Chapter Text
The light of the dawn swam slowly in through the square, thick windows; golden sunlight danced over oak floorboards and cast dim, wobbling shadows throughout the halls of the Night Mail. It was a beautiful machine, its 'sleeping car express' more like home than many of the houses of London; the engravings in the doors were just short of art, the curtains hung impeccably in every room as if sculpted there—it was strange to think it was merely a frame for chugging engine scraping violently along iron rail.
There was a definite beauty to the train, Munkustrap thought, but—
There was nothing more beautiful, he /knew/, than the tom inside it.
He watched, knowing his eyes were foolishly wide with reverence, and not caring all the same, as Skimbleshanks heard his footsteps on those meticulously cut wooden boards—
Skimble, from where he had stood in that half-lit hallway, turned, and Munk could see the tears in his eyes.
They were upon each other in no time at all; he blinked and felt the warmth of the ginger tabby pressed up against him, golden whistle digging into his shoulder. They brushed faces, Skimble's eyes gleaming with emotion Munk had never prepared to see on his lover, the horrible guilt of his gloom almost comical; rubbing heads, Skimble clutching his hat to his chest as he patted along silver-furred shoulder with his cheek. It was long, but never long enough, a drawn-out display of physical affection that sent joy rushing through the both of them—Munk never wanted it to end; an eternity locking tails with the other tom would be fine with him.
They pulled apart, for a second, Skimbleshanks' hair poking up from where Munk had brushed across it in a blind scramble for contact. Munkustrap let out a shuddering breath, and found his eyes wet.
There was little thought in his mind, save a triumphant /yes/ that drowned out his despairing query; there was nothing he could think, nothing /to/ think when the railway cat was right here within reach once more—and reach he did, arms thrown around Skimble and again pressing up against each other, ginger limbs locked over his shoulders and styled whiskers digging into his cheeks. It was the only thing they could do, it had been perhaps an hour but it felt like /eternity/—
There was no choice but to kiss him, and standing there in the center of the hall, he did.
It was wonderful.
It was /glorious/, it was /sensational/, it was finer than their first one by /far/, Munkustrap would never have to go to the Heaviside Layer as long as he had the memory of this with him—
The Heaviside Layer.
Munk paused, eyes snapping open; Skimbleshanks followed after another moment, slowly dropping his embrace and his gaze away.
He could not yet find the words in his throat, could not yet bear to speak. He stepped back, tail thrashing from side to side in curious anger and arms crossing over his chest as if trying to defend himself from an attack that did not exist.
Skimble stood where he left him, amber ears partially flattened, opening his mouth but closing it slowly. The silence was unbearable, all alone in a still locomotive whose ceiling towered far above them, in the cold sunlight of elephantine London... Munkustrap was starting to feel small.
Perhaps he was, shoulders hunched slightly and eyes thick with lacrimal shine. He opened his mouth in turn, and out in wobbling anger and grief, shaking desperation and confusion, came his eternal thought:
"/Why/?"
His brows were knotted, his head tilted forward slightly as if beckoning towards Skimble. "Why, dammit? Why would you—why would you /do/ that? Why would you /want/ that?"
A step forward, hands falling to his sides and fists clenched together. "And why, Everlasting, wouldn't you /tell/ me?"
Skimble opened his mouth again, and his lip trembled—before Munkustrap could speak again, the ginger tabby was curling into himself with tears, hands spread over his face and quivering.
Shit.
He was angry, yes, he found a part of him wanting to yell—but no matter how upset his actions had made him, no matter how much grief he had gone through for the night, there was nothing at all inside him that ever wanted to see Skimbleshanks cry.
He was upon him once more, Skimble giving a shuddering gasp into his shoulder as he took him all—the other tom was taller by the slightest, but always seemed to fit into his arms, able to fold into his own frame and rub his head up under Munk's shoulder. They had paused the confrontation once more, to /be/ with each other; Munk felt he could stay here for quite a while longer, habitual urge kicking in over his distress.
"It's... alright," he started, voice soft and almost paternal, and though he was meant to comfort the other, he found his own words settling into something like personal reassurance. "It's going to be alright."
