Hi everyone! This is my first CATS fic – it's AU/human!cats, set in Boston in October 2007, and hopefully up to par with some of the excellent fics I have read in the CATS section. I hope you enjoy it!!! It might be rated M later on, but for now it's T.

SUMMARY: College junior Demeter Felina finds herself working at The Junkyard, a well-known homeless shelter in Boston. What and who she finds there will change her life forever…

WARNINGS: language, mentions of homelessness, drug addiction, abuse, and extreme poverty.

DISCLAIMER: CATS is, unfortunately, not mine. Goshdarnit.

The Junkyard

Chapter 1: Introduction to the Junkyard

"Rina."

Schnooorrr.

"Rina!"

"…piss off."

"Oh, come on, Rina," I said cheekily, poking my roommate repeatedly as she wriggled around in her bed, trying to get away. "It's eight-thirty already! We're going to be late!"

My friend's flaming red hair emerged slowly from underneath the covers like a deep-sea creature, eyes blazing through half-closed lids. I choked back a giggle, schooling my expression into one of mock sternness.

Rina's glare abruptly broke as she yawned, and she stretched her arms out above her head. "Give me – " she considered a moment, squinting in the bright sunlight that was shining into our dorm room. "Three. Three reasons why I should care."

I snorted and got up off her bed, straightening my button-down black t-shirt, nearly tripping over one of the several large textbooks which were lying scattered about the floor. "Ok then. One," I said loudly, walking over to the long mirror which hung on the grubby white wall and peering into it at my pale skin. "We need to complete this internship if we want to graduate with degrees in public health."

"Demi," Rina groaned, pulling her quilt back over her head. "You of all people should know that I can't talk about school at this ungodly hour of the morning. Not unless I've had several cups of coffee first."

"Second," I continued, ignoring her complaints as I checked my tousled blond-brown hair, "we have a duty to help society. Working in a homeless shelter seems a good way to prove it."

I ducked just in time to avoid the copy of Gina Kolata's Flu which had been chucked at my head from Rina's general direction. A long, low growl crept out from beneath the covers. "Caaaffeeeeiine…"

I grinned at my reflection and settled one tiny piece of wayward hair back into its place. "And third," I said matter-of-factly, "we're getting paid."

3…2…1…

"I'm up! I'm up!"

I laughed as a redheaded blur suddenly dashed past me out into the corridor of our dorm, burdened with towels, flipflops, and all the other necessities for making it in and out of our shabby common bathroom-cum-showerhouse alive. "You're so predictable!"

"Well, I am so sorry!" she called back over her shoulder. "Don't leave without me!"

I will be the first to admit that Tufts Medical School isn't exactly John Hopkins, or Harvard Medical, or any other famous institution you might have heard of. Nor are the dorms luxurious, fancy, or even comfortable. But the neighborhood made up for absolutely anything. As Rina and I stumbled (well, she stumbled in her high heels – I had to catch her, of course) out of our dorm building, we found ourselves smack dab in the middle of Boston's humming Chinatown, the streets already stuffed full with infamous Boston traffic and the sounds of various animals squawking, old Chinese ladies chattering away to each other while they did shopping, and drivers being horrifically rude to each other. Above it all floated a mélange of odors so strong it had taken me several weeks to get used to it, even though I had spent most of my life in New York City – of dumplings, cooking meat, and the smoke from the exhausts of all the buses emerging from the nearby South Station.

I took in a deep breath of fresh – if you could call it that – air while Rina reached down with a growl of frustration to fix her shoes. "Alright," she said as soon as she straightened back up again. She pointed fiercely to a Dunkin Donuts which was about a block away – and also in the opposite direction of the shelter we were supposed to be going to. "Coffee! Now!"

"Rina! We don't have time! C'mon, seriously – we're meeting our boss in – " I glanced at my watch " – augh! Ten minutes! Come on!"

"Fine," Rina growled, stalking behind me as I hurried down the sidewalk, narrowly dodging groups of teens and children milling about in front of a run-down public high school. "But you will be held solely responsible for the consequences of my caffeine-less actions. Got it?"

