Author's Note: Shoutouts to Christinedaae1882, DarlingPhantom, and MarilynKC for your Continued Support, you three are keeping me motivated for this Fic, Your thoughts and reviews are always enjoyed.


Safe


Michael Carriére watched the scene unfurl from deep within the tree line, binoculars in hand. The masked man from the road yesterday out in the blinding sea of white powder, exchanging hurled balls of snow with a child who was half his size. It was hard to identify the boy at the distance, even with the assistance of binoculars, but the shiner over the left eye made it to a loose identification.

The little Vicomte de Chagny was alive.

If the laughter he heard carried by the frozen breeze was any indication, he was safe.

Lon LeRoi, was it? The name on that document in the morgue that he only briefly glimpsed before being sent off into the country. A pseudo identity, that was never in question. But who was this masked man really? To attempt to help the Comtesse, kill her pursuers, and take in an orphaned aristocrat?

You knew her, didn't you? You knew them.

Why not come forward with information that could help solve the murder?

It was a question that Michael already knew the answer. Who would believe him? Robert certainly paid their cause no favors in regards to this LeRoi fellow. Although Robert, along with Julian, and Herbert were ones that favor logic, facts, and evidence, there were many they worked with who wanted to close cases on some half-investigated notion.

For those investigators, this LeRoi would be their prime suspect in minutes of a chat. Cut, dry, and tinder tossed to flame.

Michael lowered the binoculars, still leaning against the thick trunk of a tree to minimize his visibility to the predator that kept a watchful eye on everything while playing with the boy.

For all the indications that Robert Destler would be a proficient killer in another life or just a twist of fate, this LeRoi was far superior. Every movement was methodical and he honed in on the child like a Briard herding sheep. Any snowballs that Charles de Chagny threw and connected with his guardian was permitted.

Movements were anticipated by the turn on the boy's hips or shoulders and LeRoi's reflexes went beyond catlike in speed. No wonder seven men died to him. Most killed by their own weapons.

Many questions that came to Michael presented quandaries. A conversation needed had with LeRoi – or whatever his actual name was. The boy's safety was also paramount, which again, came down to a conversation. What then? By all accounts, he should tell the others of the boy's status, where he was and who he was with. Yet, a nagging feeling tugged at him that what he knew now, was best kept secret.

As the playful antics in the snow wound down, the pair started back towards the small house. The masked man however stopped, frozen in place moment before he turned with a careful scan of the area until for a long moment until he vanished into the cottage after the boy.

Frowning, Michael lowered the binoculars and stowed them into his satchel in exchange for one of the small leather-bound books. Drawing a pencil from his coat's inner breast pocket and began taking notes.


~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~


For someone who claimed to have never participated in a snowball fight, or even knew what one was until today, Erik was annoyingly superb at flinging snow through the air. He certainly landed more hits than Charles could get on him. It was not as if Erik were a small target either despite being rail thin and incredibly tall.

But as the cold crept upon them that numbed fingers and grew Charles's nose and fingers redder that brightest tomatoes, they eventually made their way inside. There was not much to read of Erik expression, but the small flashes of a smile turned to full on toothy grins as their game reached the height of fun. Running, laughing, –though Erik's mirth did not extend beyond a few warm chuckles– and a kind of game of hide and seek although neither of them were capable of blending into the sea of blinding white.

As they made their way into the warmth of their home, Charles kicked his boots at each gray brick step to loosen packed snow from them. Each step had already been swept of snow before Charles even went out that day, which was not a surprise as it seemed Erik made more use of the back door than the front for the horses.

"Do you only keep horses, or have you had other animals too?" Charles asked as he reached the stoop, stomping a bit more.

"In what capacity?" Erik asked when he turned back to him from scanning the property.

"Pets, livestock," Charles shrugged. "Any I guess."

He seemed to consider the question as he moved to the bottom step. "There has been a dog, then a cat. I even had a hen more recently for the eggs, until something ate it."

"Something ate it?"

"Yes, while I had to leave for supplies. Sort of keeping her in the stable all the time instead of her reinforced coop, there was little else to be done." Erik gave a graceful shrug. "Mostly I keep horses out here, or wildlife in need of some sort of assistance, a broken wing here, a leg there."

"Wildlife? Do you find them?" Charles asked as he stepped inside.

"No," Erik said following him after ridding his shoes of snow build up as well. "They have a habit of finding me."

"Finding you?"

"Yes," Erik closed the door when he stepped in and moved towards the stove. "I will step outside or wander my property and there will be a new guest. How would you prefer to warm yourself, tea, chocolate, or a…" Erik stopped himself. "No that won't do, you have stitches still."