"/Fuck/, sorry," breathed Skimbleshanks, the quaver in his voice jagged. He attempted to straighten up, and the limber ease of his actions from stance to stance brought the overwhelming adoration he had been storing this whole time back to the spotlight of Munk's mind. "I just... I was so /scared/ when, when I found myself on that /boat/—"
"What boat? Calm down a little, now..." Munkustrap urged Skimble down from that sudden frantic high, and before he knew it he was upon the floor, hovering over the crouching tom.
Skimbleshanks swore again, something of an accent picked up in his routine travel to Western Europe slipping back into his voice. "I, oh... sorry, Munk. I'm sorry, I really am."
His heart gave a little pang. There was sincerity in that voice, the one he knew so well, and he took tear-hot face in his hands, ruffling the orange scruff that sat atop now-sullied personable head. His fingers slipped down tabby cheeks, grip at last resting below chin and aiming to lift in the way he always had, bringing head high when the other felt the need to hold it low. "Hey. Look at me. I... I know."
He offered a quiet smile, brushing noses once more. "I love you."
"I love you too." Skimble pawed at his eyes, shaking his head, and gave a bitter chuckle when he saw the dampness on his lover's face as well—feeling the warmth of hard-worked ginger hands scrape the faintness of tears off his cheek was all Munk needed to fall back upon him.
They would pause once more, and Munk was a little in awe of how tough their intimacy had proved—if they could still do this, hold each other tight and express affection to their tears, after horrible disappearance and secrets and crime, what could ever break them?
(Not that he had stopped craving an answer, of course. It was just that, in the face of love, it had accepted its place on the back burner, somehow giving way to the maudlin.) Munkustrap felt his heart, certainly tired from the effort of the night, perform another acrobatic trick, jumping in his ribcage as the feeling of that intimacy rocked through him.
(He was certain he'd noticed before—but now, in this slow moment of sentiment, the feeling that ran through him was overwhelming. Everlasting, did he /love/ Skimbleshanks, and the sensation filled him ear to tail. It was peculiar, but it was beautiful; chests pressed up together, even as metal buttons dug into his torso, Munkustrap could feel the faint thump of shared heartbeat, that sort of connection impossible to replicate on your own.)
(How long had he loved him for? He could not put a time on it, although he was certain it had not been for long. A short while, and already it had burrowed deep into him; for a moment he was nothing but that adoration, forehead pressed against the other and breathing slow.)
"I love you," murmured Skimble once more, a sudden steadiness in a wavering voice. Munk responded in kind, and a closed, lingering kiss was the agreement reached from a moment of silent discussion.
"Do you... want to talk about it now, or...?" Munkustrap found himself slightly surprised at his own words, the urgent need for an answer once more receding when exposed to the distressed state of his lover.
Slowly, the Skimble he knew shone through that precarious vulnerability, and the railway cat attempted to straighten out his shoulders with a dry, short laugh. His smile was wan, rueful. "I... think we have to."
Munk nodded, carefully pulling himself away to give him room. Skimbleshanks tugged nervously at the whistle around his neck, giving another breath of a chuckle—Munk could see the guilt on his face, tucked in the corners of his eyes underneath a strange sort of fatigue.
"...Did you know the great Macavity's headquarters are only a meager boat with an outdated plank? Some old, poor showman called Growltiger, fancying himself a pirate, struts himself about on it—sad, really."
Munk raised an eyebrow, silently asking him to continue. Skimble swallowed, his gaze on the floorboards nervous.
"They... once I, uh, ended up there—it's not very /good/ magic, you know, I ended up several feet above it—they... knocked me out, I think, the mock pirate landed a pretty good blow on me." His hand went to the back of his head, looking as if he was not fully aware of it, and Munkustrap could see him wince.
"Bound me up, left me just hanging... arms tied, feet dangling—it's like they thought I'd tap my way out of it. Very gaudy. Very old-fashioned. No real villainous showmanship at all." Skimble's voice cracked upwards at the end of his statement, and he gave a broken laugh. Munk watched him, subconsciously, pull himself out just a little, seeing a flash of deep gladness pass his face.
(Skimble had never liked to be outside the control of his own body; Munk had spent more than one morning discreetly watching him stretch out ginger soma and reveling in the very existence of it. It was a peculiar trait, a sort of self-regarding, but it was just another part of the whole of /him/ he had grown so fond of.)
