Skimbleshanks entered the boundaries of the Junkyard just as dusky twilight was beginning to settle over the surrounding city. Weariness ate at the pads of his paws, and he would have been paying more attention to the familiar ache of fatigue that throbbed down his legs if not for the overwhelming stickiness that clung to his short pelt.

The Midnight Mail had been ten minutes from crossing over the boundaries of London proper. Everything was running smoothly, by Skimbleshanks' standards - passengers were already beginning to gather their belongings for the guaranteed rush to be the first off; the conductor took off his cap and scratched at his head, no doubt looking forward to a strong drink and a well-deserved rest. Skimbleshanks himself had been padding meticulously up and down the corridor of one of the second-class sleeper cars, making sure that all of the passengers were seated and waiting inside their cabins, instead of loitering in the hall.

One of the compartment doors had suddenly slid open, and a rather barrel-chested man stood in the doorway. He was tall and well-dressed, and held a metal flask in one hand, which he took a deep swig from. Skimbleshanks, a little annoyed, meowed at him in what he hoped was a polite way.

"Hullo, Scotty," muttered the passenger. Nearly all those who regularly traveled knew of the gangly tabby cat that played mascot to the Midnight Mail; this man was apparently no exception. He took another drink from his flask, "Keep your hair on, old boy. I only want some fresh air."

Skimbleshanks had given him a hard stare. They were less than five minutes from arriving at the station - why can't this man stay inside his cabin, like all the other passengers ? He meowed again, a little more firmly this time.

"Alright, alright. There's no pleasing- ACK !"

The train car gave an abrupt lurch, having run over a stray stone or some other such debris strewn about on the rails. The other seated travelers easily brushed it off with a surprised gasp or a breathless chuckle. Skimbleshanks wasn't so lucky; the man he had been interrogating stumbled, his knees buckling against the jolt of the carriage. In his haste to steady himself against the doorframe, his flask went flying out of his hand. The contents had sloshed all over Skimbleshanks, drenching him in the heady stench of malt whiskey and leaving drops of liquor dripping unattractively down his whiskers.

"Ah, sorry about that, old boy." The man had crouched down to retrieve the now empty container. He reached an arm out, hoping to reconcile with the Railway Cat with an apologetic scratch behind the ears, but Skimbleshanks had already turned away and was stalking down the corridor, tail lashing furiously.

He didn't have the time to properly wash himself after that. Deciding that he'd had enough of clumsy humans for one day, he didn't even dignify the stationmaster with a brief goodbye as he hopped onto the platform and disappeared into the bustling crowds of Euston. At six sharp, the half-moon hung faintly in the evening sky; he would be at the Junkyard just in time for dinner.

Skimbleshanks hauled himself over a flimsy chain-link fence, dropping gratefully to the other side. Narrowly avoiding a freshly-smashed mirror, no doubt the fault of one of the kittens, he picked his way through the scraps and rust. A piebald tom-cat perched on a precarious stack of plastic crates not three tail-lengths away, straight-backed and stern. Skimbleshanks waved his tail and called out to him, "Alright there, Alonzo?"

"Skimbleshanks!" Alonzo blinked his green eyes warmly. He suddenly paused, wrinkling his nose, "That is rank ! Did you step in something on your way home?"

Skimbleshanks grumbled faintly. "Just some human flailing around like a week-old kit. Are the others around?"

"Munkustrap just came back with dinner. They might insist you give yourself a good wash before you join them!" The jab was all in good fun; Skimbleshanks could hear the warmth in Alonzo's voice for all his attempts at teasing.

A tingle of excitement shot through the ginger cat's worn out paws. The mention of his mate always gave him a small thrill, no matter how many moons they had been as part of a pair. He kindly nodded his thanks to Alonzo and bounded away, heart and lungs swelling with renewed vigor.

