He hadn't meant to fall asleep— sleeping with a strange, unrestrained man in the house was not Erik's idea of a wise decision. He could go a day or two (or longer) without any sleep at all and not suffer much for it; by that time the storm would be over and he'd be marching his guest into the post office and leaving instructions for McCoy to take over Charles' care (he was the closest thing they had to a proper doctor in winter, which was precisely why Erik never got ill).
And that was all well and good, but none of it explained why he woke up in bed beside a strange, unrestrained man, who was beaming some manner of wide, friendly smile at him in the scant morning light, as the cat nuzzled against his fair, blanket covered chest.
"Good morning, Erik," Charles said brightly, miles removed from the mess he'd been the day before. There were still smudges of purple under his eyes, but at the very least he didn't look as though you'd just dug him up.
"Mm, morning." Though how good it was remained to be seen. "You're going to get cat hair in your bandages."
Charles was allowing the cat to butt her head against his palm, sliding his hand over her spine while keeping his fingers uninvolved, and the demanding beast was purring joyously at the attention.
"She's beautiful." She was a ginger tabby. Nothing spectacular. "What's her name?"
Stretching until his shoulders and spine loosened, Erik sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The house was still too warm, enough that he'd had no problem sleeping above the blankets all night. "It's a cat. She wouldn't come to her name if she had one, so why bother?"
Rubbing the back of his neck, Erik glanced back over his shoulder, only to find Charles in a very intent staring match with the cat. The colour in the other man's cheeks was a bit high, but the damned cottage felt like a sauna.
"I'll look at your hands now, if you like." Erik watched as Charles' gaze shifted from the cat to the bedspread, and he took note of the tiny line of worry that furrowed between the man's brows. "Honestly Charles, I don't believe they were too far gone, but we need to make sure."
"Yes, of course." Inhaling deep, then exhaling slowly, Charles shook his head and finally looked up to meet Erik's eyes, his smile gone wan. "Let's see the damage, hm?"
It wasn't nearly as terrible as Erik had feared, nor Charles, if his trill of relief was any indication. Red skin, sore, with a few small blisters around his knuckles and between his fingers, but no black spots. His toes were the same, when Erik lifted the bottom of the quilts to remove those bandages. Very, very lucky.
"You'll need fluids." Standing, Erik padded over to his chest of drawers and began rummaging for something suitable. Even the floorboards were warm, and he'd stripped his socks off the night before. "And some food. Here."
The trousers would be too long, the shirt and sweater too large, and Erik said as much, but Charles thanked him effusively, regardless. The cat wasn't pleased to lose her new admirer, yowling piteously, and Charles actually apologized for leaving her before shuffling into the bathroom to clean up (with instructions to use whatever toiletries he needed, including the new toothbrush in the drawer beside the sink— Erik's old toothbrush would last a while longer, until he ordered another).
He could hear the water-heater chugging to life, and made a mental note to check on the generator before evening. It was somewhat overcautious— he had enough diesel on hand to last the entire winter, even with another body using his power for a day or two— but he'd check if the tank needed to be topped up. Stoking the fire, Erik put the kettle on to boil, then began putting breakfast together.
There was a small refrigerator inside, but once the cold set in, Erik always kept it unplugged. Once autumn crispness gave way to winter winds, he made use of an ice box outside, insulated to keep his food from freezing solid. Such a recent grocery order meant he had some nice supplies to play with, even though he'd gotten nothing but canned goods from the plane. The drive plate he'd fixed for Darwin had been paid for with a dozen fresh eggs, and the promise of another dozen the next time he saw the man. He'd also had a few bags of venison, a cupboard full of preserves, and a round of bread rolls inside, all traded for labour.
Tugging on his boots and nothing else, Erik slipped out into the frigid morning and felt the sweat on his skin cool immediately. His breath ghosted out in billowing white clouds, and there was over a foot of snow drifted up against the cottage when he first opened the door, but the storm had moved on, leaving a glittering, smooth landscape stretching out over the island. Skin prickling, Erik unlatched the ice box and grabbed a few eggs, then after a moment's consideration, took some sausages as well. The cat had come out with him, scampering off into the woods for its own morning constitutional (though Erik had little doubt she would be back in time to beg a few bites of sausage), and its tracks were the only break in the smooth slopes of snow.