I let out a snort of laughter, tossing my head happily as I crossed a small street – the sun burst out from behind the buildings we had been walking next to, warming my face for a few brief moments before we plunged back into shadow again. "Honestly, Rina. What on earth did you do last night, anyway?"

"Went down to Jillian's for the Sox game," she said casually as she drew level with me, her heels clicking smartly on the sidewalk. "Great crowd. Just the right balance of screaming sports fans and sexy guys to dance with." She winked at me cheekily. "You should have come. You would have enjoyed it."

"I'm a Yankees fan, remember?"

"Ah! Sacrilege!" she cried melodramatically, placing a fluttering hand on her chest. "You are no longer my bosom friend!"

I turned away from her, chuckling – and, because this was Boston, fervently hoping that no one on the street had heard me admit I liked the Yankees better than the Red Sox. I had no wish to die young.

As we waited for the lights to change so we could cross to yet another block, heading closer to South Station and the Chinatown Gate, I looked up and just caught a glimpse of the building we were heading towards. It was a large brick block, looking very run-down and worse for the wear. Some of the windows were broken, and the bricks were sooty at first glance.

And yet, the hulking edifice was the heralded triumph of Boston's public health and social services – the most successful, most highly-thought of homeless shelter in New England. Part orphanage (with kids who aced their SATs), part refuge for single mothers on the run from their husbands (all of whom were found homes within a month), and part your run-of-the-mill pit stop for many of Boston's homeless, The Junkyard was something I had heard of even before I had decided I wanted to major in public health – before I graduated from high school, even…

…let's just say Rina and I had had quite a fight on our hands for the applications, let alone to get selected for the two internships they offered each semester. Only a combination of threats, cajoling, and 4.0 GPAs through our freshman and sophomore years had given us a fighting chance.

Now, I couldn't repress a small shiver of excitement as we approached the main door of the building. I looked over at Rina, and saw that she, too, was nervous in her own peculiar way – she was smiling broadly, and her walk had become slightly bouncier.

I reached out for the door handle, glancing up for a moment at the huge sign we were standing under – The Junkyard, A Refuge For Those In Need. "Ok. Here we go. We're going in to meet D – "

" – Daniel Jenkins, founder and head of the facility," Rina said quickly. "I know. Let's get in there."

I took a deep breath and pulled.

The interior of the building was nothing like the outside, as we stepped into a small, but neatly painted and clean lobby area. A large desk stood to one side, flashing monitors stacked behind it – one of them showed our pale faces in flickering neon blue. A man was sitting in a swivel chair behind the desk, and he peered at us in a friendly manner as we approached. "Can I help you?" he said blandly.

I could tell that he was tall, even sitting down. He was probably in his mid-thirties, his face lean and craggy, with twinkling blue eyes. An earbud microphone snaked its way out of his salt-and-pepper hair. The tag clipped onto his navy shirt said "ALONZO BOOTS, SECURITY."

"Er…" I stammered. Rina looked at me and quickly took over, sweeping up to the desk with her ever-present grace clearly apparent.

"We're here to see Mr. Jenkins," she said brightly, smiling at Mr. Boots. "We're the two new interns from Tufts Medical School, we were asked to come today."

"Alrighty," the guard replied kindly. "One moment." He turned to an intercom which sat on his desk and pressed a button, leaning forward to speak into it. "Two Tufts interns to see Mr. Jenkins," he intoned clearly.

There was a moment of silence in the lobby, then a smooth, rich voice spoke back. "Which Mr. Jenkins, 'lonzo?" the unknown man drawled, his Boston accent thick.

I grinned as I practically heard Rina's ears prick up. "Daniel Jenkins," I whispered to Boots, who nodded and pressed his button again.

"Mr. Daniel."

Another man's voice chimed in, this one lighter than the first, and with no trace of an accent. "He's out," this man said briskly. "I'll be right down once I'm finished with the kids, Alonzo. Give me a few minutes."

"Sure thing, Mike," Boots said gruffly, clicking off the intercom once he was done speaking. He smiled up at Rina and I and gestured behind us. "Please, take a seat. Mr. Jenkins will be down shortly."

Both of us turned around and made our way somewhat hesitantly over to a row of chairs that was on the opposite side of the lobby. As we sat down, Rina whispered to me – "How many Mr. Jenkinses are there in this place?" she asked curiously, eyeing Boots as he turned away to look at his monitors.

