone’s fur rose along her spine, Thriftpaw was sure Plumstone was expecting a little more fawning. Which was absurd! Thriftpaw had never fawned in her life.
“I like Stemleaf’s name,” Thriftpaw offered, already knowing that would provoke a fun reaction. Indeed, Plumstone’s fur fluffed out properly. Pinecone. Just like I said.
“His name is just ‘plant’ twice!” Plumstone exclaimed, shooting a disapproving look at her brother. Stemleaf was already excitedly joining the circle of young warriors with Spotfur and her brothers. Thriftpaw didn’t miss the way Plumstone’s hostile look fell heavily on the gray, spotted she-cat herself.
“Jealous?”
“Why would I be jealous?” Plumstone snapped, altogether too indignant for Thriftpaw not to guess exactly what was going through the tortoiseshell’s mind. “I don’t care what that furball does with his time!”
“And Spotfur?”
Plumstone glowered. “Spotfur evidently has terrible taste.”
Thriftpaw let out a mrrow of amusement. Sour badger. “What about me? I must have great taste if I’m hanging around you.”
Plumstone stuck out her chin. “Maybe you do!”
Thriftpaw purred more as Plumstone realized she’d been coerced into complimenting Thriftpaw in order not to insult herself. Plumstone tossed her head, stretching out her front legs in a gesture that reminded Thriftpaw of Briarlight, then said, “Well, unless you want to sit around in silence for a whole vigil, you should go find some cat else to pester.”
Thriftpaw huffed. “First, my presence is a gift, and second, I don’t have to be quiet. I could pester you all night.”
Plumstone looked agonized at the mere idea. “Please don’t.”
“Well, now I feel like I have to.”
“You really don’t.”
“I do want to, though.”
In the end, Thriftpaw didn’t do much pestering. Plumstone seemed obstinately set on not speaking at all the moment the sun properly dipped behind the trees. Stemleaf went up to the edge of the camp, while Eaglewing and Shellfur stationed themselves by the bramble tunnel. Plumstone and Thriftpaw found a nice place behind the elder’s den to wait for sunrise.
“Nice view of the sky,” Thriftpaw commented. Plumstone glanced at her, then the sky, and nodded. “We can stargaze,” she joked. Plumstone nodded again. “I don’t know if it counts as a silent vigil if you still communicate.”
Plumstone gave her a blank look and Thriftpaw sighed.
“This is boring.”
Plumstone nodded toward the apprentice’s den as if to say, Go ahead, then.
Thriftpaw huffed, and sat, tucking her paws under her chest. “I see a star.”
Plumstone snorted as the ‘star’ flickered, and moved across the sky. Thriftpaw frowned.
“Well, maybe it’s an evil cat getting kicked out of StarClan.”
Plumstone rolled her eyes.
Dare You
“Thriftear!” Plumstone called. Though Plumstone had been sure to make her greeting much quieter than every cat else’s, the tall gray she-cat turned her pale amber—Yellow, Plumstone mentally corrected—gaze toward the tortoiseshell first.
Flipclaw dashed over to greet Bristlefrost and Fernsong, while Thriftear hopped down, accepted congratulations from Ivypool, then made her way over to where Plumstone was sitting with her littermates.
“Well done,” Plumstone said loftily and Thriftear snorted, looking down her muzzle at Plumstone the way she had taken to doing.
Then Thriftear said, “Thank you,” and cocked her head. After a heartbeat, Plumstone blinked at her. Shellfur coughed quietly. Thriftear added slowly, “Well. I’m going to go get something to eat.”
The new warrior paused again, with an extra-meaningful stare at Plumstone. Plumstone blinked again and said, “Of course. You’ve earned it.”
Thriftear let out a huff, then whirled around and left them. If Plumstone didn’t know better, she would have said Thriftear was in a sulking mood. Which was ridiculous. This was her warrior ceremony; what did she have to be sulky about?
Eaglewing gave her a shove from next to her.
“What?” Plumstone snapped.
Her sister stared at her, then rolled her eyes. “Great StarClan. This is getting ridiculous.”
“What’s getting ridiculous?” Plumstone asked insistently.
Shellfur chose that moment to chime in with, “Does she still not know?”
“Know what?!”
Eaglewing and Shellfur shared a look over Plumstone’s head that made Plumstone want to box their ears, then Eaglewing finally said, “Why don’t you go share prey with Thriftear?”
Plumstone frowned, looking across the clearing at where Thriftear had gone to join her littermates and their parents. “She probably wants to be with her family right now.”
Eaglewing muttered something that provoked a snort from Shellfur. Plumstone raked a fiery look over the two of them, then stalked off to go find less annoying company.
It took her nearly a moon to wrangle it out of her siblings.
“Are you dense?” Eaglewing finally asked as gently as she could as they shared tongues one sun-high just outside of camp. “Blind and deaf? Have you been spending all your time on your collection of shiny rocks?”
