A/N: 1920s/1930s aesthetic universe but without human history such as the World Wars and the Great Depression. All characters are fully anthropomorphic, wearing clothes, walking on two legs (like in the stage show) and leading very human-esque lives. However, they still have fur and tails, and refer to their "hands" as paws and their "feet" as hind paws.

Thanks to Mudihen for developing this AU with me!

Munkustrap flopped down on the cot in the theater's attic. His back was killing him. All day, he had worked on the set for A Midsummer Night's Dream - painting, hammering, screwing in and sawing apart. He had steamed every costume, secured every lighting truss. He'd changed four lightbulbs and climbed three different ladders - up and down twice on each. He'd been at the theater since seven o'clock that morning. And it was nearly midnight.

He winced as he bent down to take off his loafers and his garters, his back creaking with every little movement he made. The blood rushed to his head while he was bent down; his ears flushed hot and his head pounded, dizzy. His throat was raw with sawdust and he couldn't remember the last bite of food he'd had. Perhaps, he thought, he should go downstairs and eat something. Surely there was something he could eat in the icebox in the greenroom.

No, no, his hind paws were too sore to stand back up, let alone go all the way down two flights of stairs. He'd be alright until morning. So he finished with his shoes and garters and reached for a blanket, then settled down horizontally on his cot, not even bothering to turn off the lamp on the crate he called a bedside table.

Lying down in silence, he was able to take inventory of every ache and pain in his body. He started with his hind paws. They throbbed from constant standing, walking, running errands. Then his legs; though he was lying down, he could feel the muscles twitching. Shaking, really. And his hips felt stiff, and Everlasting knows his back felt ready to snap in half, as did his neck. His shoulders were tense and he could feel a headache coming on. He pressed on the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, hoping desperately to get to sleep before it manifested itself fully.

But he didn't get far. For suddenly, he heard footsteps coming up the attic stairs. His ears stood up, his tired eyes struggling to open. He heard a familiar singing, "When daisies pied and violets blue, and lady-smocks all silver-white, and cuckoo-birds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight…"

Love's Labour's Lost. They had done that one last season.

The singing stopped, and a warm, slightly shaky voice called his name.

"Munkustrap?"

It was Gus. Munkustrap pressed himself upright and turned toward the attic door, his back panging sharply, and Gus appeared promptly, a little metal tray with a pitcher and a glass in his paws.

"Munkustrap, my boy, there you are. I've been looking all over for you."

Turning to face the old director, Munkustrap stifled a yawn. "What are you still doing here? It's nearly midnight."

The old cat's eyes sparkled knowingly. "I could ask you the same thing."

Gus came in a little further, bringing the tray over to Munkustrap's bedside and setting it down on the crate-table. "I brought you some water," he said softly. "You haven't had anything to drink since supper, I don't believe." He picked up the pitcher and poured the clear liquid into the glass, a few chunks of ice clink, clinking against the sides. His paws were shaky, and Munkustrap reached a paw over to try and help. But Gus shook his head and nudged his paw away, and even without assistance, very little spilled onto the tray. "Here."

Gus handed him the glass of water, and Munkustrap took it, sipping gratefully while trying to conceal his eagerness for the gesture. It was true; he couldn't remember the last drink of water he'd had that day, either. It cooled his scratchy, dust-laden throat and cleared his head; his ears perked up like a flower perks up after a good rain.

"Better now, isn't it?" Munkustrap nodded subtly. Gus smiled and sat down on the edge of the cot, supporting himself on the corner of the bedside table. "Now, Munkustrap, tell me, why won't you go home to rest, my boy?"

Munkustrap sighed. Home. Home was a joke. He had a house, a small, dingy flat with hardly anything in it but a bunch of old play scripts, a stove, a sink, and a fold-out couch he slept on. That was his house. But he had not had a home in quite some time. Not since his mother had died, when his father had sent him and his brother to live with a local queen who took in any kit needing a place to stay. There was no point in going to his house. His house was little different from his attic alcove in the theater.

But he didn't want to trouble Gus with all that. "It's too far," he said simply, swallowing another sip of water. "I'll go back tomorrow. It's late now."