Alonzo had been right on the nose; the more permanent members of the Junkyard were gathered together for their irregularly shared evening meal. A gentle hum of conversation hung low over the collection of strays. Jellylorum and Caramel crouched side-by-side, their pelts brushing, sharing a magpie that Munkustrap had no doubt caught that afternoon; Rum Tum Tugger lounged, sphinx-like, on top of a damp cardboard box, combing the remains of his meal from his whiskers; a nearby gaggle of kittens had somehow managed to turn dinner into yet another game, and Skimbleshanks bit back a chuckle as a dead rat went soaring through the air and landed in Pouncival's outstretched claws.

"Pouncival!" Jellylorum had apparently seen it too; her head shot up from beside Caramel's like she'd been stuck with a red-hot poker, "Don't play with your food! Munkustrap took the time to catch that for you. You should be thankful and eat it sensibly!"

The silver tom in question was also present. He was curled up a little ways from the others, a half-eaten mouse at his paws, quietly observing those under his care. A sense of fondness thrummed deep in Skimbleshanks' chest.

"I don't suppose you'll be finishing that mouse?" Munkustrap's ears swiveled backwards at the sound of his mate's lilting, travel-worn voice. Skimbleshanks had padded over while he had been engrossed in keeping watch, and was now fondly nosing him between the ears.

"It's all yours," he returned easily, meeting Skimbleshanks' nose with his own and daintily licking his muzzle. He pulled back, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as an unusual taste flooded his jaws, "What in Heaviside's name… ?"

"Don't ask." Skimbleshanks wasn't in the mood to recount the rather embarrassing ordeal. He settled beside Munkustrap, paws tucked neatly under his chest, and savored his first bite of mouse.

"You're all sticky... I'll give you a wash if you want." Munkustrap offered, already combing through the fur on the ginger tabby's neck with the rough barbs on his tongue.

"Thank ye kindly," Skimbleshanks mumbled around a mouthful of rodent. He finished it off with a few swift bites. With a full belly and his mate now working on the fur between his shoulders, Skimbleshanks allowed himself to press closer to the earth, purring low in his throat.

"What really happened?" Munkustrap asked, between licks.

With a deep, patient sigh, Skimbleshanks recounted the awkward encounter with the passenger on the train, flying flask of whiskey and all. He cringed inwardly at the memory now, the damp hairs on his neck fluffing out. Munkustrap was now cleaning the fur on his flanks with long strokes of his tongue, although Skimbleshanks swore that his movements had become more sluggish. And, while he managed a laugh, it sounded more like a childish giggle than his usual bell-clear voice.

It was at that moment that Skimbleshanks remembered that whiskey was in fact, an alcohol, and there had been another reason why he hadn't bothered to try and clean himself up before he ventured home.

"Munkustrap? I think that's enough for now." He jostled the hind leg that the silver tabby was currently working on and flicked him lightly on the whiskers with his tail, trying to dislodge him. "You've done a fine job but I think a spigot and a proper bath will do me some good."

"No!" Munkustrap cried. To Skimbleshanks' vague horror, his voice was indeed a little blurred around the edges, mellowed out by the potent spirit that he'd been almost drinking off of the ginger tom's coat. "Lemme... lemme finish. Not done yet."

Skimbleshanks was caught between panic and faint amusement; it wasn't every day that you could get Munkustrap to sound so relaxed. "Lad, you've done quite enough already. You go on back to your den, and I'll meet you there after I've washed off properly, aye?"

"Nnnooo!" The other protested in a loud, drawn-out slur. He roughly pushed his muzzle into Skimbleshanks' jaw, "Don't get to see you. Stay here."

"We can see each other all you like when I'm clean and when you've had a good sleep."

"You don't know." Munkustrap shook his head, swaying. "You don't know how much you mean to me. Don't know how much I miss you."

Skimbleshanks paused; a flicker of sadness wormed its way into his guts. It was true that he had his mate spent a lot of time apart, what with Skimbleshanks aboard the Midnight Mail multiple times a week, and then completely gone three months out of the year. They were both perfectly happy, leading their independent lives, but he would readily admit that some days he felt the sting of loneliness burn a little more harshly than usual. "Munkus-"

Munkustrap slumped into the crook of Skimbleshanks' neck. "I think... I think of the songs you taught me when you're gone," he mumbled. "I sing them. Makes me feel... closer. To you."