Standing out in the snow in his underwear was unwise, even if the briskness of the air was refreshing after the stifling fire; after one more deep, clean breath, Erik trudged back inside.
By the time Charles made his appearance, with damp hair curling around his ears and one of Erik's thickest sweaters sagging loosely from his frame, the sausages were keeping warm on a covered plate, the eggs were well on their way to scrambling, and Erik had pulled on yesterday's trousers. He'd also laid out two place settings (and in doing so, emptied his cupboards of dishes), the rolls and a jar of raspberry preserves, and Charles' expression was nearly rapturous as he shambled across the room, sniffing appreciatively.
The man had rolled up the cuffs of the trousers, revealing thick grey socks, and every step was cautious but determined— Erik imagined it was a combination of the fear of tripping, and the ache in his toes.
"Oh my lord, that smells glorious." Scraping the eggs around in the skillet, Erik took another drag of his cigarette, smiling a little despite himself.
"Don't wait for me; eat what you like." Charles looked torn between gnawing hunger and politeness, so desperately divided that Erik couldn't help but chuckle. "The eggs are nearly done. Here." Taking up the kettle, Erik poured tea into Charles' mug, having dispensed with the tea ball in favour of brewing a whole pot. "Eat."
It only took another moment of indecision before Charles was tearing apart a roll and delving enthusiastically into the jam. Shortly thereafter, the eggs were suitably firm, and Erik was scraping half the pan (or slightly more than half) onto Charles' plate, before emptying the rest onto his own. Then he sat, lifting the cloth he'd tucked over the sausages, and skewed two for himself, motioning for Charles to do similarly.
They ate in companionable quiet, with little said beyond Charles thanking him again, and Erik's brief inquiry about whether the food was to his liking. As Erik expected, there was a scratching at the door before the last sausage disappeared, and the cat apparently had no issue reclaiming its usual chair, even if that meant leaping up into Charles' lap.
Even if he hadn't been planning to break up part of a sausage into a saucer in the first place, Erik had a strange feeling that Charles' enthusiasm about the idea would have been enough to sway him. The dish usually would have gone on the floor, and the cat with it, but apparently Charles' had enough dexterity in his fingers to feed the cat by hand, a tiny mouthful at a time. It was utterly ridiculous, but Erik didn't do more than shake his head at the sight, gathering up their dishes and pouring the last dregs of the tea into Charles' mug.
"I could probably dry the dishes," Charles said, as Erik put some fresh water on to heat. The man had spent longer in the shower than the water-heater was accustomed to, and using the stove was quicker than waiting for it to fill up again.
"And ruin your hands, or my plates." It had been a genuine offer, no matter how senseless, and Erik quirked a small smile at the man to ease the sting of refusal. "Sit and rest. Read, if you like."
Water for the dishpan didn't need to be boiling, and it only took a few minutes for the kettle to heat. While Erik soaped up the plates, Charles lingered at the table, scratching the cat behind the ears.
After a short while of that silence, it was actually Erik who broke it.
"So you've slept." He heard the creak of Charles' chair, and glanced over to find the man looking back at him mildly, apparently rather content. Erik pressed on. "You've showered, and you've eaten. I think by this point I can ask what the hell you were doing tangled up in my dock without it seeming like I'm interrogating you in your weakened state."
"Is that where I was?" Charles sounded earnest enough, but Erik still turned to watch him more closely as the man gathered his thoughts. Or made sure he had all his lies straight. "I don't recall a thing. I don't... I don't actually remember much at all before waking up here, to be honest. I know my name is Charles, but I have no idea where I am, beyond your home."
Well, wasn't that just perfect. And wonder of wonders, Erik thought the man might just be telling the truth, though it was too soon to say for certain.
Charles paused, running his thumb lightly over the cat's muzzle. "You said I was tangled in your dock? I think I washed enough salt out of my hair to guess we're near the sea, then?"
"Surrounded by it." Turning back to the dishes, Erik explained.
An island. Menigu Island, which Erik said was some local native dialect, translated rather humorously to Island Island. Charles had never heard of it, or thought he hadn't— Erik might not be completely convinced, but he truly didn't remember very much at all. It was... very disturbing.