I shrugged. "I don't know," I whispered back. "I've only heard of the one."

Rina made a face and crossed her legs, her foot jiggling. I leaned back uncomfortably in my chair, ready to get up at a moments notice. To be quite honest, I hadn't expected such a – well, clean reception from a homeless shelter. I had thought I would have been shoved straight into a long room filled with rows of beds and filthy old men in ragged coats and boots.

Clearly, I had been wrong. Maybe, I mused, that was why the place had such a great reputation.

We sat there for several minutes, eyeing a white door which presumably led to the rest of the building. The silence felt oppressive after a while – Rina just sat there, irritated, and Alonzo obviously wasn't inclined towards idle chatter.

Suddenly, a commotion could be heard from the other side of the door. I sat up straighter as footsteps thundered towards us, apparently down a staircase – several pairs of footsteps, to be precise.

"Heehee! Mikey, catch meeeeee!"

"Lizzy! You really shouldn't do that, you'll give me a heart attack before my time!"

"You're so uptight, Mikey."

"And you, behave yourself. Ow!"

"Aw, Mikey. You know you love us."

"Of course I do, silly. Now go on back upstairs – Vicky, come on…"

"Piggyback! Piggyback!"

"Augh!"

And with that, a man a few years older than Rina or I came – well, piled was more like it – into the lobby from the door we had been so anxiously watching, three children of varying ages hanging off him as though he was their security blanket. A boy of about ten peered out at us nervously from between the young man's legs, a pale brunette girl around eight years old clung to one of his arms, and firmly entrenched on his back, clutching the man's windswept black hair, was a preteen girl with hair so blond it almost looked white.

Rina and I both jumped up from our seats in surprise at this sudden entrance, and the children themselves seemed so shocked at seeing us that they immediately let go of their protector, scampering back into the stairwell. The man turned to watch them go and then looked at Alonzo, who was chuckling mightily. The newcomer didn't seem to have seen us yet.

"What?" he said cheerfully, as he pulled the sleeves of his white shirt straight and brushed off his dark blue jeans. I immediately recognized his voice as the second one we had heard on the intercom.

"Nothing," Alonzo laughed. "You really do spoil those kids, you know."

"And why shouldn't I?" The new arrival cocked his head.

"No reason," Alonzo said. He nodded towards where Rina and I were waiting on the other side of the lobby. "The interns to see you."

The man turned around and looked at us, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. Oh dear. Oh very dear.

The description of the internship had definitely not mentioned the perk of working with gorgeous men.

The dark-haired beauty (man, I had to tell myself, just a normal man) finished buttoning his cuff and smiled at us, a real, genuine smile which seemed to spread right into his sparkling green eyes. He held out his hand to Rina, looking surprisingly gallant. "Michael Jenkins. How are you?"

"Good!" Rina chirped, apparently not fazed in the least. "I'm Rina Baxter. Very nice to meet you."

He shook her hand once firmly and then turned to me, his smile even wider. "And you?"

I hesitated a moment – more out of shock than anything else – before I took his hand. His palm was warm and smooth. "Demi," I said shakily. "Er – Demeter Felina."

"Pretty name," he said warmly, not letting go of my hand. "Italian?"

"Yes…"

"Thought so," he said almost teasingly, letting go of my hand (it promptly fell to my side and just hung there). "Wonderful to meet you both. I'm sorry my father couldn't be here to meet you, but he was called away on urgent business."

"Your father?" Rina asked curiously. "Is he Daniel?"

"That's right. We run quite a family operation here," Michael said with a grin. "I'll show you around – come."

He gestured with a hand towards the door he had come through, and ten started towards it, clearly expecting us to follow. I exchanged an excited glance with Rina and then we both started walking. I had a hard time not staring at Michael's – well-muscled – back as he went up the stairs, taking them two at a time and then waiting for us to catch up every time he reached a landing. He talked as he did so, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

"So – welcome to the Junkyard," he began. "I'll just tell you a little bit about us, in case Tufts didn't describe what we do here. Basically, our operation runs in three parts – first, a well-established orphanage, which is connected to Massachusetts Social Services. We work together with them to get any kids we take in into good foster homes, and take care of them in this building for as long as necessary until they can be adopted by a family."