Gus smiled softly and chuckled. "You're telling me?" He reached out a paw to stroke Munkustrap's ear. "You've been here longer than I have today."

Munkustrap flicked his ear to dismiss Gus' attempt at affection. Normally, he'd let the old theater cat pet his ear or scratch under his chin, but he really didn't feel like it this time. His back was throbbing, his neck nearly too achy to hold up his head. He winced as he reached forward to put the now half-empty glass of water back on the nightstand, his shoulder creaking with a loud pop! as the bones and muscles moved along their rickety path.

Gus heard it, too. He smiled sadly and reached a feeble paw forward, squeezing Munkustrap's poor shoulder as hard as he could. "You're going to work yourself to the bone, my boy," he whispered. "You mustn't do this to yourself."

"I know, Gus. I know." It was all Munkustrap could manage. And it was true; he did know. He knew he worked too much and tried too hard. He knew that he didn't have to. But he also knew that Gus had helped him beyond all hope of understanding, and he owed him the world and more. So he gently brushed Gus' trembling paw away and reached up to rub his own panging muscles, dreading the impending crick in his neck and oncoming headache and trying to stretch them gone. "I promise," he repeated, "I'll go home early tomorrow."

Gus sighed, watching his intern desperately try to massage his evident soreness away. "Aches and pains, hmm?"

"No, Gus, I'm…"

But he could read Munkustrap like a book. Before he could finish, Gus stood up from the cot and picked up a rag from the tray, dunking it into the pitcher of ice water. He wrung out the old rag and unfolded it, and started to lay it on the side of Munkustrap's neck. But then he stopped. "Oh no, this won't do."

"What?" Gus put down the rag and reached over, taking Munkustrap's striped necktie in his feeble, trembling paws and tugging at it until it came loose enough to lift over the wearer's head. Munkustrap ducked out of it, letting out a long-suffering sigh. He supposed it was nice to take his necktie off. But he felt naked without it.

"And what's this about still wearing your suspenders, hmm?" Gus questioned. "And having your shirt buttoned up all the way?"

"Gus, please, I'm fine. Just…"

"No, no," Gus scolded him softly. "If you're not going to go home, you're at least going to be comfortable." Munkustrap glared, his eyes surprisingly intense for a cat running on mere hours of sleep. "I insist, Munkustrap."

There was no way he could escape Gus this time. Normally, the old cat went home far earlier in the evening, right after rehearsal was finished and the actors were starting to take their leave. He had stayed hours past his usual time tonight; it was the least Munkustrap could do to obey him. He was his mentor, after all. And he owed him the world and more.

So he unhooked his suspenders and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. And his cuffs. And he slid off his sleeve garters. And Gus dipped the cold rag in the icy water once more and put it on Munkustrap's neck like he'd intended to do moments earlier.

"There," Gus whispered. "That's better. You'll sleep more comfortably this way."

Comfortably. How badly Munkustrap wanted to sleep comfortably! Just to lie down, go to sleep, and stay asleep. For hours. Days, even. He felt on the verge of collapse, the world seeming to spin before his heavy eyes. He reached up for the cold rag on his neck and pressed it deeper into the sore muscles, grounding himself in the feeling of cool water soaking into his fur.

"Thank you, Gus," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically no louder than a whisper. "I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"Munkustrap." Gus' voice was stern. "What have I told you? Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting."

Munkustrap sighed long and deep, pressing the cold rag deeper into the muscles of his neck. Henry V. Gus quoted that one quite frequently.

"Now, you get some sleep, young tom," Gus directed. "Get some sleep, and you'll feel better tomorrow, yes?"

Munkustrap nodded. "Yes, Gus. Thank you."

Satisfied, Gus turned to leave, a soft smile on his lips. And as he slipped out the door, he brought up Hamlet. "For some must watch, while some must sleep."

And Munkustrap finished, as Gus disappeared down the stairs, "So runs the world away."

It meant something much different in the play, Munkustrap knew. But analytics could wait until morning, for it was not his turn to watch.