Skimbleshanks sat on the parlor settee, a book open on his lap, holding his page down with one paw while holding his spectacles on his nose with the other. Down the hall, he could hear Munkustrap rustling around in the kitchen, humming to himself contentedly while sifting through the pantry. He was probably reorganizing, having inexplicably been on a bit of a nesting streak the past few days. First he had decided the pantry ought to be organized by food groups, then alphabetically, then alphabetically within groups - really, it was rather endearing of him, all these little ideas he got and how passionate he got about them. Sometimes almost as passionate as he got about Shakespeare, though, not quite.
"Ah! I knew they were in here somewhere." Skimbleshanks smiled to himself as he heard his husband call out to himself in a moment of eureka. More rustling, the closing of the pantry door, the opening of the icebox - yep, definitely reorganizing. He reached into his vest pocket for his watch, checking the time: 8:30. Perhaps a bit late in the evening to start reorganizing the pantry, but it was Munkustrap, and if he wanted it done, he wouldn't rest until it was.
The icebox closed, and a bit more rustling before footsteps came down the hallway and a familiar pair of cloud-blue eyes came into the parlor, a plate and glass of milk in paw. "Do you want some Digestives whilst you read, love?"
Skimbleshanks met his husband's eyes over the top of his spectacles and smiled, shaking his head. "No thanks. Still full from supper."
"Alright then."
He turned back to his book as Munkustrap set the plate on the coffee table, taking a biscuit in his paw not occupied by the glass of milk. "I thought you were in there reorganizing."
"I was," Munkustrap shrugged, sitting down next to him and giving a gentle nuzzle on the shoulder, "but then I remembered there were biscuits up in the pantry, and you were in here reading, and I like biscuits and I like watching you read, and maybe you wanted a biscuit, too, so I figured all that was more important than reorganizing."
Skimbleshanks huffed a laugh. Wasn't terrible logic on his husband's part.
One eye focused on his book, the other still halfway focused on the beautiful blur of sweater-clad silver next to him, Skimbleshanks basked in the glory of having a night off to spend with the love of his nine lives, reading and eating Digestives on the sofa in silent, tranquil bliss. But then he saw Munkustrap do something rather peculiar; he dipped his biscuit in his milk and held it there momentarily before eating it.
"What was...that?"
"Hmm?" Munkustrap whirled in his direction, hurriedly covering his mouth with a paw.
"...Your biscuit. What did you do with it just now?"
Munkustrap swallowed quickly, and took a sip of milk from his glass. "I dipped it in my milk, love."
Skimbleshanks' eyes narrowed incredulously, and he slid his bookmark into the spine of his book, shutting it firmly as he peered over his glasses into his husband's face. "You put your Digestives…in milk?"
"Of course I do! How else am I to do it?"
Skimbleshanks hesitated, his mouth struggling to catch up with the thoughts in his head. "…in tea, love?" It came out as more of a question than he'd intended.
"Oh, psh, everybody does that." Munkustrap waved a paw in the air, taking another biscuit off the plate and gingerly submerging it in his milk. He tapped it on the side of the glass to coax off any excess liquid before eating it. "They taste better with milk. Haven't you ever tried it that way?"
"...No."
"Skimble, you don't know what you're missing!" He hopped up, hastily setting his glass on the coffee table. "Wait here."
"...What? Love, really, I -"
Too late. In a flurry of footsteps, Munkustrap was gone down the hallway for a glass of milk to teach his husband how to eat Digestives.
The still-perplexed ginger tabby slid off his glasses and placed them atop his book on the side table next to the settee. Munkustrap's footsteps grew faint as he marched down the hall to the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of milk which he thrust into his husband's paws.
"…Love, really, I'm still full from dinner."
Munkustrap leaned forward, cloud-blue eyes flaming with insistence. "This is important."
"It's a Digestive, love. And a glass of...milk."
"Yes it is. And it's important to me." He sat back down on the settee, taking another biscuit off the plate and handing it to his husband. "We know what we are, but know not what we may be."
"That's…not got anything to do with eating biscuits, Munkus dear."
"Oh, psh, give me that!" Munkustrap took the biscuit and the glass of milk from Skimbleshanks' paws. "I'm the Shakespeare expert here, and I say it has everything to do with eating biscuits!" He dipped it in the glass, held it there momentarily, and then brought it out. "Eat this."
Skimbleshanks sighed, biting back a laugh, and took the soaked digestive from his husband's paw. He bit into it, finding the milk-soaked portion disintegrating on his tongue. "It's all…mushy."
"That's the point!" Munkustrap laughed wildly. "Here, take your milk glass back now and dip your own biscuits. I can't eat mine if I'm busy feeding you."
Skimbleshanks shook his head, smiling and chuckling delightedly, as he was once more presented with his glass of milk. Munkustrap turned back to the table and picked up his own glass and another biscuit, and contentedly took another milk-dunked bite.
"Did Tugger teach you that?" Skimbleshanks asked, watching him with surprising curiosity for a cat learning how to eat digestives after 30 years.
"Tugger? Teach me? 'Course not." Munkustrap wiped his paws on his lap. "I picked it up myself, at some point."
"Where, pray tell, did you pick it up from?" Skimbleshanks swirled his milk glass idly, not entirely certain what to do with it - the taste of digestives and milk on his tongue was most certainly a new one.
"Heaviside knows. I've done it for as long as I can remember." He took a long drink from his glass. "Doesn't matter, anyhow."
When he turned back to Skimbleshanks, Munkustrap's upper lip was lined white with milk. "Munkus, how am I supposed to take you seriously with milk all over your face?" Skimbleshanks leaned back and opened the side table drawer, pulling out a paw-kerchief and using it to dab gently at the milk mustache on his husband's upper lip. "Who's the uncultured one now, eh, not bringing napkins with his Digestives and milk and making his poor husband wipe his face for him with a kerchief?"
"Haud yer wheesht," Munkustrap retorted, grabbing the kerchief and fluffing it at his husband. Skimbleshanks laughed heartily at the use of his own dialect to taunt him. "Eat your biscuit, Shanksie."
"Eat your own, Munkie, you oddball, you and your milk." They shared an earnest laugh as Skimbleshanks reached for his own biscuit off the plate - all this laughing was making him hungry, after all. And his husband seemed awfully content with his Digestives and milk; perhaps he ought to give it another try.
Special thanks to tundrageist for helping me make this appropriately British! I tried to adopt some of their language and style for this one, as a writing exercise for myself - inspired particularly by their story, "The End of the Line (Maybe a Diamond Ring)." I HIGHLY recommend it!