Munkustrap reached out to him, taking faintly shaking hand away from where it clutched red trousers and holding it in his. "...I'm sorry to hear that. That... must have been tough for you. I'm glad you got out."
His words felt empty to him, although he knew their tone came out compassionate; he could feel his want for an answer—his anger at having a question at all—rising up in him, giving a biting undertone to his usual solicitousness. Munkustrap rushed to squash it down, assuring himself that he would get what he wanted in time—patience was the virtue here, patience was what he /needed/, what would get them both through safe in the end. He rubbed at the palm of tabby hand, waiting.
"Aye. I was—" he gave a laugh almost scary in its sorrow—"I was scared for my life, Munk."
"I was scared for yours, too." His voice was quiet, and Skimbleshanks winced at the honesty of it. "...Go on?"
"...There were cats already there—all the contestants of the night. Seemed a shame to have Gus tied up like they did—had him immobile with just one chain. And then, not much after me... Old Deut."
Munkustrap nodded. "Macavity wanted her to make him the Jellicle Choice—of course, she refused, thank goodness—and when she did, he... took her away. Did they... tie her up, too?"
Skimble grimaced, rubbing his thumb along Munk's. "Er, worse. He demanded that she make him the Choice, or... Growltiger would make her walk the plank."
Munk was silent, brows raised and eyes wide. (Old Deuteronomy was braver than he had thought, and he had thought her very brave already. It was amazing, really, all things taken into account, that she'd kept so calm the whole time, and had still wrapped up the Ball—he admired her, quite deeply, and had since he was a kitten...)
(He wished he'd been that brave.)
Skimbleshanks gave another dry laugh, nodding grimly. "Ludicrous, I know. And then she... disappeared?"
It was the railway cat's turn to lift pale eyebrows, expecting an answer.
"Mr. Mistoffelees," was all Munk gave in return, and the other tom gave a look of surprised appreciation.
"Really! Good for him! Always hoped the kitten had it in him."
"It... took a while for him to get there. But..."
"But?"
"But he got there."
"With your help, no doubt." Skimble brushed Munk's nose, correct but teasing.
"...So, what happened after that? How did you get out?"
"With Old Deut gone, Macavity had no choice but to leave—and then Jenny did that, that trick of hers, with the costume?"
"Oh?"
"Took off a whole inch or so, and she slipped out... from there the rest of us were freed, and Growl-kitten got what was coming to him. You know, I did tap my way out of it, in the end—cornered him, and Gus got that faux pirate scared right off the plank. Amazing for his age—I hope he gets his turn to the Layer sooner or later."
"...Right."
"Boat wasn't parked too far offshore—it was easy to make it back, once we figured it out. I was a little proud, actually, I think we did well against the so-called Napoleon of Crime."
"I do, too. It's nice to know you made it out alive." Munk's words were quiet, and they landed heavy in the space between them.
A pause, silence thick and pointed, and Munkustrap tightened his grip on ginger hand.
"Why?" He repeated, and he did not need to finish the question.
That glass-green gaze had fallen to the floorboards, and rose only to meet him now, in one tense, shaking second of a stare. Then, they lifted further, past him and up to wherever the Everlasting Cat watched over them.
"...I'm tired, Munk." Skimbleshanks' voice fell heavy, quiet with a weight unseen.
The silver tabby kept silent.
He had not expected that strange emotion in his lover's voice, had not prepared himself to hear a horrible intensity of feeling straining through a sound that tried to keep itself steady. His heart gave a slow, definite twinge, and he found himself feeling the same feeling he had when he locked eyes with Skimble on the train and the pieces clicked together; Munkustrap swallowed, and noticed the burn in his eyes that threatened tears.
"I'm... I'm just so /tired/. I—Everlasting, I'm working every day, it might not /look/ like work but it /is/—!" His voice was strange, tense with a sort of frantic anger, rising in harshness by the second and wobbling in volume. The hand Munk held shook, and when he tried to look Skimble in the eyes, there was a damp glaze over green gaze once more.
"I... I'm waited for, I'm expected to /be/ places, every fucking day," Skimble continued, "And it... it was so much /fun/ early on, but now it's... something I /loved/ has turned into a /burden/."
