A/N: This story was inspired by a story-starter I saw on Pinterest and a snippet of dialogue from lepoppeta. Hope y'all enjoy!


It was three in the morning when Skimbleshanks stirred awake to the sound of glass shattering outside the door.

A crashing of plates meant that something had gone awry in the dining car: a broken plate or cup, probably the folly of some clumsy dishwasher or another. Not his problem to worry about. He could just carry on with whatever he was doing, maybe call for someone to clean up the mess…

No, wait – this was Saturday. He wasn't at work. He was home, and the only other person there with him was Munkustrap.

He sighed, righting himself from sleep, slipping on house shoes over his stockings and a bathrobe over his pajamas. It was his problem to worry about.

Working on trains for almost twenty years, he had grown used to sleeping surrounded by noise. In fact, he'd grown so used to it, it was a need now; he kept a fan on the dresser, whirring just loudly enough to dim the silence of the house. Usually, since he worked at night and slept through the day, there was some noise coming in from outside – someone mowing their front terrace perhaps, or cars honking as they hummed by. But on nights he was home and adopted a normal sleep schedule, there was seldom anything besides his fan, and seldom anything capable of waking him from sleep.

He sometimes wondered (when he was awake, of course) if that was unusual. He did share a bed with someone now, after all – at least, when he was home, sleeping at night like a normal cat. But Munkustrap's stirrings rarely fazed him. He supposed it was just that he was a hard sleeper, and that his husband was remarkably quiet when going about the house.

Not tonight. As he rounded the corner of the stairwell, he could see Munkustrap standing in the kitchen over the stove, barely illuminated by the little light above the sink.

"Love, what are you doing?" The ginger tabby yawned into his sleeve. "It's the middle of the night."

"Careful." Munkustrap's voice was uncharacteristically monotone. "There's glass on the floor."

"…Glass?" Skimbleshanks stopped dead in his tracks, and looked down at the linoleum beneath his slippered paws. Even with his eyes still blurred from sleep, he could make out shards of china on the floor. He wasn't entirely sure why he was so surprised, considering it had been the sound of shattering glass that had woken him up. "Cat have mercy…"

"Sorry about that. I think it was one of the teacups."

"You think?" He opened the pantry door and reached for the broom and dustpan, instantly setting to work cleaning up the mess. "What do you mean, you think? You didn't see it break?

"No, I saw it. I just don't remember."

"Do you remember where it dropped, at least?"

"Not really. Somewhere…around here." The silver tabby gestured vaguely. "Somewhere."

Clearly, he was tired. Skimbleshanks decided not to press it, and kept on sweeping, glad he hadn't run downstairs without his slippers. But as he crossed behind the dining room table to throw the contents of his dust pan into the bin, he got a better view of what Munkustrap was doing at the stovetop.

"Love, what are you doing?" He repeated his question, more insistent this time.

"Making tea."

Making tea. Indeed he was, if your way of making tea is putting the teacup directly on the gas burner, which isn't turned on, filled halfway with loose-leaf tea and not a drop of water.

"Are you sure?"

For the first time since Skimbleshanks had come downstairs, Munkustrap turned to look at him. His expression was beyond confused, his normally shining eyes completely burnt out. Tired was an understatement. "…No…?"

"Everlasting Almighty, Munkus, what's happened to you?" Upon seeing his husband's face, the broom was instantly forgotten and the dustpan inadvertently discarded with its contents in the bin. Instead, he carefully stepped over and placed his paw on the silver tabby's forehead. "Are you ill?"

"No. I don't…I don't think so." Munkustrap pried the ginger paw away. "I'm just tired. I can't…I can't sleep."

"I can tell." Skimbleshanks let out a heavy-hearted sigh. He was all too aware about Munkustrap's bouts of insomnia – they came infrequently, but when they did, they could last for days. It was always when he was worked up, when either work was stressful or he was anxious about something. His head would ache and he'd have a hard time focusing, or even thinking for that matter, and it was always a mystery what would put a stop to it. "Come, now, why don't you sit down at the table, love? I'll make it for you."

He put a paw on Munkustrap's shoulder and led him carefully to the kitchen table, thankful they both had their slippers on. A habit leftover from work, he started to ask how Munkustrap wanted his tea – weak or strong, with lemon or without – but instantly thought better of it. Tea meant for sleep had to be a certain way, and chances are, Munkustrap didn't know the difference in the state he was in.

He hardly knew the difference when he was wide awake, for that matter.

So Skimbleshanks removed the teacup from the burner and replaced it with a kettle full of water. The tea brewed much faster that way, filling the kitchen with the delicate fragrance of chamomile. That was the best tea for sleep - it was relaxing even to let the vapors waft into your nose.

"It sure worked better for you than it did for me." Munkustrap's voice was hardly louder than the trickling of water from the kettle into the cup. "Darned kettle must like you better."

"Aye, it's got a mind of its own, hasn't it?" As he set the cup on the table, Skimbleshanks figured Munkustrap didn't need to know he'd been trying to make tea in the cup itself – at least, not right now. "Be careful, now, this is just off the stove. Might want to wait for it to cool down a bit before you go trying to drink it."

Munkustrap didn't reply; he only blinked dumbly as the tea was placed in front of him. "You're not going to have any with me?"

Skimbleshanks shook his head as he sat down. "I'm alright, thank you."

"Oh." A silver digit idly traced the teacup's angled handle. "Won't you at least have a glass of milk or something, if you're going to sit up with me?"

"Very well, then." Since Skimbleshanks was used to working at night, he was used to eating at night, too. It wasn't uncommon for him to be hungry in the middle of the night when he was home, and a glass of milk was how he dealt with it. It wouldn't hurt now. But even when he sat back down at the table, glass of milk in paw, Munkustrap still seemed discontented. His shoulders slumped and his jaw was stiff with tension, the furrowing of his eyebrows only loosened due to lack of energy. "What's bothering you?"

Munkustrap cautiously sipped his tea, and gave his answer in little more than a whisper. "Damned if I know."

That wasn't the first time Skimbleshanks had heard that answer to that question. Sometimes, it was useless to even ask. Munkustrap would quote Shakespeare when you asked him who left a voicemail, reverse his pounds and pence when quoting a figure on a receipt – anxiety was only one place his mind liked to wander. There were simply too many thoughts in his head for him to sort them out.

But Skimbleshanks had to admit, aside from his husband being dead-tired, this was nice. They were alone, together, it was quiet, they were comfortable, and they could see one another. Because of his work, their entire existence was opposite five days a week – Munkustrap left for work just as Skimbleshanks lay down to sleep for the day, and vice-versa, and between all that, they didn't have a lot of time together. Every little bit counted.

And so they sat - together. One had tea, one had milk, and both had each other's company.

Skimbleshanks had never been so glad to be used to the night shift.