I was smacked in the face by a very insistent bout of inspiration after that last bit, so here's a bonus update! I did not expect to have another chapter finished so soon, but thank you all for your feedback, and for being patient with the usual "sometime around once a week or so" sort of update schedule I've got going on. You, dear readers, are the bee's knees :D
It was a short, silent drive down to the wharf, and Erik wasn't fooled in the slightest by how quiet Moira was being. Backing the truck up to the door of her storage barn, he watched as she unhooked Muir, then unlocked the wide, rolling steel door— the facade didn't crack until they were loading the engine onto a cart to drag it inside.
"So about Charles," she said through clenched teeth, as they lifted it together.
Erik did not wait for her to finish, shaking his head as they settled the engine carefully on the steel cart. "No."
Breathing deeply in the crisp air, while Muir bounded through snow banks nearby, Moira wiped her gloves on the thighs of her jeans. "Just no? Is that all I'm getting?"
"Yes, that's all you're getting. Come on."
His entire upper body was crammed below deck, hanging partially upside down just above the bilge pump in order to reach a few stubborn bolts, when Moira decided to try again.
"Do you remember the summer before last," she said from the other side of the engine block; at least she was contorted up as well, securing some lines. If all the blood rushing to Erik's head hadn't been becoming so uncomfortable, he might have rolled his eyes. "When I hired Cassidy on for herring season?"
"I remember." Tightening the last nut, Erik hauled himself up, making his stomach muscles burn and his head swim just a little. "He thought catching fish would be a much more appealing job than gutting and canning them, not that I necessarily disagree."
"Yeah, and he lasted four months before I kicked his ass back to the mainland. Good kid, but forever distracted, and an absolute misery to wake up in the morning." Sitting on the deck, Erik could see Moira's legs and the curve of her back, but her head and shoulders were still hidden by the engine. Grabbing a rag, Erik wiped his wrench, then dabbed at his damp hairline with the back of one wrist. His sweat was already cooling.
"I'm sure I'll regret asking if there's a point to this story."
"My point—" With a grunt, Moira sat up, bracing one arm on the engine. Her cheeks were vividly red, and small, messy sprigs of hair had begun to loosen from her ponytail. "Is that you are too touchy by half, mostly because you avoid everyone. I had Sean Cassidy working on my boat and living in my house for four months, two years ago, and Aza still ribs me about my little bright-eyed boy toy. I know Alex and Darwin still joke with Sean about it, too. None of them mean it spitefully, but hell, what else is there to talk about on this damned island besides everyone else's business?"
Grinding the heel of his hand between his eyebrows, Erik didn't deign to answer that. After a moment, Moira unfolded herself from kneeling, walking around to kick him lightly in the calf. "One of those pies is for you, you know. My dastardly plan was to drive out and snoop around, with delicious pastry as a sacrifice to appease the wrathful, misanthropic god of the east beach."
"You fiend." Erik glanced up at her flatly. "I never would have guessed."
The western sky was already starting to redden by the time they were finished, though the sun was still hovering over the horizon like too-heavy fruit drooping from a tree. Winter meant dusk was coming earlier every day, but there would still be light enough to get home if they didn't linger at Moira's.
Of course, there were already trucks parked outside the post office when they pulled up.
"And the gang's all here," Moira said with a smirk, getting out and telling Muir to stay put with a stern tone and a gesture. As much as the dog was still excitable, he was good at following most directions, and he'd be better by spring. That was what mattered, when Moira would have him out on the boat.
I'm here, Charles,he thought loudly, feeling a bit foolish about shouting in his own head, but he did manage to get a response.
Erik! Are you coming inside? Even in his thoughts, Charles sounded almost giddy with excitement. It was bizarrely endearing, in the same way the cat was when she left bloody squirrel tails on the doorstep as gifts.
Slapping his hand against the steering wheel, Erik tamped down his frustration. Yes, I'm coming.
The post office had been, at one time, the closest thing the island had to a very stately home. Most business now took place in what used to be the foyer and parlour (several walls had been knocked down but that had been before Erik's time), and the upstairs bedrooms had been converted into storage and space for McCoy's gear, but there was a working kitchen and very sizable dining room farther inside. Following Moira in, knocking the snow off his boots on the threshold, Erik took note that Aza had already abandoned his perch, and that the hatstand was piled thickly with coats and scarves. There were several smells mingling in the air, including the warm scent of roasted vegetables and something distinctly like tomato.
"I'll have to go get the rolls and the pie," Moira was saying, mostly to herself, as she padded off towards the din of voices without hesitation. Erik didn't even bother taking off his gloves, but he did pull off his flat cap, smoothing back his hair as he trailed behind sedately.
