The holidays are looking pretty weird for all of us this year. So here's a little something I wrote of a time that Munkus' Christmas looked a little different. Skimblestrap, pre-relationship-ish. Thank you to tundrageist for introducing me to these two.


Munkustrap let out a heavy sigh, draping one last little ornament onto his Christmas tree. If one could even call it a tree - it looked more like a bush, squat on the little table in front of the window, with gaps in between the branches despite his attempts to cover them up.

How he wished he could afford an actual Christmas tree, one that stood on the floor with rainbow lights and maybe that fake snow stuff dusted on the ends of the branches. Or, at least, one that definitely looked like a tree. But business at the theater had been slow all year, and even on a good year being a stage manager at a small local theater wasn't a spectacularly paying job, no matter how much he enjoyed it. This sickly bush dug out from his father's attic was the best he could do.

There were four little presents under the bush-tree. They were wrapped in butcher paper, with ribbons around them that looked like they might as well have been made of tinfoil. A pair of stockings for his dad, gloves for Demeter, a tie clip shaped like a guitar for Tugger (because he desperately needed a tie clip and there was no way in Heaviside Munkus could convince him to wear an ordinary one), and a tie for Skimbleshanks, light blue with trains printed on it.

Skimbleshanks. Munkustrap had thought they'd meet up sometime around the holidays to exchange gifts. But Skimbleshanks hadn't come by, and he hadn't answered the door when Munkustrap had gone to his house, even though he'd had made sure to go in the evening when Skimbleshanks wouldn't be asleep. He assumed, then, that the orange tabby must have gone to visit his family. He hadn't said anything about it, but then again, he had hardly spoken a word about his family except for that they lived in Glasgow and that he had a mum, dad, and two older brothers.

Munkustrap picked up the little package containing Skimbleshanks' tie. Why did it matter so much, where he was spending the holidays? They were acquaintances. Good acquaintances, perhaps. Or friends, maybe. Maybe. Not good friends, though. Definitely not. And "maybe sorta friends" just made small talk, about happenings at work or their favorite flower, didn't they? There was no reason to be involved in or even privy to each other's affairs, now, was there?

There wasn't. Though, somehow, Munkustrap wished there was. Mostly because he wanted someone to ask him what he was doing for Christmas.

The answer wasn't very interesting. He'd have dinner with Mistoffelees' family (his second family, of sorts) on Christmas Eve, and lunch with his father and brother on Christmas Day. The rest of the time, he'd be at home, in his apartment, sitting on his pathetic excuse for a sofa staring at his lousy bush of a Christmas tree, trying to find some sense of meaning and holiday spirit for whatever those are worth.

A knock at his door shook him from his thoughts. He replaced Skimbleshanks' tie beneath the Christmas bush and went to open it, an inexplicable flicker of a vague hope rising in his chest.

It faded when he opened the door and found no one there. Only a package.

A draft blew through his apartment with the front door open, and he shivered. Heavy clouds smothered the sunlight and melted ice sludged down the pavement, no proverbial "White Christmas" in sight.

He sighed, picked up his package, and went back inside, thankful to be back where it was decently warm. Maybe later this evening he'd go visit Demeter, or maybe Gus. Or maybe he'd knock on Skimbleshanks' door again. Though, probably not. He didn't want to appear needy or, Cat forbid, desperate. Really, he only wanted a friendly face.

Or, at least, that was all he told himself he wanted.

He started to set down his package, but a flash of yellow caught his eye. It was a piece of paper, a note taped to the package's front. He flipped it open, finding oddly familiar penmanship on the written side. All capital letters.

Munkus,

I'm spending the holidays with my family. I meant to tell you before I left, but my schedule at work got fumbled around and I wasn't able to come by. I won't be back until after New Year's (Hogmanay, as we call it. It's a big deal up here.) I'm sorry we won't be able to see each other until then; I've enjoyed your company immeasurably these past few months.

Anyway, I found this in my old bedroom here at my parents' house, and I thought it might look nice in your apartment. I remember you told me it can be rather lonely around the holidays, since you live by yourself. I'm dreadfully sorry about that. Perhaps this will help keep you company. I must warn you, chances are, when you open this (and please open it before Christmas so it doesn't just sit in the box doing nothing), you'll assume I'm just being a self-indulgent sap by giving you this. You don't have to keep it if you don't want to. But I do hope you like it.

Merry Christmas, and Happy Hogmanay New Year (sorry; old habit). - Skimble

Munkustrap let his lips curl into a sad smile. New Year's seemed such a long way away. At least he knew that Skimbleshanks was with his family - though, there went all hope of paying him a visit. He gently peeled off the tape holding the letter to the package and set the yellow paper aside, and stared at the package in front of him. Skimbleshanks had taken the time to package it, whatever it was, and mail it to him, even write a note to go with it. He hadn't gotten a piece of mail that wasn't a bill or invoice of some sort in a long, long time.

Then again, Skimbleshanks did work on a mail train. He knew how special letters and packages could be.

Now normally, Munkustrap would have objected to opening gifts before Christmas. But Skimbleshanks had written in his letter to open it before, so the silver tabby sighed, conceding, and gently peeled the mailing tape away from the cardboard.

There was an undeniable, unidentifiable flicker of some emotion in his heart as he opened the box in his paws.

Something not unlike opening Christmas gifts as a kit.

Tissue paper had the box's contents encased for safety. But once he peeled it back, he found what else but a little train, with an engine and a coal car and a caboose, decorated for Christmas with painted garlands and lights and caps of snow.

His sad smile faded, replaced by laughter. No wonder Skimbleshanks had charged himself with seeming like a "self-indulgent sap," hoping someone would get as much joy out of a Christmas train as he did. But Munkustrap had no criticism to give about sappiness, seeing that he'd found himself acting like one more than once over the past few months.

Besides, it was a cute little train. And when he arranged the three little cars beneath his Christmas bush, the little tree didn't seem so pathetic after all.

So he went into his bedroom and pulled a notepad out of a dresser drawer, and tore off the top sheet. He penned a note and taped it to the package containing Skimble's tie, along with a few stamps.

And on his way to the post office, it started to snow.


I hope each and every one of you have a lovely holiday season despite all of the weirdness of the world right now. We'll get through this together, folks. Happy Holidays, no matter what you celebrate this time of year!