He knew he was Charles, with nothing but a gaping hole in his mind where a surname might have once resided. He knew what things were called and what they did, like tea and a toothbrush, and he'd known that the thoughts in Erik's mind sounded German. If he concentrated, he could call up notions about Germany, about England, about the world at large, but they were vague, clinical thoughts, as if recited from a book. He had no personal connection to any of this knowledge— he didn't remember learning it.
He could also read minds, and he was absolutely certain that most other people couldn't.
Eventually, the dishes were done, and Erik shrugged on a quilted flannel coat and a pair of gloves, preparing to bring in a few armloads of wood. Flexing his own hands very carefully, Charles didn't bother offering his help this time, feeling more than a little annoyed by his own limitations.
"Don't worry," Erik said, tying his boots. Charles could sense the dry amusement rolling off the man in waves, but no annoyance. "I'm keeping a tally."
Charles didn't stifle his laugh, browsing the books he'd discovered lining Erik's walls. There was a rather impressive collection of philosophy, as well as mechanical manuals and some cheaply bound fiction— mysteries and even a western or two. He decided on a detective novel, not feeling quite prepared to tackle Hegel in the original German at the moment. "Well that is a relief, my friend. I would hate to feel like a freeloader."
The wind that cut through the cottage when Erik opened the door was cold enough to make Charles truly appreciative of the thick jumper the man had provided. The cat seemed of a similar mind, and curled up on Charles' stomach when he moved back to sit on the bed.
"You're quite affectionate, aren't you, puss?" he asked quietly, once Erik was gone around the side of the cottage to the large, covered woodpile. The cat didn't bother to look up, content to knead his thigh. "Are you starved for attention, or accustomed to the cuddling, I wonder?"
It was a foolish thought— and inappropriate, surely— but it burrowed into his mind regardless.
Having Charles walk into town would be a recipe for disaster; the distance was too far, and the weather too cold. Erik did a bit of exploring before he finished the wood, trekking a short distance inland to see how deep the snow had fallen elsewhere, and while the road wasn't clear, it would be passable. He would have to get the truck.
By the time he made it back inside the cottage with the fourth armload of wood, enough to last until the next day, his hair was a mess from the wind and the snow it kicked up, and his cheeks were stinging. Charles was still laid out in the bed, on top of the quilts this time, seemingly engrossed in what Erik knew was a slightly ridiculous but not entirely terrible noir novel. The cat had made itself scarce sometime during Erik's wood gathering.
"There is a doctor on the island," he said by way of greeting, kicking the door shut and dumping the sticks into the wood box with the others. Charles lifted his head, one dark brow cocked in question. "You could get yourself checked over, if you're up to it. We can take my truck."
"I suppose that's not a bad idea." Charles didn't sound exactly thrilled about it, and Erik could sympathize, though he refrained from saying anything of the sort.
"There is a telephone in town as well."
"And I have no one to call." Setting the book on the bed, Charles shifted his legs over the side and stood, carefully brushing back his hair with his palms. "I know this entire situation is more than a little bizarre, Erik; thank you again for all your help."
I'm terrified was unsaid, but Erik could see it clearly reflected in Charles face, behind the faltering joviality. It was an expression that sat very heavily in Erik's stomach, like a smooth, frigidly cold stone.
Charles was entirely alone, and he knew it.
Brushing dirt and twigs from his coat, Erik stomped the slush from his boots and moved toward the hooks that jutted out beside the door. Grabbing his peacoat, he tossed it onto the bed, not directly at Charles.
"You can wear that, and I've got an extra pair of boots. Do you think you can wear gloves?"
Glancing down at his hands, Charles winced ever so slightly. "I'd rather not risk it. Do you think hands in pockets will be sufficient?"
Erik had enough cold weather gear to outfit them both adequately, though he insisted Charles take the warmest articles. By the time he had the man wrapped up in a peacoat, with trousers tucked into boots, a scarf, and a wool cap, he looked a bit less like a boy dressed up in his father's clothes. The only significant problem with fit was an issue of length.
"Damn it, Erik, you're too slim to be this bloody tall," had been a common refrain during the proceedings, especially when Charles discovered that the efficacy of pockets might be a moot point— the coat sleeves nearly swallowed his hands.
Erik snorted, taking off his flannel coat just long enough to layer a sweater over his undershirt, then buttoned the whole thing up again. "We might be able to borrow some clothes for you while we're in town. Though that depends, of course— how do you feel about women's trousers?"