He turned and grinned at us, standing in front of a door which presumably opened onto another floor. "Second is our facility for maintaining single-mother families. We've dedicated a whole floor of this building to maintaining temporary lodgings for single mothers who either are too poor to support themselves or who are fleeing from abusive husbands. They are more than welcome to bring their children with them – the average amount of time most of these families end up staying here is a week to a month."

As he was speaking, he opened the door he had stopped in front of, and Rina and I both poked our heads around the doorjamb. Before us was a very clean corridor, with several rooms leading off from it. Each door had a number and a chalkboard nailed onto it, proclaiming names such as "Martha Thomlinson", "Jane Engels", and so on. It almost looked like a hotel, and almost all the rooms seemed to be occupied.

Michael waited until we had looked our fill (I was almost leaning across him, and had to fight to keep a blush from spreading quickly across my face) and then closed the door, starting to climb the stairs again.

"Finally, we have a more conventional facility on the ground floor for the homeless, with a capacity of about fifty beds per night," he said, his voice magnified by the enclosed space of the stairwell. "On the first floor is the canteen, beds and showers for the homeless; second floor, single mothers; third floor, administration; fourth floor, orphanage; and fifth floor, overflow beds just in case of an emergency."

"I'm impressed," Rina said, and contrary to her usual practice of flattery she actually did sound like she was. "It's all very well organized."

Michael inclined his head gracefully (my heart skipped a beat) and opened yet another door for us to go through – this one to the third floor, administration. "Thank you. We've all worked very hard to make this place as efficient and helpful as it can be."

We shuffled onto the third floor, which looked much like any normal office space – the wide floor was divided into small cubicles separated by plants or mesh panes, an air conditioner was running (it was October, but it was still stifling inside the building), and at the far end of about five or six desks was a door labeled "D. Jenkins." Rina and I stood uncertainly near the door as Michael closed it behind us, not sure what we were supposed to do.

I jumped when a chair suddenly scooted out from a cubicle and almost rolled over my toes, its occupant smirking up at the three of us. "Well, well – what have we got heah?" he said, the voice instantly recognizable as the one Rina and I had heard down in the lobby, its Boston accent thick.

This time I really did hear Rina's ears perk right off her head. The man who was lounging in front of us was quite impossibly attractive – model material to be sure. His blond hair was shaggy and half-tied back in a messy ponytail, his skin was tan, and his black tie was only loosely tied around his collar, giving him a perpetually naughty look. He, too, was only a few years older than us, and maybe one or two older than Michael.

His grey eyes twinkled as he grinned up at us. "Why don't ya introduce me, little bro?" he said, nodding at Michael. I could see that he was already sizing up Rina, and she certainly wasn't complaining about it.

Michael chuckled, a little ruefully it sounded to me. "Rina Baxter, Demeter Felina – my older brother, Thomas Jenkins. He's our chief accountant and procures donations for us. We're a non-profit, so it's very important work."

"Very important indeed," Thomas said as he hauled himself up from his chair and gave each of us a cheek little bow (he bowed deeper to Rina than to me). "And please, ladies, do call me Tom."

"My pleasure," Rina said, smiling in her turn. It almost sounded like she was purring, and I had to force down a grin.

Michael looked at me and rolled his eyes slightly, and I grinned shyly back at him. His eyes really were very green. He turned to his brother and said, "Is dad back yet?"

"Pops? Nah," Tom said, tearing his eyes away from Rina and leaning casually against the wall of his cubicle. "Jennifer's been down heah looking for you, though."

"Jennifer?" I asked curiously.

"Jennifer Dotherings," Michael said warmly. "Our head matron for the orphanage. She's an incredible woman – everyone I know wishes she was their mother. And the way she takes care of the kids – "

Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by a small body which stumbled into Michael, throwing him towards me. I was close enough to smell his cologne – it was fresh, and reminded me of the scent of freshly-cut grass – before he steadied himself, and the three of us looked down to see a child clinging to Michael's leg.