“Get to the point,” Plumstone snapped.
Eaglewing shook her head, looking faintly pained. “Thriftear has been trying to get your attention for moons.”
Plumstone blinked. Then she snorted. “What are you on about?”
“Forget it,” Eaglewing sighed.
“No, seriously!” Plumstone planted herself in front of Eaglewing as her sister tried to escape the little copse of trees where they were chatting. “Calling me dense when you can’t tell that Thriftear obviously can’t stand me?”
Eaglewing’s immensely scornful expression did not have time to blossom to its full potential when on cue, Thriftear herself poked her narrow gray head through the honeysuckle bush.
“Plumstone? There you are.” Thriftear’s tail-tip twitched back and forth like she was agitated. “I was… um, I mean, did you want to go… share prey, or something? Flipclaw said… er, nevermind.”
Plumstone peered at her.
Thriftear fidgeted.
“What in the name of StarClan are you waiting for?” Eaglewing hissed, shoving her.
Plumstone shoved her sister back then cleared her throat. “Sure, Thriftear.”
Thriftear’s ears pricked. “Awesome! I mean, great.” Then she whipped around and disappeared back out into the territory. Plumstone stood, stretched, and pointedly avoided Eaglewing’s stare.
Eaglewing cleared her throat but Plumstone pushed her way out of the honeysuckle bush, all without receiving Eaglewing’s searing, I told you so stare.
As Plumstone padded back to camp, she did something that she tried her best to avoid, most days. She began to think, and quite determinedly.
Eaglewing’s wrong, right? Surely. Because if Thriftear was padding after me… Plumstone frowned as a inchworm inched its way across her path. That would be a mess, wouldn’t it? I mean, we’re hardly friends. And I don’t really… I suppose I wouldn’t mind if we were closer. But I’ve never thought of her that way, have I?
Just as Plumstone was ducking through the thorn tunnel, she caught sight of Thriftear standing by the fresh-kill pile, her long tail twitching rather nervously. She’s not really… the pretty sort, Plumstone thought, pausing as she considered her denmate. Thriftear had received her mother’s long, skinny build and looked like she would be more at home on WindClan’s moors. Her fur was even and glossy enough, Plumstone supposed, but it didn’t have any of the complex patterning that ThunderClan’s resident heartthrobs flaunted.
And yet, when Thriftear turned to welcome her over, her pale amber—Yellow—eyes glowing in the understated leaf-bare sunshine, Plumstone suddenly missed a step and scrambled to get her balance back on the slick earth. Beautiful in certain lightings, then.
“What were you and Eaglewing talking about?” Thriftear asked, whisking her thin tail out of the way to make space for Plumstone.
“Nothing, really,” Plumstone mumbled. Thriftear gave her a curious look and Plumstone squirmed, then the gray she-cat shrugged.
“Alright.” Thriftear squinted at her. “Keep your secrets, I guess.”
“I don’t have secrets,” Plumstone flashed back hotly. Mouse-brained Eaglewing. She got in my head, and now I’m acting weird.
Thriftear frowned at Plumstone’s tone. Plumstone pushed past her and grabbed a mouse off the pile, then gulped it down fiercely. Let’s get this over with. Thriftear isn’t padding after me and Eaglewing still has fluff in her brain.
Plumstone straightened, licking her whiskers. Thriftear gawked at her and Plumstone’s fur blazed with embarrassment. “What?!”
“You—” Thriftear’s eyes widened, then she snapped, “Didn’t want to share, huh?”
“What are you talking about?” The embarrassment made Plumstone’s temper thin. “If you wanted to share you should have asked!”
“There wasn’t time! You looked like a starved weasel!”
“I was just hungry, fox-heart!”
Thriftear’s lips drew back at the insult. “What if the kits and elders hadn’t eaten?”
“They have,” Plumstone snapped.
“But what if they haven’t?” Thriftear pressed.
“What are you saying? I’m a code-breaker, is that it?”
A new scent hit Plumstone’s mouth suddenly when her grandfather, Graystripe, bounded over. “Hey! What’s the problem here?”
Plumstone whirled to him, needing some other cat to witness how ridiculous Thriftear was being. “She’s a traitor,” Plumstone said, sarcasm thick in her tone, and flicked her tail in Thriftear’s direction. “She’s betrayed ThunderClan!”
“No!” Thriftear’s temper flared again and she hissed at Plumstone, “She’s the one who’s a disgrace to our Clan!”
Graystripe looked baflled. “I don’t care who it is that tells me,” he finally said. “But one of you is going to. Or do we have to take this to Squirrelflight?”
Plumstone flattened her ears. I’m not explaining to Squirrelflight that Thriftear’s being absurd over one little mouse. A moment later, Thriftear seemed to think the same thing and told Graystripe:
“She ate my mouse.”
“It wasn’t your mouse,” Plumstone spat. Let’s be clear on this! “It was me who picked it off the fresh-kill pile!”
