"Whoa, whoa—careful." Luke helped Chuck out of his car (a white Oldsmobile that looked like it must have belonged to his grandpa) and made sure he didn't fall over—Chuck's crutches slipped on the ice, but with Luke's hand steadying him, he didn't trip. It helped that Luke hooked his arm around Chuck's ribs, taking his crutches and helping him along up the driveway himself.

It took a little bit of effort, and Michael managed to bring all the suitcases and Gertrude's case inside before they even made it to the door, but once Chuck was inside the hallway he felt much more confident. He sat on the floor and took off his shoe as Luke cleaned the melting ice from the bottom of the crutches so it wouldn't damage the floor.

As Chuck pulled himself upright, grabbing onto Luke's hand, Luke seemed restless, or excited.

"Why are you bouncing?" Chuck took his crutches back and gave Luke a curious look.

Luke, of course, immediately got still. He cleared his throat, and took a few steps down the hall, toward the living room. "I'm not bouncing." He stuck his hands in his pockets.

Chuck raised his eyebrows. "You were."

"Fine. I was bouncing." Luke popped into the living room, but he waited for Chuck at the doorway. "I helped make dinner." He grinned and walked backwards, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure he didn't trip. "I made rolls. With rosemary. And I made ice cream, but I do that all the time so it's not really exciting."

"I thought you were scared of the oven."

Luke frowned, and perhaps a slight pink tint colored his cheeks—it was hard to tell. "I'm not afraid of the oven!" He crossed his arms, turning around to pay attention as he walked to the dining room, attached to the kitchen.

"Raphael put it in the oven."

Luke jumped at Michael's voice, and Chuck laughed. He went to meet Michael, in the doorway to the kitchen. "Don't be mean, Michael." He leaned on the wall for a moment, and smiled at both Michael and Luke. "He'd probably melt if he was too close to an oven. He's a big ice cube."

Michael snorted.

To the side, Luke grumbled. He edged his way around them and slipped into the kitchen. The door swung behind him. Chuck followed, enough to peek his head into the kitchen. It was big, and shiny, and Raphael was at the stove making some kind of sauce while Luke pestered him. Chuck shook his head. He left them to do what they would, and clomped over to the dining room table so he could sit down on one side of its long expanse. Fancy wood... there was a tablecloth too. And the chairs were padded. He leaned his crutches against the table and leaned back in his chair.

"This is a pretty nice house." Chuck looked up at Michael. "It's big."

Michael nodded. He sat down next to Chuck, facing him. Took his hand. "Each bedroom has its own bathroom."

"What?!" Chuck laughed. "That's gotta be, like, what—five bathrooms?"

Another nod. "Plus one off the kitchen and another in the garage."

"Jeez."

Michael smiled. He played with Chuck's hand, as he spoke. "It's a very large house." He pushed his thumb against the small gem on Chuck's engagement ring. "Seven bathrooms, five bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a laundry room, a den, and a sewing room. And the garage, of course."

"What's in the den?"

Michael shrugged fluidly. "The family computer—really, it's Raphael's computer because everyone else has a laptop, now. It's good for when Gabriel visits, too, so Caché can play games." He grinned. "It's much harder for her to break the desktop computer than Gabriel's laptop."

Chuck wrinkled his nose. "I'm sure."

They lapsed into silence, Chuck enjoying the warmth of Michael's fingers on his hand.

Luke burst out of the kitchen with a plate of rolls, and proclaimed, "It's time for food!" He put the plate on the table, right in the middle, and hurried back into the kitchen. Apparently serving was his duty, along with setting the table, because he put out enough plates and silverware for everyone and came back out with a big bowl of mashed potatoes, some gravy, and another bowl with broccoli in it. There was corn on the cob, too. Chuck thought it seemed out of place, but it smelled good.

Raphael finally came out of the kitchen as well, brandishing several large spoons. "You forgot these, Luke." He smirked, and stuck a spoon in the potatoes, and one in the gravy and the broccoli too, respectively. He shook his head, possibly disappointed in earnest, but most likely pretending to be disappointed. As was his way. He said hello to Chuck and sat at the head of the table.

It was a crooked setup, with Michael at Chuck's side, and Luke across from him, and Raphael diagonal to him, but it worked well enough. Everyone certainly got enough to eat.

And the ice cream Luke had made certainly went appreciated. Tangerine and vanilla and honey all mixed together so it was nice and creamy. Chuck just couldn't help wanting to eat all of it. But he resisted. He was full, anyway.

After dinner, and after Chuck had gotten ready for bed and taken his medication, and settled down in bed with his cast off, he opened his computer to write a little bit. At least until he fell asleep... Or until Michael joined him. He grew increasingly more groggy, but he typed on, ignoring all but the most glaring of typos—he could fix those later. He only stopped when Michael climbed into bed with him. He set the computer aside, then, and let Michael snuggle close to him.