Charles's lips twitched. "You used a contraction."

"Pardon?"

"You said 'won't.'"

Erik left hand went to massage the underside of his right wrist. "Yes, I suppose I did."

"I think that is the first one I've heard you say," Charles pressed.

Erik turned away and collected the collected the kettle and lifted lever for the spigot that fed water into the house from a well.

"Why do you avoid them?"

"I do not avoid them Charles, as you clearly heard me use one."

"Then why the lack of them?"

Kettle filled, Erik put it on the stove and lit the oil burner. "Chocolate or tea, Charles?"

Sensing the mood shifting, Charles stopped himself from repeating the question. "Chocolate, please."

"With mint? Christine always liked it with mint. Granted, there is no peppermint right now, only regular." Erik turned towards the cupboards and drew out two cups, and three canisters.

"Mint would be nice," Charles answered softly.

"Splendid," Erik opened the canisters and placed several dried mint leaves into the warming water.

Charles watched as Erik busied himself with adding chocolate shavings to one come and dried leaves of a tea blend into a small metal fuser that allowed seeping without too much mess. The aura of room and Erik shifted rather dramatically from what he thought were simple questions. It was becoming apparent that those questions were greater cause of stress.

Like that morning, only worse.

Which was strange that it seemed simple conversations stressed Erik more than facing down seven men or the death of his Mother, or those investigators they ran across on their return from Paris. Just simple conversation. Social things.

"My peers have rarely been fond of my company, no matter the age," Erik had said when Charles explained what a snowball fight was.

Parisians were rude to him, even when Charles was close to his side at the cheap inn where they stayed. Even the farrier and carpenter over-charged them. Monsieur Joubert avoided him, the investigators were suspicious, Monsieur Brossard was the exception. The only one that really seemed to act normal around Erik.

He lived alone, away from everyone and everything.

This morning and now began to make sense as he pieced together the little information he learned over the past two days.

Charles bit his lip as he looked towards Erik's mask while he continued busying himself. There was little way of knowing what lay beneath it, only that he was not bold enough to ask. All he had were a few hints to work with. Even so, it was not a good enough reason for others to be so crass. At least that is what his parents taught him. Tears pricked at his eyes as he came to understand everything about his guardian being odd.

Unsure of how to help Erik with whatever was plaguing his mind, Charles only had a bit of instinct to guide him. Following it, he went to Erik's side and touched his right hand.

Erik flinched and back-peddled away. "Yes, it is best if Charles goes and warms himself by the fire. Erik is not fit right now."

Charles paused at the startling change in diction. It was a complete shift as though he was narrating the situation more than being present in the moment. Even if he was present now. Charles took another step towards the masked man that was his father, even if not yet a parent.

Erik again recoiled. "Not fit!"

"Would Erik hurt Charles?" Charles asked, slipping into the same speech pattern to see if that would help at all. It did not.

"No, no, never."

Charles tried to smile, "Thought so." He took another slow step.

Erik stepped away. "May yell," he warned. "Has terrible temper."

He's trying to hide it, Charles thought, sensing missing words. "Erik would yell at his son?"

"Son…" Erik repeated, sinking to the floor in the corner he put himself in between the exterior wall and cabinets. "Yelled at Christine. She left him because he scared her. Always scared her," he nearly folded over as his masked face went into his hands. "Cannot scare son too. Failing…"

His own cheeks wet now and led by some inner feeling, Charles went to Erik and slid to the floor beside him. "Let me understand," he said softly as he reached over to touch Erik's right arm again.

Erik shook his head, pulling away.

"Please."

Silence hung between them before Erik slowly moved his arm back to where Charles could reach. When Charles did grasp it, he turned Erik's arm so it was palm up, and pushed back the sleeve to see the spot he had rubbed minutes ago. There lay dozens of scars in the most tender part of the wrist, all at an angle rather than a straight cut.

They were horrid. Not that Charles was ever on the receiving end of lashing, but he could not imagine receiving one there. His tormentors had not even done that to his wrists.

"Charles had and Angel for a mother. Erik did not," Erik whispered. "She did not like contractions. Erik was a thing to her, spoken of, not spoken to."

"That's why…you are speaking in third?"

"Did not know better until your age. It is ingrained."

Charles's eyes water more and wrapped his arms around Erik's neck. This time, his embrace was to give comfort rather than seek any of it for himself. It took Erik a full minute to lean into its intended warmth with a shudder as he wept.