Munkustrap was taken aback by the pained severity that the other tom was expressing—yet, he supposed, he shouldn't be so surprised; his inamorato was sensible enough that he wouldn't dive headfirst into something so serious as the competition without reason (he thought).
(Nonetheless, seeing Skimbleshanks so /hurt/... it hurt him too. It wouldn't /stop/, the affliction he felt in the depths of his chest; it only rose and rose as ginger ears flattened against a ticked face.)
(...Wasn't he tired, too?)
(Hadn't he had a long night, worrying over all the missing people, worrying over Skimble, worrying over Old Deuteronomy, worrying and worrying and worrying? Once he'd gotten down from that lion, he'd wanted to retreat back to the address his collar bore and curl up in the cool darkness of the den—just like he had for all the balls before. But he'd had to chase down a terrifying loose end, had to look for the answer to a question he'd never wanted to ask.)
He waited, watching the mouth under curled-up whiskers open and close.
"I'm... getting old, Munk. You know that. I know that. I'm no Gus, but—I know I'm growing old too fast. I'm only going to get older. I..." Skimble trailed off, the cracks in his voice converging into one gaping chasm. He sat still, and then his head sunk, turning into himself so his chin touched the whistle around his neck and his ears brushed Munkustrap's chest.
"Hey, now—"
Munk was interrupted by the other tom's low, hiccuping wail. "I'm /sorry/, my love—I'm so sorry, I—"
Skimbleshanks gave another trembling sob, and Munk did not try to cut him off. He could feel a second wave of expression wobbling through the other, and all he had to do was wait for it to burst through the dam and flood the space between them.
(He had called him 'my love'. He hadn't said that for a while.)
(It felt good.)
"I—shit, sorry, Munk. Everlasting, it feels like I'm not going to stop crying..." Skimble pawed below his eyes, and Munk reached up to do the same.
"It's... it's alright. Take your time."
Was it wrong for him to slowly be getting angry? He understood the other was suffering, but... Munkustrap kept feeling like the wound left from his realization was being poked.
He swallowed it.
Skimble breathed in, deep and shuddering, and then straightened up. "I..."
("I". He wasn't sure if Skimble had said "you" yet.)
(At least he'd apologised...?)
(He swallowed it, again.)
"I just felt so... exhausted. I feel this stiffness when I move nowadays, and I'm just so /sick/ of having to remember things for all these humans, to /do/ things—I put too much on my plate, Munk." Skimble paused, lowering his head further and further. "And I... I just wanted to...oh, dammit. I just wanted to start over. Another chance, and maybe I wouldn't be so... stupid. Wouldn't think as much, wouldn't get caught up in something and have it turn bad."
Another beat. "Maybe I... wouldn't be so selfish."
"...Selfish?" Munk couldn't stop himself; he hadn't expected to hear that word. Skimbleshanks was self-regarding, sure, but in that way he /needed/ to be. (It was the bow on a ginger package that let him light up a room... better than Tugger did, at least. He was impossible to look over, he seemed to fill up every inch of himself, he—god, did Munk love him. Underneath everything he'd endured in the past few hours, underneath the pain and the suffering and the anger—there his love was, uncracked, untarnished, just waiting to rear its head.) "Skimble, you're not—"
"Everlasting, Munkustrap!" He spat his name with a strange sort of choler that he had not worn in a while. Skimbleshanks raised his head, almost too close to Munk's for comfort, and his eyes were wide with agitation. "/You/. You know me—you've known me for so long, haven't you?"
It was strange, the way those words fell upon his ears. Anger, for a moment, gave way to bitterness, and then gave way to a quiet love as Skimble inhaled through gritted teeth.
"I've been selfish. I was /always/ selfish. Shit, Munk—I can't /count/ every time I've denied you something, I've denied someone /else/ something." The ginger tabby shook his head, mouth starting to curl up in a rueful little scowl. "And I... entering the competition meant—"
"It meant you were going to leave me." Munkustrap's voice came soft, breaking through his self-control with a dull edge. "You were going to go away... and leave me behind."
He couldn't stop himself from saying it. He'd thought it all night long, had kept it on the back burner of his mind that occasionally bubbled over and filled him with a terrified agony. And now, it had burst out from his lips, and fell flat into the space between them.
It was strange. He almost felt better.