Just before he fell asleep, the familiar weight of Gertrude joined them, on Chuck's arm. She must have finally decided to come out of her carrier to explore, just in time to cuddle up with her people in bed. Chuck kissed the tip of her nose and focused on falling asleep in a strange, big house.


It was in the few weeks they stayed at Michael's family house that Chuck learned a few things he'd never known.

Raphael was allergic to cats. He sneezed often and violently around Gertrude, but he still played with her and snuggled with her, apparently too fond of her big ears and one green eye to avoid her for more than a few minutes at a time. He just kept her out of his bedroom, and suffered through watering eyes for the small joy of petting her belly.

Luke made ice cream multiple times a week, and apparently had a strong love of vanilla and licorice. Somehow, Chuck wasn't surprised. Luke lounging on the leather couch in the living room, with a bag of vanilla tootsie rolls and a box of black licorice both balanced on his stomach as he watched cartoons, became a familiar sight to Chuck.

Chuck still wouldn't taste any flavors of ice cream with black licorice included. He wasn't a masochist. But the vanilla and fruit combinations were lovely. Lavender or pear or green tea or grapefruit or chai with heavy cream and French vanilla or dark chocolate or honey. So many flavors, Chuck lost track of which ones he had tried.

He was definitely going to gain a few pounds, between the ice cream and his minimal exercise. He thought he could live with that, though. Michael would kiss his tummy, either way.

On a less positive note, however, Chuck discovered some of his small fears had worsened. Some more than others. Looking for a small house with Michael, walking close and wobbly on his crutches, he had to fight the urge to hide from all but the smallest of pooches. The sight of one big, floppy-eared Mastiff sent Chuck across the street with Michael on his heels.

Michael went with it wordlessly, and they continued to admire the houses along the road.

Chuck thought everything was too expensive, but Michael assured him it would be fine and that plenty of people lived there with more reasonable paychecks and there were places that didn't cost five times more than Chuck's hospital bills. Chuck still thought that Scarsdale was too full of rich people and that they would be able to tell he grew up severely poor, or that he just wasn't like them. But Michael's presence helped. Michael knew what it was like—Michael had grown up in this town, and he knew the people and the area. He knew the weather and the plants and the animals. Admittedly, he was part of a rich family, himself... but still.

Beside the slow search for a place to live (other than with Michael's youngest brothers), Chuck spent a lot of time both writing and sending emails to Rufus. It was nice to have a grumpy old man to talk to, sometimes, when he was being lazy and tired. Plus, Rufus kept him up to date on everything that went on. The house, for some reason, had been demolished. Chuck suspected someone had set it on fire after all, and it was unsalvageable or something.

In any case, according to Rufus' steady replies, the construction workers found a dead body in the space underneath the stairs, blocked off only by the wall of the pantry. The thought made Chuck grimace—he had done laundry just feet away from a corpse. Maybe that was why it had haunted him, once it got the chance. "How dare you wash your clothes when I'm here rotting." Assuming the dead body was the one haunting him.

Chuck made a face.

He hoped to never live somewhere that terrible again. Shutters on the windows didn't make up for ghosts and demon dogs.

He would rather live in a one bedroom apartment than a house, if the house was haunted. As long as he was safe and warm and had Michael and Gertrude with him, he didn't mind living somewhere small.

Maybe they could find someplace nice that allowed pets soon.

Maybe he could contribute some money to it, too. If his book did well once it finally sold. Of course, there were the various issues of time. Editing, design, so on and so forth. Chuck wouldn't be earning royalties on that book anytime soon, but he figured... eventually. Eventually it would be published and his few loyal fans would buy twelve copies each and he could buy a TV. (Michael refused to buy a television, but Chuck knew he would give in if it wasn't his money. Anyway, Chuck knew Michael liked to watch the History Channel so he could argue with the shows about how wrong they were. Chuck could win him over in no time.)

For the moment, though, Chuck focused on finishing his book and on helping his leg heal right.

Sure, he might have some problems in the future, and probably would be able to do even less strenuous activity... but he didn't mind so much. He had Michael, after all. Walking, talking can opener and box-mover.

He also had Luke and Raphael, for the time being. With Michael, that made three healthy young men who could move stuff for him and help him down the stairs. All with varying levels of sarcasm, of course. Or insults. But what did Chuck mind a rare "you weigh a million pounds" on the way down the stairs.

Chuck felt much better than before.

Less lonely.

Less likely to pass out on his way across the living room.

He still went back onto his meds after he was done with the painkillers, but that was normal. Kept him functioning and focused and nightmare free. (Mostly.) Kept him able to interact with people without feeling the need to lock himself in a closet. Even if he still hid from dogs and conservatives.

The only truly unpleasant thing he had to deal with was Luke accidentally walking in on him and Michael having sex, and that wasn't so bad. Once they moved, it wouldn't even be an issue anymore.

All things considered, Chuck was okay.