Charles' head snapped up the moment they came through the archway from the corridor, and his smile was nearly blinding. Seated at the long dining table, which was still clear of food but currently being milled around by people, Charles appeared to have been engrossed in some diagram McCoy was sketching on a bit of foolscap. The only other person sitting was Mrs. Salvadore, entrenched at the end of the table with knitting needles flitting impossibly fast between her long, veined hands.
"Oh hello Moira—" Charles' looked a bit flushed, but in altogether good spirits. "Erik."
What had been a sea of animated conversations quieted almost comically, and Erik could feel the weight of attention settling on him, but he brushed the sensation away. Standing next to the doorway, holding a beer and chatting with a surprisingly pregnant Margie Christmas, Darwin turned and offered Erik a broad smile of his own.
"Evening, Lehnsherr." The man stuck a hand out to shake, and Erik peeled off his glove to do just that. Darwin's fingers were cool from the bottle, but not unpleasant. That, predictably, began a chorus of greetings, until Erik found himself herded over towards the table.
They are honestly pleased to see you. All of them. Charles pulled out the chair next to himself, while McCoy tensed ever so slightly. "Do we have a moment or two? Hank and I are just discussing plankton."
Across the room, he could see Moira snickering behind her hand. Between the heat of the oven in the kitchen, and the huge fireplace out front, Erik could feel his skin prickling under all his layers. "Sounds fascinating." You're doing this on purpose.
I haven't the foggiest idea what you're on about. As endearing as the cat, and just as damnably smug. "Have a seat, my friend?" Just for a few minutes, for politeness' sake.
When we get back to the cottage, I am going to strangle you. Unbuttoning his jacket as some defence against the stifling heat, Erik sunk into the offered chair. After a few moments of that, Alex Summers meandered over and held out a beer, which he accepted with no small amount of veiled resignation. Charles was still nattering on, and other conversations began to pick up again as well. When Moira asked to borrow someone's keys to fetch her food and drop Muir off at home, Erik swallowed back any argument about it.
And when the serving dishes began being brought out from the kitchen, Erik got up to help carry without a word, earning a surprised look from both Angel Salvadore (the prodigal granddaughter), and Therese Therieau, whose husband Marc had been fishing the same shoals for nearly thirty years. There were steaming bowls of mashed white potato and turnip, boiled beets, a green bean casserole, among other varied dishes; the smell of tomato was from the stew Mrs. Salvadore had brought along, red and thick with chunks of perfectly browned rabbit.
Erik Lehnsherr had lived on Menigu Island for a decade, and this was only the second Friday potluck he'd ever attended. Considering that he hadn't yet strode out to his truck and driven off into the dark of the evening, Charles and his heedless charm be damned, it was somewhat better than he'd expected thus far.
The occasional press of Charles' knee against his thigh, deliberate or not, and the warm flood of gratitude and enjoyment the man was projecting his way admittedly helped matters.
Driving slowly back to the cottage, keeping a sharp eye out for wildlife as they navigated the narrowing road, Erik hadn't felt quite so full in a very long time. The food... the food had been delicious, even if Alex's green beans were hideously overcooked. The company certainly wasn't something he'd tolerate often, but it hadn't been truly unbearable. He had a minor headache from the clamour of so many people jostling and chatting, but that was to be expected.
"I'm going to burst." Curled up on his side of the bench seat, Charles had his head tilted back as he groaned piteously toward the dark ceiling. It was well past sunset, but the pale column of his throat was still visible in the dim, reflected glow of the headlights. "Did I really have seconds and a slice of apple pie? Am I that mad?"
"You had thirds and pie, and yes you are." Erik had no doubt his own grin was just as visible in the shadows, if not more so. "If Therese and Mrs. Salvadore are to be believed, you're wasting away. They were so very determined to put some meat on your bones."
"You're skinny as a rail, and I've got a paunch. Out of the pair of us, it's hardly fair they picked on me." It's the jumper, isn't it? I look as though I'm being swallowed whole.
"You hardly have a paunch." The slight buzz from the beer was entirely to blame for the images that rose up in Erik's mind, of Charles reaching for dishes on a high shelf while his henley rode up in the front, exposing a strip of fair, attractive stomach. Charles darting out from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist, fetching the clothes he'd forgotten to gather before showering. Charles, nestled in a cocoon of quilts as the colour gradually leeched back into his limp, nearly frozen body, as naked as the day he was born.
Even if Erik couldn't completely blame the beer for the images, the fact that they bubbled up so clearly was not at all intentional.
In the dark of the truck's cab, Charles had suddenly gone very still.
...
Charles couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten such a vivid, technicolour view of his own naked arse from someone else's thoughts. Granted, he couldn't remember very much at all, but this was a special sort of scenario.