“Well, I was going to take it,” Thriftear grunted. “And then she pushed her way in and grabbed it, and gobbled it up. She didn’t even offer to share!”
Plumstone glowered at her and Thriftear avoided her look. Is she mad because she wanted to stretch this out into some long meal?
“That’s what all this is about? One stupid little mouse, when the fresh-kill pile is as full as I’ve ever seen it, in all my many moons?” Graystripe gave a world-weary sigh.
Even as they continued arguing—Does Thriftear not think Squirrelflight is our real leader?!—Plumstone couldn’t shake the feeling that this all could have been avoided if she simply hadn’t spoken to Eaglewing. I wouldn’t act weird around Thriftear if Eaglewing wasn’t talking fluff and nonsense about her mooning over me! She snuck a look at Thriftear again. Right?
“When Firestar was leader…” Graystripe began.
Plumstone groaned. She’d heard this lecture before. “That’s the problem with elders. They’re all stuck in the past! But looking backward won’t help ThunderClan now. We don’t need advice from some bygone moon. Things worked differently then.”
“Yeah,” Thriftear agreed, suddenly stepping next to Plumstone. “Firestar isn’t our leader anymore. And we couldn’t even ask him what he thinks if we wanted to!
StarClan has left us. Our ancestors are gone, and we need to work out how we’re going to survive without them.”
“That’s right,” Plumstone meowed, shooting her denmate a grateful look for the back-up as Graystripe opened his mouth, indignant. “We have to look forward. The old solutions won’t work, and if we keep on thinking they will, then it’s like our minds will be stuffed full of thistle-fluff.”
“Are you saying…” Graystripe stared at his granddaughter.
“She’s saying that your time is over.” Thriftear flicked her tail as if to dismiss Graystripe. “It’s the warriors who make the decisions now, not the elders. Come on, Plumstone. We’ve better things to do.”
Plumstone missed a beat as Thriftear stepped closer to her, brushing their pelts, and then nodded toward the fresh-kill pile. Still, as bad as she felt for yelling at her grandfather in front of both Thriftear and the rest of camp, she was pleased that Thriftear didn’t seem angry anymore.
“I’ll find you another good mouse,” Plumstone promised, hurrying after Thriftear. She knew most cats didn’t shake off their foul moods as quickly as Plumstone usually did.
But when Thriftear turned to her, she seemed to have forgotten the argument as well. “You’re not still mad, are you?”
Plumstone peered at her, waiting for any sign of raised hackles. “No. Are you?”
Thriftear’s ears flicked up and her eyes widened. “No! I’m not, either. Can we just forget that whole thing, then?”
Odd, she thought, and nodded. “Uh… here.” She hooked a fat-breasted gray pigeon out of the pile and laid it at Thriftear’s paws. “This is for you.”
Thriftear snorted. “Did you catch it?”
“No, but—” Plumstone began defensively, then huffed a laugh. “Oh, shush. Here, let’s share.”
And as they settled down together, Plumstone felt a wash of relief. Maybe Thriftear’s like me. Perhaps it was that thought that made her say it, but for whatever reason, Plumstone commented, “You know, Eaglewing thought you were mooning over me or something.”
Thriftear snorted, then coughed, then began to choke on her pigeon. Plumstone yelped with alarm and scanned the clearing for any sign of a medicine cat before Thriftear swallowed and rasped, "What?”
Plumstone chuckled nervously. “Yeah, right? Total mouse-brain.”
The gray she-cat made a noise of agreement and they returned to their pigeon. Still, Plumstone couldn’t help darting glances at Thriftear to see if she might suddenly stare, lovestruck, at Plumstone. When no such lovestruck stare produced itself, Plumstone huffed and decided her sister was definitely, certainly, unequivocally full of thistle-fluff.
“Then again,” Thriftear said with a shrug, “you’re alright to look at, I guess. And you don’t sulk like everyone else. So if there was someone, maybe it would be you.”
Plumstone stared at Thriftear, expecting the she-cat to play it off with a snort, but she merely shrugged again and continued her meal. Well, I’m never going to tell Eaglewing she said that because I’d never hear the end of it. She kept chewing as she thought. I’m alright to look at?! How rude. But I guess it’s nice that she doesn’t sulk either. Plumstone had always been quick to travel through different moods. I guess if I did have a mate, it’d have to be some cat who didn’t mind. And I guess if I did have a mate, I really wouldn't mind if it was her...
She craned her head around the camp to ensure that every cat was still going about their days as normal, to bear witness when she said, “I see. I was sort of thinking the same thing.”
Thriftear’s gaze, yellow as the lemony sunshine, glowed. How did I ever think she was plain? She's really quite lovely. “Really? I mean, of course, we’re young, and I guess… we have to sort out the whole thing with Bramblestar, but…”
Plumstone shrugged. “But…”
“I think I’d like that,” Thriftear said finally, and flicked her ear as if to set it in stone.
Plumstone smiled. “I think I would too.”