The utterly flat look Charles levelled at him for that shot was at odds with the crooked smile the man couldn't quite suppress, and Erik merely shrugged in response before going to clean off the truck.
It wasn't a long drive into town, or more accurately "town." The island was less than a dozen kilometres long, and even though Erik lived on the far end, most residents clustered somewhere around the middle in some vague approximation of a village. The post office was their community hub, rivalled only by the main wharf— Erik frequented neither.
The truck had been on the island longer than Erik had, but over the years he'd stripped and rebuilt nearly every inch of it, from engine to frame. It could handle the weather and the road, even out at his end of the island, which was so uneven and overgrown in places it might have actually been easier to blaze a path through the woods. Charles appeared only somewhat concerned as they navigated snow-covered potholes that could bury a grown man, occasionally bracing his palms on the dash and sending Erik wide-eyed stares.
When they finally pulled in alongside the large crisply beige building, with its porch already neatly shovelled free of the snow that still heaped on its roof, Erik clapped Charles amiably on the shoulder. "We'll check here first, but McCoy might be out at his station. Come on."
Even after they stepped inside the warm, brightly lit post office, Erik kept his hand on Charles' back, resting just between his shoulder blades, and the man didn't object.
"And the hermit weathers another storm, unscathed." Aza was perched on a stool behind the counter, pen poised over a book of crossword puzzles and a sly smirk on his devilishly handsome face. The postmaster wasn't entirely unbearable, though he thought himself far cleverer than he actually was. "I hadn't thought to see you for a few weeks at least, Lehnsherr, and with a friend no less. Dobryj dyen'."
Ignoring the pleasantries, as Aza no doubt expected, Erik jerked his chin towards the stairs. "Is McCoy in?"
"He is." Tapping his pen absently, Aza motioned towards Charles but addressed Erik. "Tell me you did not take his tongue. Or is he simply an acolyte, learning discourtesy at your knee?"
Erik was very close to grabbing Charles by the coat when the man made a quiet, distressed noise in the back of his throat and stepped forward, lifting his hand to show the redness and blisters. "Apologies, my good man, and I hope you'll forgive me again for not shaking hands, but I was rather foolish during the storm and suffered a touch of frostbite. Charles Smith, and I'm a friend of Erik's, as you guessed."
Aza's dark brows lifted at the sight, and he actually sat up straighter. "Ah, little wonder you are seeking the good doctor, then. Up the stairs, on the right."
"Thank you, sir," Charles said with a cordial smile, then turned back to Erik. "Shall we?"
Something about the look Charles sent him as they crested the narrow staircase made Erik tap out a brief knock on the doorframe before they entered McCoy's workspace, which was actually a spare room he'd appropriated for any equipment deemed too expensive or delicate to leave out at his research station. The young man's head jerked up regardless, abandoning his peering into a microscope to squint myopically at his visitors, with his glasses pushed up onto his forehead.
"McCoy," Erik barked, and the ensuing awkward scramble to settle glasses back on nose was particularly irritating. Then Charles' hand settled very lightly on his forearm, and Erik bit back his annoyed sigh.
"Mr. Lehnsherr—" McCoy stepped back from his microscope, which was likely for the best, and once he could see again, blinked at Charles with clear confusion. "I... uh. Hello."
"Dr. McCoy, I presume." Charles had that same charming smile plastered on as he'd turned on Aza, and Erik found himself scowling without even meaning to do so. "My name is Charles Smith, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. It seems I was rather foolish during the storm, and I was told you're the man to see regarding a minor case of frostbite, and treatment thereof."
"Be careful of the blisters, and keep warm? That was his learned medical advice?" They'd made it out of the post office without Erik losing his temper, even after McCoy had stepped on Charles' foot moments after the man had removed his boots. Now, they were sitting in the truck with two pairs of trousers folded on the seat between them, and Charles was sporting a vividly green pair of mittens (all courtesy of Aza's lost-and-found cupboard, which was actually more of a rubbish-someone-didn't-want-in-their-house-anymore cupboard). Erik's grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled.
"The man's a biochemist, Erik." As if that were any sort of excuse. "Now, any other errands to run?"
"No." Reaching down, Erik yanked the gear shift out of park with more force than the truck deserved.
"Home then," Charles said, so very casually, which should have sounded presumptuous instead of strangely endearing. "And in time for tea."