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"Or what did he do." Wendy clarified. She peered at the cat and he peered back.

"Did you leave someone's kittens to die? Did you cheat a squirrel out of it's life savings? Were you a skinny young a*****e cat who grew big and fluffy to hide from his shady past?"

The cat just stared and eventually made another low rumbling meow sound.

"I think that's a yes... or something."

Wendy's nose wrinkled, "What if he has fleas. He's a stray.." But none had immediately leapt off of him. Still you could never tell and once you took them in was when you got attached.

Catwall seemed to fluff up indignantly as if he heard what she'd said about fleas. He hopped down to the balcony, gave the door in a wide berth, and instead headed for an overturned milk crate in the corner of the balcony that often served as a foot rest. He sat himself on it, half in shadows, and stared at them.

"I don't think he wants to come in.." She straightened, her hand finding Cid's to drag him along as she went for the door with her little pouch in hand. "We'll leave him some more food or something. He's a guaardd."

"Catwall doesn't sit on cushy chairs." Wendy scoffed, giving the cat another look before they went inside. She swore he seemed to disappear into shadows when he sat in them, "Catwall only sits on dirty milk crates- possibly only with the allowance of shredded newspaper. Like his namesake who prefers to sleep in moldy barns."

Wendy was humming the Team America theme song by the time she plopped back on the couch. She'd probably crash here at this point. The movie would be background noise while they snuggled up and did their internet things.. and before real sleep maybe she'd slip Catwall some more scraps out the balcony door.