"That's... that's right kind of you, love." Skimbleshanks tried to shuffle out from underneath Munkustrap, but it only managed to make him sag further across Skimbleshanks' shoulders. "Come on. You need to get to bed."

" Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? "

Skimbleshanks squeezed his eyes shut. He knew this particular poem rather well; it was a favourite of Gus', who took joy in crooning it to the middle-aged mollies of the Yard, complementing them on their forgotten beauty and making them tsk and blush. His ears now rather warm, Skimbleshanks wriggled furiously under his mate's silver bulk, "Munkustrap. That's enough."

" Thou arte... " Munkustrap faltered, hiccuping. " Thou arte more lovely and... more tem- temperate. "

Munkustrap's voice must have gotten louder at some point during his drunken recital, for Skimbleshanks caught the odd, amused stares of Caramel and Jellylorum out of the corner of his eye, and he was certain he heard a dumbfounded whisper escape from between Pouncival's teeth.

"Everything okay?" Caramel prompted, stifling a laugh.

" Rough wings do flake the darling buds of May! " Munkustrap slipped off of Skimbleshanks' back, lolling at his mate's paws and batting gleefully at his whiskers. " And summer's lease hath all too short a date ."

"Can you... help?" Skimbleshanks pleaded. Jellylorum visibly bit her lip, but obliged, padding over to the pair and giving Munkustrap a sharp nudge.

"Come now, Munkus. Let Skimble find a spigot; he'll see you when he's clean."

The Protector feebly tried to shake her off before going back to stare dopily into Skimbleshanks' eyes. " Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shhhines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed, " he gurgled, clumsily touching noses with his mate and narrowly avoiding toppling head first into Skimbleshanks' chest. " And every fair from fair sometime declines, by chan- chance or nature's changing course untrimmed. "

"Great Everlasting Cat, is he quoting Shakespeare?" Skimbleshanks groaned when Tugger's voice carried over to the little cluster of strays, "Never let him near alcohol ever again, Skimble. This is unbearable."

"What about for me?" Skimbleshanks muttered under his breath.

"He deserves it," Munkustrap said loudly, rounding to face Tugger on unsteady paws. "All and mmmore."

Tugger softened, but a humorous glint remained in his eyes, "Of course he does. I don't doubt it for a second."

Skimbleshanks was sure that his pelt had caught fire under the sudden flood of praise. "Jelly!" he managed to choke out. "Can you take Munkustrap to his den? I'm going to find that spigot you mentioned."

Somehow, the pale calico queen managed to get Munkustrap to haul himself to his paws. They lumbered off together, Jellylorum giving the silver tabby a gentle nudge every now and again when he seemed like he was going to teeter too far over to one side. Relieved that his mate was now in more capable paws, Skimbleshanks scrambled to his feet and trotted stiffly off, eager to escape the amused stares of Tugger and the kittens and to rinse the remaining whiskey from his fur.

He found a leaky spigot in the east corner of the Junkyard - a rusty looking thing hastily patched on to the side of a tall brick building. He clambered onto the pipe itself, wobbling a little as he shuffled around, trying to find a good position to brace himself against the wall. With a lot of huffing and puffing, Skimbleshanks managed to turn the flow of water on by shoving the little rubber wheel with his hind legs. He suppressed a yelp as the first gush of lukewarm water soaked his tabby coat. He stood awkwardly in place while the sharp smell of alcohol was finally washed away, leaving only Skimbleshanks' familiar cat-scent behind.

Another hearty shove with the help of the wall and the water was cut off. Skimbleshanks shook himself dry, sending drops of water flying in all directions and leaving his fur sticking up like a hedgehog's bristles.

"Well," he huffed to himself. "The things I have to do for my line of work..." He trailed off, muttering one last half-hearted curse to the clumsy passenger on the train, then hurried off to join a mildly tipsy Munkustrap and fall into the waiting arms of sleep.