He wasn't exactly sure what to do at this juncture, but sitting in increasingly uncomfortable silence was certainly not the thing.
"That's... kind of you to say," he murmured, with only a tiny warble betraying his nerves. He needed— he needed to change the subject, before he embarrassed himself. He was far too drowsy and possibly a tiny bit tipsy as well. "Speaking of Mrs. Salvadore, you do know she adores you, yes? I caught something about Angel and a city, but I didn't want to pry, especially since most of her current thoughts revolved around fattening me up like prized veal."
If he hadn't been watching so very closely for every reaction, Charles would have missed Erik's gloved fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "Dom Salvadore, her husband, died a little less than four years ago— heart attack. Angel lived with her grandparents since she was a child, I've never asked why, but when she turned sixteen she took the ferry over to shop on the mainland and never came back. They found a note after she was gone."
Erik's eyes were trained out the windscreen, never even flickering in Charles' direction for an instant, and the urge to peek into his thoughts was nearly overwhelming. Nearly.
"Angel had written a few times," Erik went on. "So they had an idea that she might have gone down the coast to one of the larger cities. It was the middle of a bad herring season, but I don't have any family or outstanding debts. I could afford to go look for her, so I did. I told her about her grandfather, and she chose to come back. Now Mrs. Salvadore knits me a sweater, a few pairs of socks, and gives me a dozen bottles of preserves every December. She even calls them Hanukkah gifts despite being exceedingly Catholic." Charles hadn't expected Erik to be quite so forthright, let alone so verbose about the entire incident, but the tension was easing. "She knit the sweater you're wearing, incidentally."
"And you never told anyone that you found the girl working in an exotic club." When Erik snorted out a sharp breath, Charles hastened to continue. "Just a passing memory she projected, nothing terribly sordid."
"No, I've never told anyone that." They were coming up on the cottage now, its windows dark. There was only a faint wisp of smoke curling from the chimney. "It didn't matter."
When they parked, Erik still reached across to open his door. Charles didn't quite trust his voice at the moment. You are a very good man, Erik Lehnsherr.
Erik didn't answer, but nor did he leave Charles to blindly blunder his own way into the house. He came around the truck as Charles hopped out, his tall form all but melting into the incredible darkness that crept in without the headlights to break it. There was no moon, despite the clear, inky sky.
His hand on Charles' back, pressing just between his shoulder blades as they both trudged toward the house, felt like a single anchored point in an endless, formless void.
"I am going to try to shave today." Charles leaned out of the bathroom, rubbing his fingers over his hideously unkempt chin. Four days (at least) was far too long to go without a proper shave, especially when one was a bit too tidy to pull off the ruggedly handsome fisherman look. Erik, sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette between his lips and some sort of small gear box disassembled before him, glanced up at the pronouncement. "May I use your razor?"
"If you can manage without slitting your throat, have at it." Turning back to his project, Erik lifted a delicate looking ring without touching it, slipping it onto a larger, blockish piece.
Charles watched for a moment, always a bit spellbound by such casual displays of Erik's gift, then smiled crookedly, embarrassed at himself. "Right, then. I'll gurgle if I sever something vital."
"What did you just say?"
Charles froze, and the cat nestled in his arms lamented the loss of stomach rubs with a warning meow. Erik was giving him a look over the top of his novel. "I said who's a lovely girl. I was speaking to the cat."
Erik, lying on top of the quilts in an undershirt and trousers after a long, productive day in his workshop, narrowed his eyes. "No, not that. What did you call her? Did you name the cat?"
"She just—" Turning from the window, where he and Raven had been contently watching small birds pick pine needles from the snow, Charles refused to fidget. "It doesn't hurt her to have a name. She reminds me of someone I can't quite recall, but I feel as though they were quite dear to me— a woman with blonde hair... or red hair. Someone named, or possibly nicknamed, Raven."
If anything, the explanation simply made Erik's expression harder, stiffening into a blank mask. "You want to name my cat after a woman you half-remember?"
Coolness was spreading, even with the fire stoked, though the tips of Charles' ears felt unaccountably warm. "I think she may be family; possibly my mother when she was young. It would make some sense for deeply rooted memories to return sooner, wouldn't it?"
It was Erik's turn to flounder, though for him that consisted of a furrowed brow and a posture gone slight more relaxed than a wooden board. "I have no idea. I suppose that makes sense." Then he shook his head, his gaze darting back down to his book. "Name the lamp as well, if you like. It's just as likely to come when you call."
Another Friday came and went, and Charles made no mention of going into town for the potluck. Erik, likewise, didn't acknowledge the day, though he did put a small roast of venison and some potatoes into the oven for the two of them. It was a very nice meal, hearty but tender and well-spiced, and Erik also brought out a solid bar of milk chocolate to share as dessert.