She was tiny, barely five or six years old, and skinny – she almost looked malnourished, but after hearing about what care Jennifer took with the children I concluded the girl couldn't have been in the shelter long to still look as emaciated as she did. She peered up at us with tear-filled blue eyes from underneath her hair, a wild mix of red and brown, and let out a small sob.

"Jemima," Michael said, obviously surprised, as he knelt down and placed his hands on the little girl's shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"B-Bruce is here," she said tremulously. "H-he looks really bad, Mikey – I'm scared – "

"Where?" Michael said firmly, his voice suddenly hard and filled with tension.

Little Jemima instantly turned and fled towards the flight of stairs we had been climbing, heading still further up. Michael looked at Rina and then me, then gestured with his head for us to follow him as he rushed after the girl. I cast a scared, confused glance at Rina – a glance that was returned in kind – and then followed.

We pounded up the stairs in single file, and emerged into yet another dormitory room where Jemima waited for us, twisting her hands within each other. At first glance, the room seemed empty, and silent but for our shallow gasps for breath.

"M – Mikey…"

A trembling voice suddenly came from the farthest bed. Little Jemima let out a quiet sob of distress and covered her ears as Michael hurried forward, his face set in concern. Rina followed him, while I put an arm around Jemima's thin shoulders and followed more slowly, not sure what to expect.

Michael was already sitting on the bed and wiping its occupant's face gently with a white cloth by the time Rina and I saw who it was – I let out a gasp. Lying there was a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old at the most, his brown hair tousled and matted with sweat. His face was cadaverously pale. His body shook and jerked under the thin sheet that covered him, and his hands clutched with a desperate strength to Michael's shirt as the older man leaned over him.

"Mikey," the boy rasped. Jemima flinched and huddled closer to me. "Mikey, i-it hurts…Mikey, h-help…"

Michael glanced up for a moment, first at Rina, his eyes finally settling on my face. "Rina," he said quietly, a note of urgency in his tone, "please take Jemima away. Call for Jennifer, she'll come and find you."

Rina nodded swiftly and gently pulled the young girl out of my grasp, allowing the little dear to lean on her as they made their way quickly out of the room and down the stairs we had come up. Michael jerked his head to me, and I nervously approached the other side of the bed, kneeling down so my head was about level with the boy's.

Michael handed me a wet cloth which he had pulled from a cabinet standing next to the bed. "Hold that to his head and neck," he said quickly. "He'll be sweating for a while. We need to keep him cool."

The boy thrashed suddenly, and I needed to hold his torso down with one hand while I applied the cloth to his face with the other. "What is this?" I asked numbly.

"Cocaine withdrawal," Michael replied instantly, prizing one of the boy's hands off of his shirt and enveloping it firmly in his own. "It's incredibly painful. Come on, Bruce – it's ok, Brucey. I'm here, it's all right…"

The boy – Bruce – shuddered again, and I swallowed hard. "How long has he been addicted?" I whispered.

"At least two years – as long as I've been here," Michael answered, laying another cloth on the young man's abdomen, underneath his faded t-shirt. "Every once in a while he runs out of money to buy more of the drug and ends up here like this." Michael shook his head sadly. "We don't have the resources or knowledge here to really help him, and he refuses to be sent to rehab. All we can really do is take care of him until he's well enough to leave."

"Ah!" Bruce writhed beneath us, his face screwed up in pain, and I was startled enough to drop the cloth I was holding.

"Shh – shh, Bruce, it's ok," Michael whispered.

He smoothed the boy's damp hair out of his face and, leaning forward, very gently kissed Bruce's forehead. The young man instantly calmed down, his frenzied limbs becoming still.

I knew from that moment that I was in love.

For future reference, or if it was confusing - Demeter Felina:Demeter, Rina Baxter:Bombalurina, Michael Jenkins:Munkustrap, Thomas Jenkins:Rum Tum Tugger, Alonzo Boots:Alonzo, Jennifer Dotherings:Jennyanydots, Daniel Jenkins:Old Deuteronomy, Jemima:Jemima (d'oh), 'Lizzy'/Elizabeth:Etcetera, 'Vicky'/Victoria:Victoria, Bruce:Tumblebrutus. I think that's all for this chapter…R and R please!!!