Skimbleshanks was silent, and so was he. The tension in the room wobbled, thick and unsteady, the type a cat could drown in. The sun rose further, slipping the full expanse of its rays through the window; Munkustrap sat in the light of the dawn with his face drawn tight, pained, and silver fur gleaming.
Skimbleshanks, the whistle around his neck glinting in the yellow sunrise, turned his head to the window, as if talking to some creature unseen. (Perhaps the Everlasting Cat was out there, sprawled beyond the Heaviside Layer...?)
His eyes, full of sunshine, were wet, sparkling like a gem—it would have been beautiful, if it had not been sorrow. Skimble blinked, slow and purposeful, and a rivulet dampened the ginger fur of his face. His voice, when it rose up through him, rang out sweet and broken.
"Do you think... Do you think the Night Mail would be better off, without me? Do you think /you/ would?"
The words fell like a brick through a window, and Munkustrap found himself to be the glass shattered on the floor.
He raised his head, and looked upon the man he loved—in the blink of a gaze, he seemed to be a completely different tom.
"What are you talking about?" His own voice broke out from him, again. Quiet, shaking, falling out heavy enough to cut the air. (He was not sure if his tongue belonged to him anymore, or if it had ran away in the midst of his shock.)
Skimbleshanks was quiet.
"What are you /talking/ about?" He repeated the question, voice cracking.
Faced with the other's prolonged silence, Munkustrap took the railway cat by the shoulders and /shook/. "Skimbleshanks, dammit, what do you think you're saying?"
Those /eyes/, green as bottle's glass, those famous eyes, practically lionized—a sheen of translucent emerald, now wet as the sea; when Munk looked deep inside them, he found himself wrecked by the sadness there.
There was nothing from Skimble but quiet, there was a noiselessness almost devastating in place of a cheerful voice tinged Scottish and bursting out in curious humor. Munk slipped his hands down so he had his arms thrown around the other, clutching ginger fur and scarlet suspenders as close to him as he could.
(If he held him like this, maybe he wouldn't slip away. A tight embrace, unrelenting, and maybe he wouldn't disappear again, fading away into a background of tragedy.)
"No," he breathed, and that was all he could say.
His head was tucked against Skimbleshanks', like the greeting they had first shared; this, in its turn, was less of a greeting and more of an adamant rejection of a farewell.
"/No/," he repeated, the insistence in his voice stronger than its shake. "No, Skimble—/never/. You're—do you understand what you're saying?"
Munk could feel his heart hammering in his chest, set to rapid-fire with his nerves shot through. He'd never expected those words, and here he was holding the body of the man who said them, feeling Skimble's shoulders shake against his. (He was crying again, and Munk felt a strong urge to do the same—but this was his time to be strong, to be the defender Old Deuteronomy had appointed him to be.)
(It was hard to be strong, after being battered all night—But, wasn't that his job? To bounce back, to be there for those hurt worse than he?)
(He didn't know. He was tired, and he was upset, but—)
He loved Skimbleshanks.
He loved him, more than anything else. More /importantly/ than anything else.
Munkustrap inhaled, sharp and deep and through his teeth, and set aside all of the conflict of the night that lingered in his head, all the pother within him.
In the span of a second, hearing the railway cat give a hiccuping sob, at the climax of a confrontation, he let go—
What happened was what happened.
Here he was, now, and here was the man that filled his hammering heart with adoration.
"...Skimbleshanks," he started, once he had gotten the railway cat to stop shaking so much, running his hand over lean back until it slowed to a gentle wobble. "You're... you're /not/ selfish, to start."
Silence, from the other, save a small inhale through tightly shut teeth, cheek resting on Munkustrap's shoulder.
"...Duck," he called him, gentle and reassuring. An old pet name, that he supposed he hadn't said in a while either—they were both failing to hold up their weight of external affection, and perhaps justifiably so. (Munkustrap wondered just how much he'd been waving off in the need to make everything just /perfect/ for the ball... he put a pin in his guilt, and went on.) "Duck, I... I was upset when I realised what you were planning, but... I didn't know you hurt like that, Skimble. I... didn't know at all."
Slowly, reaching over to lift up the other's chin, to offer up a tiny smile, a ghost of a kiss. "I wish you'd told me, angel." (Another name, in eagerness to wrap his sentiment up in ribbons, to make up for its belatedness.)