On Saturday morning, after the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, a somewhat familiar truck drove into the yard. Erik was still showering, and a quick glance outside assured Charles he had nothing to be concerned about.
Moira's here, Erik.
Confusion hit him first, then the notion of slippery skin. Charles swallowed thickly. What? Why?
I'm not certain, but I'll ask when she gets in. Merely a warning if you wanted to make yourself decent for polite company.Charles's hair was still damp, and he pushed a few unruly strands off his forehead before going to open the door before Moira could knock. The cottage was warm enough that he'd foregone his brown jumper in favour of a slate grey henely, though now with Moira calling he did feel somewhat underdressed. Besides jumpers, henely shirts, some plaid button-downs, and a few thin vests, Erik didn't have much variety from which to choose.
"Good morning," he said, ushering her inside before the heat could leech out too terribly. Moira knocked the slushy snow off her boots, while Raven skittered under the bed with a low, growling noise.
"It's the dog hair." Moira pointed at her jeans (which for all they were a bit faded, didn't appear hairy), then at the bed. "Cats don't like me. Morning, Charles; I come bearing gifts."
Moira was indeed holding a large, brown paper bag with one arm, and she shook it playfully before thrusting it out in his direction. Charles hesitated, then carefully took hold of the surprisingly light bag with both hands. He'd expected it to be much heavier, its contents likely composed of some sort of oily metal... or perhaps bread rolls. Moira did make delicious rolls, but it felt like neither bread nor machinery.
"Dare I ask?" Hanging her coat and scarf up for her, Charles motioned for Moira to follow him over toward the kitchen. He did not open the bag immediately, setting it on the table. "Please don't worry about your boots. Is this a gift for me, or for Erik?"
"For you." The smile lighting Moira's face was a tiny bit mischievous, but for the most part it appeared simply amused as she took a seat. "So you should open it."
"Allow me to play respectable host for just a moment longer and offer you some tea, hm?"
"Fine, yes, tea. Milk, no sugar. Thank you, Charles." The bathroom door opened, and Erik appeared wreathed by a few small tendrils of steam. He was scrubbing his hair with a towel, dressed in trousers and a vest, but still barefoot.
When Moira took in the sight, brows twitching upward, Charles very purposefully stayed out of her mind. He turned to Erik instead, reaching for mugs. "Tea, Erik?"
"Please." Padding over, Erik slung the towel over his shoulders and approached the paper bag. "What's this?"
"It's a gift for me, apparently." Setting two clean mugs on the counter, Charles fetched the kettle from the stove and poured. Then he refilled his own cooling drink, and set about fixing them all appropriately. Moira accepted hers with murmured thanks, curling her fingers around the hot mug.
"Really." There were only two kitchen chairs, and Erik slid the other out with a nod at Charles before moving to lean against the counter. "What sort of gift?"
"The respectable host hasn't opened it yet." Rolling her eyes dramatically, Moira jabbed the bag sharply towards Charles as he sat. "It's not even from me. Mrs. Salvadore asked me to bring it out, since the pair of you skipped out on the potluck this week, and her truck wouldn't make it out this far in the middle of June. Everyone missed you, by the way."
"Mrs. Salvadore?" Frowning curiously, Charles finally reached to uncurl the wrinkled edges of the bag, not quite tearing it open. Inside, he found soft, knitted wool. It was some sort of garment... "Oh my lord, she knit me a cardigan!"
Unfolded, the jumper was a rich Prussian blue, flecked with pale grey, with a shawl collar and a half dozen small dark buttons down the front. Charles stared at it, feeling the fleecy weight of it in his hands, and was completely at a loss. His throat actually felt a bit tight.
"It's a handsome sweater," Moira said after a moment. "And knowing Mrs. Salvadore's eye for that sort of thing, it'll probably fit, too."
Forgetting about his tea entirely, Charles stood, pulling on the cardigan almost delicately. There was no need to be so careful— if the stitches were anything like those of Erik's jumpers, it would take a team of horses to undo them— but Charles would readily admit to being rather thunderstruck by this entire experience.
It did fit, nearly perfectly: the sleeves weren't pooling around his second knuckles, and the shoulder seams sat just where they were meant to. It didn't nip around the middle quite as snugly as it might have, but it would be perfect for layering under. Charles did up the buttons, smoothing the collar thoughtfully, then turned to find Erik watching him closely, wearing a hint of a smile that just showed teeth.
"Very handsome sweater," Erik agreed, sounding perfectly casual, while Charles felt a knot of heat tangle up in his stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with the fire in the stove.