Skimbleshanks dropped his eyes to the floor, and Munk pushed his chin up further so their gazes met; his eyes, when Munk took a good look, shone bright with a watery haze in the light of the dawn. He gave one long stare, looking past the wavering guilt over bottle-green, looking past the fear and the pain in the depths of his pupils—
Looking at him.
"I wish you'd told me," he repeated, voice cracking upwards. "I... don't want to see you hurt. But--you're not selfish, you're just /you/, Skimble, and I--let /me/ be selfish, duck. Because I don't want you to be hurt, but--"
He abandoned his rambling tongue for his soma. He had never cared for it to any notable degree, not in the way Skimble loved it, and not in the way Skimble regarded his own; he had only ever used it for what he could, in his guidance of the Jellicles, but--sometimes, he found, his words weren't quite enough.
Munkustrap threw his arms around his lover. Held Skimbleshanks tight, as close as he could, fingers trailing over the edge of red straps.
"But I don't want to let you go," Munk whispered, words falling quiet against ginger fur. "I... don't want to be in a world without you, Skimble. And... maybe it's selfish to keep you here, but—I /love/ you, Skimbleshanks. I never want you to leave."
He could feel his heart beating faster and faster, hummingbird-paced as every word of sincerity left him. "I was upset, because I... don't know what I'd do without you. You... I know you think you're selfish, but... you help me so /much/, and I'm—I'm sorry I don't tell you that. I've been busy, and—I haven't taken the time to tell you. You—oh, Everlasting, I love you."
Skimble blinked, long and slow and definite; when he spoke, it was quiet, almost reverent in a way that set Munk's heart into backflips. "...Do you mean that?"
"More than anything I've ever said."
And he tightened his grip. And he held him, as close as he could.
Skimble was shuddering under his arms, starting to sob once more. "...I love you, too."
Silence, with Munkustrap out of words and his heart hammering away in his chest, and Skimbleshanks still trying to fish his tongue out of a sea of emotion.
Then: "Thank you. Just... Thank you, Munk. For... this. For, sticking with me—I think I..."
He trailed off, and Munk lifted his head slightly, waiting for the rest. Skimble swallowed, attempting to steady the shaking of ginger torso.
"I think I... would want to stick around, with you," he said, slowly, picking his words out one by one. "If... you want me to be here—"
"I want you to want to be here," Munkustrap blurted, then winced at both the phrasing and the timing.
Skimble paused, and then laughed, leaning forward into silver arms in a sort of defeat.
"...I think I want to stay. Things are... difficult, but—" He smiled, faint and just a little sad. "But I think we can work them out."
"Together," Munk tacked on, lowering his arms to take the other's paw in his own.
"Aye. Together." Then, sending his heart into a speed Munk thought might kill him, Skimble leaned forward and kissed him once more.
(Had he done it?)
(His nerves were still almost electric, his heartbeat racing and his breath unsteady, but—had he done it?)
(He had pushed his way through a night of brambles, and he had found the tom at the end of it—Sitting here, hand in hand, kissing back, he loved Skimbleshanks more than ever before.)
Munkustrap let himself go, just a little, let his shoulders ease down. This was a solution he could handle, this was something that wouldn't keep him with his tail weaving in irritation.
The question fell off him, and it felt like the weight of the world lifted off his back.
This was the answer.
"You know," Munk mumbled against the other's mouth, "If the Night Mail is giving you trouble... I'd be more than happy to lend a hand."
"You'd do that?"
"Of course. For you. The humans will just have to get used to me..."
Skimbleshanks laughed. (The laugh that Munk knew, bright and mirthful, with his distinct timbre echoing. His ears perked up at the sound, unable to stop the ecstasy that rose up in him when he heard it.)
"We might have to give it a try. Munkustrap the railway cat, eh?"
A shrug—"It's not a bad idea. Might be worth a try."
Slowly, he stood, and pulled Skimble up with him, watching the ginger tabby attempt to regain the steadiness of his soma.
"...Someone ought to check up on Old Deut," Skimble noted, offhand, a venture to put some normalcy back in the room.
Munkustrap nodded, and found the other's tail wrapping around his; they clambered out of the Night Mail, and set off into the rising dawn.
Hand in hand, with their answers.
Together.